I’ve been thinking about trust the last few days, figuring out what I can say about it that would be meaningful or valuable. Trust is important; it is the foundation to love and human connection. I have only recently learned how to trust people and have a long ways to go.

Maria has been my great teacher. But today, Bud, who is a dog, gave me one of my great lessons.

This afternoon, during my quiet hour, I was reading about trust and thinking about faith. I wasn’t sure how to approach such a big subject.

I felt a gentle pressure on my right knee and looked down to see that Bud had jumped quietly up on the footstool and crawled over to me and put his head on my knee and gone to sleep.

This was a huge deal.

A light went off in my head. The answer was, of course, right in front of me. The very best lessons in life come from life, not social media. And I’ve learned so much from my dogs.

Bud and I are all about trust. Bud has seen the worst of humanity, and hopefully, something better.

The Arkansas rescue people (Carol Johnson mainly) saved Bud’s life and opened my eyes to the extraordinary work the rescue people do, something I understood intellectually but not emotionally. I have a lot of walls around me, and it’s taken years to break some of them down.

I’m still working on it. I will always be working on it.

Bud blew some holes in my walls today.

When Bud came to us more than three years ago, he was terrified of me and any man. At the sight of me, he would run if he could, and if he couldn’t, he would drop to the ground and shake almost uncontrollably, as if he was surrendering himself to Hell.

When the truck full of rescue dogs pulled up from Arkansas, all the other dogs came rushing out, tails wagging, thrilled to meet their new people. Bud had to be dragged down the ramp, he was shivering and frightened. He let me pick him up, still shaking and role all the way home that way in my lap. He never looked up at me or Maria or stop quivering.

He was terrified of me.

It was one of the most wrenching things I have seen in my life with dogs. We knew we had a difficult situation to deal with.

It took more than a year for him to begin to trust me, and for most of that time, he would never voluntarily get that close or trust me so much that he could sleep while resting his head on my lap.

If I raised my voice or showed any anger, it would terrorize and paralyze him. If he sensed he was in trouble, he would fall apart, even if I didn’t speak or react. Sometimes he would cringe most pitifully. I could hardly imagine the images of men he carried around in his head.

If I tried to pick him up, he would shriek, sometimes in terror, and leap off of my lap and run.

If I came near him while chewing on a bone, he would drop it or shake and try to hide. It took months for us to get him physically strong. He was not housebroken and was in the habit of marking territory, including our furniture, table legs, and Amazon packages. He devoured every meal as if it were his last.

He wouldn’t eat if I were anywhere close; I had to be out of sight and in another room. Bud has no aggression; he went limp or tried desperately to hide when he felt threatened. He was never hostile or threatening in any way. He has a big sweet heart. He loves to love and be loved, but he often couldn’t get past the fear.

He couldn’t trust human love.

I was deeply touched when Bud rested his head on my lap today. It was a turning point, a landmark. He had never done that before.

I signaled Maria, who had just come into the house from her studio, and pointed to Bud, and she took this photo above. Once, he would have run away and hidden if she or anyone came near him in so vulnerable a moment.

Bud opened his eyes, but I remained still, and he went back to sleep. I couldn’t bring myself to move for half an hour. Good for me, I thought. Good for him.

It took patience to win Bud’s trust, and patience was never my strong suit in life.

It also took self-restraint. I shout at my dogs all the time when they are annoying or intrusive; they mostly laugh at me; I learned to never raise my voice around Bud.

He wouldn’t ever jump into my lap, but he often curled up next to Maria when she was sitting on the couch, and it was there that he learned to love and trust his first human.

I worked hard to train Bud gently and positively. I talked to some trainers I knew and thought carefully about proceeding.

I realized that if training is to be effective, one person had to take responsibility for him, for training, feeding, and helping him recover from being left out in pen for more than a year with little or no food and no shelter. The sessions have to have specific and clear goals and not last too long.

My training took more than a year and will never be over.

Mostly, Bud feels safe these days, but a truck backfiring or a hunter’s gun sends him into a dreadful and desperate panic, clawing at the door to get in, digging a hole frantically to try to hide. All the dogs in the pen died around him before a neighbor called the rescuers, and they bought his way out.

His medical bills cost more than $1,000, and it was six months before the vet thought he was healthy enough to travel.

We worked together for short times; there were many treats which he greatly appreciated, having been nearly starved to death in Arkansas. We did simple things – come, sit, stay. I never asked him to do anything he couldn’t easily do and rewarded him for it.

I never scolded or reprimanded him when he got scared or stubborn or blew me off. I waited a minute and tried again to reward him with praise and kibble. Many days, I hand-fed him, sitting on the floor with his food in my hand. If he wasn’t up to it, we just came inside. It was always fun and easy.

At first, Bud was fearful, but he slowly took some chances and came closer, given his love and appreciation for food. When he ran up and ate out of my hand without hesitation, I knew we were getting close, that he was beginning to trust me. Dogs always love the people who feed them.

Bud was emaciated when we got him, but he ate like a horse. He never got too heavy, but he did flesh out a bit. When I say, “let’s go outside and do some work” – my training command – he runs to the door wagging his tail.

But still won’t sit in my lap – I don’t ask him to – but he will curl up next to me. His favorite things with me are going outside to train, jumping up on the footstool, and presenting his head to me. He loves me to scratch his forehead and the fur around his head and neck. Both of these things suggest a deepening level of trust.

Bud has a great big heart.

He is fearless in many ways – stalking chipmunks or barking at Amish horses – but can still freak out when approached incorrectly. Many mornings, I invite him into my study and put him in a crate and give him a fresh marrow bone. When he gets a bone or treat, he rushes off to hide it somewhere; he is pleased to be locked in his crate while he chews his bone; fate and Zinnia can’t bother him there, and he can take his time.

It has been one of the pleasures of my life to see this dog come slowly but surely to life and show me what trust means to living beings. He has taught me a lot about trust, especially patience, tolerance, judgment, and love.

Dogs never fail to amaze me with their ability to provide what I need. Or to read our emotions.

This morning, I went to the dentist to have cavities in challenging places treated. Zinnia, who is much loved by Dr. Merryman’s staff, came with me. She treated the people in the waiting room, then went into the treatment room.

She lay down next to my chair while the procedure began. Now and then, Zinnia would raise her head to check on me and then, satisfied, would lie back down. As Dr. Merryman worked on my cavities, Zinnia put her head on his foot and went to sleep.

I am no longer afraid of having cavities worked on in dental offices; I’ve had too many for that. Yet it was strangely comforting to know she was there and for me to put my head on her head and scratch her neck as the work on my teeth progressed.

“She trusts you,” said Sophie, the dental tech. “No,” I said, “I trust her.”

This is a good week for me to give thanks to dogs, who first opened the doors to trust and taught me what it could mean. I think Maria is the first human being I have ever wholly trusted; the door is being pried open.

Bud touched my heart today; he opened a floodgate of feeling. It is essential these days to remember and remember what is necessary for life. The people who hate and judge and shout at other people have no idea.