Our Separation Anxiety Story: From 2 Seconds to Freedom
Two seconds. That's how long we could leave Grizzy alone before the panic started.
Not two minutes. Two seconds.
I'll never forget the ear-screeching noises that erupted from our barely 6-month-old rescue fur ball the moment we closed the door. It was guttural, primal, and filled with a terror I didn't know dogs could express. It sounded like he genuinely believed that without us, he would literally die.
And honestly? That's probably exactly what was happening in his little brain.
The Harsh Reality (Or: How We Became Prisoners in Our Own Home)
Every feeling imaginable came crashing down in those early days: regret, panic about what was in store for us, and a deep, aching sadness wondering what the hell had happened to Grizzy before we adopted him. Abandonment? Lack of socialization? Trauma? We may never know what created this anxiety, but we knew we were staring down something serious.
Our entire life collapsed into a two-second radius around our dog.
Want to grab the mail? Literally impossible without either bringing Grizzy along or coordinating with my husband like we were running a damn hostage negotiation. Need to take the trash to the curb? Same thing. Want to chat with a neighbor in the driveway for thirty seconds? Nope — bring the anxious fur ball or stay home.
We were exhausted. Frustrated. Trapped in a prison of our own making (well, of our adoption decision's making).
And here's the kicker: we felt guilty for feeling frustrated. Here was this terrified little creature who needed us desperately, and sometimes all I could think about was how badly I wanted my freedom back. What kind of monster does that make me?
(Spoiler: A normal human being at the end of their rope)
I remember one weekend early on when my husband left town and the reality hit me like a freight train: I was completely and utterly trapped. Want to grab takeout? Delivery only. Want to see friends? Better find a dog sitter. Want to run to Target? Not an option.
I'm a homebody by nature, I genuinely enjoy being home. But there's a Grand Canyon-sized difference between choosing to stay home and being physically incapable of leaving. I had never felt so alone, so helpless, so utterly defeated.
How It Started (AKA: The Shadow Phase)
The separation anxiety was a bit of a slow-burn realization.
Grizzy was our shadow. Our barnacle. Our Velcro dog on steroids.
In the house, he followed me from room to room like a cornerback assigned to shadow Justin Jefferson — glued to me, terrified of getting cooked, and absolutely not letting me out of his sight for even a millisecond (it’s football season and I’m a Vikings fan… apologies if I lost you there).
On the couch, he wasn't just near me — he had to be touching me, preferably with full body contact. Bathroom? He's coming. Kitchen? Right behind you. Taking a breath? He'd like to supervise that, please.
At first, we thought this was adorable puppy behavior. "Look how much he loves us!" It completely melted us inside, like idiots lol.
But we soon realized that our little shadow wasn't just bonding with us, he was drowning in anxiety. He couldn't self-soothe. He couldn't regulate his emotions. He needed physical touch from me or my husband to feel safe, and the nanosecond that contact was gone, Defcon 5.
I didn't understand what was actually happening to Grizzy until I learned that separation anxiety is classified as a panic disorder — not a behavioral problem. Read more about what separation anxiety actually is and how it differs from simple disobedience
What We Tried (That Failed Spectacularly)
Like every other desperate soul facing separation anxiety, we tried everything we could find:
DIY Internet Research (AKA: The Google Rabbit Hole): We scoured blogs, YouTube videos, Reddit threads, and joined countless Facebook groups looking for answers. We stitched together our own training plan between work meetings and crying sessions. Why did it fail? Because we had no idea what we were doing, no accountability, and approximately zero time to troubleshoot when things went sideways (which was frequently).
Our First Online Trainer (Attempt #1 at Getting Help): We finally bit the financial bullet and hired a professional. She was lovely, empathetic, and made us feel less insane. She taught us about desensitization using Julie Naismith’s method of ‘Door is a Bore’ — getting Grizzy to get comfortable with the doorknob first, then the door, adding seconds behind it repeatedly every day like we were defusing a bomb. But here's the thing: we both work full-time. We have lives. We couldn't dedicate 3 hours a day to standing in our hallway. We learned a lot, but we moved on.
The Furbo Camera (The False Hope): This actually worked for a hot minute! We applied learnings from Julie Naismith’s departure training while tossing him treats remotely, and he started associating our leaving with good things. We eventually hit two hours of Grizzy being [somewhat] calmly alone! Except... we weren’t following a plan and we were wildly inconsistent. Life happened. We'd skip days. The progress evaporated quickly. We were back at square one.
And then there were the unsolicited opinions from people who'd clearly never dealt with severe SA: "He's just being dramatic. Leave him longer and he'll figure it out!" “Dogs rip up things every once in awhile, he’s fine.” "You're babying him." "Just crate train him and forget about it."
(Note: This advice is not just wrong — it's actively harmful. Don't listen to these people.)
I made a commitment early on that rehoming wasn't an option. But I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I didn't fantasize daily about what our lives would look like without Grizzy. The freedom. The spontaneity. The ability to leave my house without a military-level evacuation plan (no freaking joke!). Most importantly, the peace in my marriage that wasn't constantly strained by this four-legged anxiety machine.
The guilt around those thoughts was soul-crushing 💔.
The Turning Point (Or: The Conversation That Changed Everything)
Everything shifted when we had a casual conversation with my husband's cousin, who's a vet. She mentioned of a program created by Jenn Gavin — a certified separation anxiety trainer and animal behaviorist — that was recently published using classical conditioning with a different kind of treat-dispensing machine.
Wait. Classical conditioning! Like the Furbo that worked before we screwed it up with inconsistency?
Revisiting this concept made complete sense to us: instead of asking Grizzy to tolerate being alone (desensitization), we could actually rewire his emotional response with classical conditioning. Transforming "When I'm alone, the world is ending" into "When I'm alone, it's raining treats and life is good." This time felt different. We had a structured plan, professional guidance, and we made a promise to each other: no half-assing it like we did with the Furbo.
We bought Jenn Gavin's Pleasantly Independent Handbook immediately. Ordered a Treat & Train machine. Set up some cameras, and got serious.
But here's what really made the difference for us: we doubled down on accountability and found a local trainer who could hold our hands through it.
This woman was a godsend. She came to our house, watched Grizzy in action, and gave us personalized, specific advice. Her 10+ years of dog training allowed her to notice things we were completely blind to. She validated that the Treat & Train classical conditioning method detailed out in the Pleasantly Independent Handbook was way better suited to our lifestyle and Grizzy’s personality than Julie Naismith’s desensitization program that we struggled through initially.
The accountability piece was the game-changer for us. Look, the handbook was great. But what we actually needed was someone who could actually watch us fumble through it and say, 'No, try this instead.' Grizzy is a poodle mix (IYKYK—whip-smart, emotionally complex, too effing clever for his own good), and his particular brand of anxiety needed someone who could spot the patterns we were totally blind to.
The Journey Up (Spoiler: It Wasn't a Straight Line)
Progress was messy, non-linear, and full of doubt. But when we zoomed out and looked at our tracking over weeks? The pattern was clear: slow, imperfect, but undeniably upward.
Here's what it looked like:
Month 1: 15 minutes (felt like climbing Everest, LOTS of doubt crept up for us here)
Month 2: 30 minutes (started to believe it was possible)
Months 3-4: 1 hour (holy shit, an hour!)
But we had setbacks... Lots of them.
Grizzy is incredibly sensitive to routine changes — like, absurdly sensitive. If one of us traveled for work, we'd pause training entirely because he was already operating from a higher anxious baseline. Pushing him when his nervous system was already maxed out was a recipe for disaster.
If life got chaotic and we couldn't maintain consistency for a week, we'd dial it back by running some easy, short departures under his threshold to give him a few wins and reset his nervous system before ramping back up.
And here's something nobody tells you: your energy matters.
If we were stressed leaving the house — running late, frantically grabbing keys, radiating "oh god we're going to miss our reservation" vibes — Grizzy would pick up on it instantly and struggle from the start. Dogs are emotional sponges. Calm you = calm pup.
Learning to Read the Signs: Camera Footage Style
The camera footage taught us something critical: your dog is likely going to go through an adjustment period, and giving them space to figure it out is key. Early on, Grizzy would get up after several minutes at the Treat & Train and start wandering the house, checking doors and windows. Every time we saw this, we'd tense up — omg is he anxious? Should we come back? Did we push too far?
This is where working with a trainer saved us. She taught us what to actually watch for: the difference between a dog who's exploring and settling versus a dog in distress. Roaming? Normal. Checking different rooms? Normal. The red flags were whining, repetitive pacing, and that frantic 'I can't settle' energy — those were the signs we needed to interrupt or dial our departures back temporarily.
Around months 5-6, something beautiful happened. Grizzy stopped the wandering and started choosing his safe spots to relax in — his favorite chair or our bed. At first, he didn't look comfortable. He was there, but tense. Vigilant. But we let him work through it. Slowly, overtime, his body language shifted. He'd close his eyes. His breathing would deepen. And then, finally: he fell asleep. Not just resting, but actual peaceful sleep. That's when we knew his brain was rewiring and we struck gold.
Where We Are Now (And How We Got Here Without Losing Our Minds)
Today, after about seven months of consistent, slow, smart training — we can confidently leave Grizzy for three hours without the Treat & Train running.
Three. Full. Hours.
When we started this nightmare journey, that seemed IMPOSSIBLE. I’m being dead serious. It felt like we would never get our life back, and we just needed to simply adjust to our new life living with an anxious fur child named Grizzy.
Instead of pacing, whining, launching himself at the door, or redecorating our house with shredded blinds, Grizzy now calmly lounges on the couch or our bed. He even falls asleep now while we're gone. He's relaxed. Peaceful. Dare I say... pleasantly independent? 😉
We're working toward our four-hour goal, and honestly? I'm still processing the fact that we're here. That this is real. That we did it.
Why I'm Sharing This (And Why You're Not Alone)
If you're reading this at 2am, googling "dog can't be alone for any amount of time" for the hundredth time, feeling like you're the only person on earth dealing with this level of severity — I see you. I was you.
I've been in the Target parking lot crying because I felt trapped indefninely. I've canceled plans last-minute because I couldn't find dog sitting coverage. I've been visibly judged by people in my life for the choices and sacrifices we’ve made to cure Grizzy’s SA. I’ve felt resentful and guilty in equal, crushing measure. I've wondered if I made the worst decision of my life.
You didn't. I promise. You just need to be pointed in the right direction.
I'm starting Brains over Barks because I desperately wish I'd had a resource like this two years ago — someone who'd been in the absolute worst of it and actually made it out alive. Someone who understood that "just give them trazadone and ignore the barking" isn't advice; it's cruelty wrapped in ignorance. Someone who could look me in the eye and say, "This is hell right now, but there's a way through. I know because I found it."
That's what this blog is for. For you. For the 2am googlers. For the crying-in-parking-lots people. For everyone who loves their dog but sometimes (let’s be real, most times) fantasizes about a do-over.
What's Next (Let's Do This Together!)
If you're ready to dive deeper into the exact approach we used, I've created a complete step-by-step roadmap. Dive into the separation anxiety training method that got our freedom back here
Top five SA training tips that made the biggest difference in our journey — Check out the five separataion anxiety training tips that finally helped us make progress here
Over the coming weeks, I'll be sharing:
Day-to-day management strategies that kept us semi-sane
Product recommendations that actually helped (and the ones that were useless)
The mental health side of living with a separation anxiety dog (because nobody talks about this enough and it nearly broke me)
If you're in the two-second phase right now — if you can't shower without your dog losing their mind, if you're googling "is my life over," if you're wondering if you're strong enough to do this, you are. There is a way through.
The frustrating part about all of this is rewiring your anxious dog’s brain takes time. It takes patience. It takes the right approach and probably some professional help. But permanent freedom is possible for both you and your dog.
I'm living proof.
Welcome to Brains over Barks. Pour yourself some coffee (or wine) and dive in. We’re so glad you're here.
XO, Annamarie & Grizzy
