The Puppy Chronicles: Canine Prozac Nation

I'm sitting on the living room couch in front of a cheerful snapping fire, my dog Angus at my side, and I am googling "dogs and Prozac." I feel only a little silly.

In my life before Angus, putting a dog on Prozac would have seemed to me to be a ridiculous thing, something a fussy yuppie might do, perhaps while feeding their dog bonbons and painting its toenails pink.

But living with Angus, who is afraid of everything and everyone, it gradually became clear that he needed help — more help than classes and trainers could give him. (And we have tried many.)

So when Angus was 3, after consulting with our veterinarian, we started giving him Trazodone, an anti-anxiety drug. It's simple to use. It works immediately and leaves the body after about 12 hours. The pill is small and can be chopped up and hidden in food. It costs almost nothing.

It helped a little — it flattened some of Angus' anxieties — but after a year, we concluded that it didn't help enough. His reaction to triggers — strangers, dogs, squirrels, UPS trucks — remained off the charts. Every night he hid upstairs and barked. When we upped his dose, he didn't get less anxious; he just got woozy.

In August, our behaviorist recommended we switch to fluoxetine, the generic version of Prozac. When she said this, I felt dread.

Prozac is trickier. It takes at least two months to build up in the dog's body before you can tell how well it's working. It usually suppresses a dog's appetite (and it did Angus'). And if the dog's behavior doesn't change much, then the guessing game begins — do you increase the dosage? Decrease the dosage? Wean him off of it and try something else?

It's all trial and error, because, of course, dogs can't talk.

Some folks I talked to told me that giving their dog fluoxetine was like "flipping a switch." Suddenly, the dog could cope. It liked people. It didn't go bonkers when it saw squirrels. UPS vans could drive by in peace.

This has not been our experience.

Three months into the Prozac journey, I'm here to tell you that it helps, some. More than Trazodone, definitely. But does it help enough? I don't know. Is this as good as it gets? I don't know. Is this the right med? Should we increase the dosage? Reduce the dosage? Try something else? I don't know.

For now, we're going to stay the course.

At home, Angus is calmer. He's more playful, and more affectionate. He follows the "go settle" command more obediently. He has always followed the lead of our 9-year-old Lab mix Rosie, but lately when she goes ballistic at the mailman Angus grows alert and listens but doesn't always join in the barking. He still hides upstairs three or four nights out of seven, but he doesn't bark; he just naps.

And look, here he is at my side while the fire crackles and pops.

All these things are new, and all these things are good.

In the outside world, though, the difference is more subtle. He still reacts to triggers, but he's easier to redirect and he seems to shake things off more easily rather than letting his anxiety build.

Yes, I'm disappointed that giving Angus fluoxetine wasn't like flipping a switch. But over four years of living with him, I've come to terms with the fact that Angus will never be as easy as Rosie, or as gregarious as our past dogs, Toby and Boscoe.

I never wanted a reactive dog; I just wanted a puppy. But what I got was Angus. And honestly, difficult as he is, I wouldn't trade him for any other dog on the planet. My job is to keep him safe, keep others safe, and give him the best life I possibly can. And that's what I'm trying to do.

Laurie Hertzel is the books editor at the Star Tribune. She has been writing about her reactive dog, Angus, since adopting him in December 2017. Read all of the Puppy Chronicles at startribune.com/puppy.