Part 2: I Adopted A 4-Year-Old German Shepherd Who Refused To Get Into Any Vehicle. Six Trainers Told Me He Had Car Trauma. The Seventh Trainer Sat In My Car And Read A Book For 22 Days Before She Figured Out The Truth — And It Was Not What Any Of Us Expected.

I’m going to tell this slow. The slow part is the whole story.

I brought Tundra home from the Henry Bergh Memorial Animal Shelter in Albany on the afternoon of Wednesday, March 13th, 2024.

The shelter had warned me about the transport problem.

They had told me he could not be put in a car. They had told me he had been carried, sedated, into the back seat of a vehicle exactly twice in his 14 months at the shelter — once for a veterinary visit at the local emergency clinic in February of 2023, and once again for a second emergency veterinary visit in June of 2023. Both times he had required heavy oral sedation administered approximately 90 minutes before transport. Both times he had been carried in by two shelter staff members. Both times he had panicked when he had regained consciousness at the destination.

The shelter had not transported him by vehicle since June of 2023. He had not been to a vet for routine checkups in nine months. He had not been outside the shelter grounds at all in nine months.

I had to figure out how to get him home.

I drove to the shelter with a small open-top dog trailer I had borrowed from a friend at my practice — a custom-built two-wheeled trailer that I had used in the past to transport occasional injured wildlife in a low-stress configuration. The trailer was about 4 feet by 3 feet and it sat about 18 inches off the ground. It had a soft padded floor. It had three short low walls — no roof. It could be hitched behind a vehicle and pulled at low speed.

The shelter staff helped me walk Tundra out to the parking lot on a leash. He walked beside me calmly. He showed no fear of the parking lot. He showed no fear of my parked Subaru Outback.

He showed extreme fear of the open driver’s-side door when I opened it.

He stopped walking.

He sat down on the asphalt.

He looked at the open door of my car.

His ears went back. His tail tucked between his legs. His whole body trembled.

He was not panicking. He was not lunging. He was not preparing to bite.

He was just frozen.

He was looking at the open door of my Subaru with the kind of dread that I have only seen in human grief.

I closed the door of the Subaru.

I walked him over to the small open-top dog trailer.

He climbed in immediately without hesitation.

He laid down on the padded floor.

He looked at me.

He thumped his tail.

I hitched the trailer to the back of my Subaru. I drove the 42 minutes from Albany to my small house outside Saratoga Springs at 35 miles per hour with the hazards on. I did not get on the interstate. I took back roads. Tundra rode in the trailer behind me the entire way.

He did not bark.

He did not whine.

He laid on the padded floor with his head up and his ears forward and he watched the trees go by.

He arrived at my house calm and curious.

He walked off the trailer and into my fenced backyard like he had lived there his whole life.

He had been transported, willingly, for the first time in 16 months.

Just not in a car.

I want to tell you what the next three months looked like.

Tundra adjusted to my house quickly. He learned my routine in less than a week. He slept on the foot of my bed by night four. He stopped flinching at sudden noises by week three. He let me touch his ears, his paws, and his tail by the end of the first month.

He was, inside my house, the calmest, sweetest, most devoted dog I have ever lived with.

Outside my house was a different story.

I needed to take him to my own veterinary practice for his first physical exam since his shelter intake. I needed to take him to the dog park for socialization. I needed to take him on errands so he would learn to handle the broader world.

He could not be put in a car.

I tried, for three months.

I tried with treats. I tried with calm voice. I tried with a partner — my next-door neighbor Mr. Anders Bouchard-Strathmore, 49 years old, a retired Schenectady firefighter — to be in the front seat as a familiar safe presence. I tried with my driveway pointed in different directions. I tried with different cars (my Subaru, my neighbor’s pickup, a rental sedan I borrowed for one day). I tried with the engine on. I tried with the engine off.

I tried six different professional trainers.

Each one had failed.

The fifth trainer — a 41-year-old certified professional dog trainer named Mr. Tomas Marlowe-Vance — had been bitten on the right wrist on his second session. It had not been a serious bite. Tundra had nipped him in defensive panic when he had tried to use a slip lead to physically pull Tundra toward the open hatchback. Mr. Marlowe-Vance had needed three stitches at the urgent care.

He had told me, on the phone the next morning, “Brennan. I am sorry. I am out. This dog has more trauma than I am equipped to work with. He should probably be put on anxiolytics permanently and accept that he is a no-vehicle dog for the rest of his life. He is a beautiful boy. But you are not going to crack this one. I’m sorry.”

I hung up.

I sat at my kitchen table.

I cried for almost an hour.

I called my regular veterinarian — Dr. Henrietta Mendizabal-Bouchard, 53 years old, who has been my closest professional colleague for 19 years — on the morning of Tuesday, June 18th, 2024.

I told her about the six failed trainers.

She listened.

She said, “Brennan. Listen to me. There is a behaviorist I want you to call. She is not a trainer. She is a Cornell-trained behavior specialist. Her name is Saoirse Hartwell-Mackiewicz. She is expensive. She is very smart. She works with cases nobody else can handle. She had a case last year — a Belgian Malinois who would not walk on tile floors. Six trainers had failed. Saoirse figured it out in eleven days. The dog had been raised on a farm and had never seen a tile floor until age 4. He thought the tile was ice. The owners had thought it was a phobia. Saoirse had figured out it was a category-error, not a phobia. Six weeks later the dog was walking on tile.”

She paused.

She said, “Brennan. I think Saoirse will look at Tundra differently than the trainers did. She is going to ask questions about Tundra’s previous owner that the trainers never thought to ask. Call her.”

I called Saoirse that afternoon.

She had a single appointment available the following Saturday — June 22nd, 2024.

I booked it.

I want to tell you about Saoirse Hartwell-Mackiewicz.

She was 38 years old. She was 5’4″. She had brown wavy hair she kept in a low ponytail. She had wire-rimmed glasses. She had a quiet careful manner that made me feel like she was paying attention to me at a level that very few people pay attention to anything anymore.

She arrived at my house at 2:00 p.m. on Saturday, June 22nd, 2024.

She did not bring training equipment. She did not bring treats. She did not bring a clicker. She brought a small leather notebook and a paperback book.

I introduced her to Tundra in my backyard.

Tundra came over to her cautiously. He sniffed her hand. He sat down about four feet from her. He thumped his tail twice.

She did not move toward him.

She did not call him.

She just looked at him.

She watched him for almost ten minutes without speaking.

Then she said, “Brennan. Show me the car. Try to put him in. Show me exactly what happens.”

I walked Tundra over to my Subaru. I opened the driver’s door.

Tundra sat down on the gravel of my driveway.

He looked at the open door.

His ears went back. His tail tucked. His whole body started trembling. He was breathing rapidly.

I tried to encourage him gently. I patted the seat. I called his name softly. I held out a treat. I waited.

After about ninety seconds, Tundra stood up.

He barked once.

He spun.

He bolted into the backyard.

He hid under the back porch.

I closed the Subaru’s door.

I turned to Saoirse.

She was sitting on my front porch steps with her notebook in her lap. She was writing in it.

She looked up at me.

She said, very quietly, “Brennan. Sit down. I want to ask you some questions about Tundra’s previous owner.”

I sat down on the steps next to her.

She asked me about Mr. Demitri Olufsen-Hartwell — Tundra’s previous owner.

I told her what I knew from the shelter intake records. He was a 67-year-old retired Schenectady high-school history teacher. He had died in an automobile accident on Interstate 90 on the morning of January 9th, 2023. Tundra had been with him in the vehicle. Tundra had survived the accident. Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell had no surviving family. Tundra had been brought to the Henry Bergh shelter approximately three weeks later by an estate executor.

Saoirse wrote everything down.

She said, “Brennan. Have you read the actual accident report?”

I said, “I have the shelter intake summary. I have not read the actual accident report. The shelter said Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell died on impact and Tundra survived in the back seat. That was the summary.“

She said, “Brennan. I want to pull the accident report. I want to read the full investigation. I want to know exactly where Tundra was in the vehicle, exactly what condition he was in when the New York State Police arrived, and exactly what happened in the minutes between the impact and Tundra being removed from the vehicle. Brennan — none of the six trainers asked these questions. They assumed car trauma was the same as vehicle phobia. I do not think it is.”

She paused.

She said, “Brennan. I want to tell you what I think is happening. I think Tundra does not fear the car. I think Tundra fears something else that he associates with the car. I do not know what it is yet. I want to find out before I propose a training plan. I want to spend the next two weeks reading everything I can about Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell’s death and Tundra’s life before the shelter. I will charge you nothing for those two weeks. I will only charge you when I propose a training plan and we begin work. Is that acceptable?”

I said, “Saoirse. Yes.”

She left at 4:30 p.m. that afternoon.

She did not see Tundra again for two weeks.

I want to tell you what Saoirse found.

She pulled the New York State Police accident report from the Schenectady County records office on Monday, June 24th, 2024.

She drove down to Schenectady on Wednesday, June 26th and spent the afternoon at the Schenectady County Public Library reading microfiche of newspaper coverage of the accident.

She drove to Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell’s former apartment building on Eastern Avenue in Schenectady on Saturday, June 29th and interviewed two former neighbors who had known him. One was a 78-year-old retired nurse named Mrs. Esperanza Vance-Bouchard who had lived in the apartment across the hall for 14 years. The other was a 64-year-old retired postal worker named Mr. Lazlo Mackiewicz-Olufsen (no relation to either Saoirse or Tundra’s owner — Schenectady is a small Polish-American community and there are many overlapping surnames).

She drove to Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell’s veterinarian — Dr. Kestrel Bouchard-Demidov, 56 years old, the Eastside Veterinary Hospital on McClellan Street in Schenectady — and pulled Tundra’s complete medical records from 2020 to 2023.

She came back to my house on the afternoon of Saturday, July 6th, 2024.

She sat down at my kitchen table.

She had a small file folder in front of her.

She said, “Brennan. I want to tell you what I found. I think I understand what is happening with Tundra.”

I poured her a cup of coffee.

I sat down across from her.

She opened the file folder.

She said, “Brennan. Mr. Demitri Olufsen-Hartwell was a 67-year-old retired high-school history teacher who had been alone for almost 12 years before his death. His wife — Mrs. Anya Olufsen-Hartwell — had died of breast cancer in 2011. They had no children. Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell had adopted Tundra as a 9-week-old German Shepherd puppy from a working-line breeder near Cooperstown, New York in April of 2020. Tundra had been his constant companion for almost three years.“**

She paused.

She said, “Brennan. Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell drove a 2011 Toyota Highlander. He took Tundra everywhere with him. Tundra rode in the back seat of the Highlander. Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell had a specific routine — he had folded down the right side of the back seat to create a small bed area for Tundra. Tundra had a soft blue blanket back there. Tundra had a chew toy back there. Tundra had everything he needed back there.”

She paused.

She said, “Brennan. On the morning of January 9th, 2023, Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell was driving eastbound on Interstate 90 near Schodack, New York. He was on his way to his weekly volunteer shift at a youth literacy program at the Schenectady YMCA. He took this drive every Monday morning. Tundra was in his usual spot in the back seat.”

She paused.

She said, “Brennan. At approximately 7:14 a.m., a tractor-trailer driver — a 38-year-old man who had been driving on insufficient sleep — drifted across the median into oncoming traffic. The tractor-trailer struck Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell’s Highlander head-on in the driver’s side at approximately 65 miles per hour. Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell died on impact. The Highlander rolled twice and came to rest on the median between the eastbound and westbound lanes.”

She paused.

She said, “Brennan. Tundra was in the back seat. He was thrown to the floor by the rollover. He was not seriously injured — he had bruising and a small cut on his left front leg. The New York State Police arrived at 7:42 a.m. They opened the back door of the Highlander. They found Tundra lying next to Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell’s body.”

She paused.

She said, “Brennan. The first trooper on scene — Officer Penelope Bouvier-Mendizabal, 32 — wrote in her supplemental report that Tundra had crawled from his usual spot in the back seat to lie next to Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell’s body in the front seat. She wrote — and Brennan, this is a direct quote — ‘K9 was found pressed against deceased operator. K9 refused to move from deceased operator’s side for approximately 14 minutes after our arrival. K9 had to be carried by two troopers to a transport vehicle. K9 was not aggressive. K9 was distressed.’ Brennan — Tundra was with Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell at the moment of impact. He was conscious for the entire 14 minutes between the crash and the troopers arriving. He laid against his dead owner for 14 minutes. He was carried away from the body by two strangers.”

I sat at my kitchen table.

I started crying.

I had been crying easily for the last seven months. I had been crying for Mishka. I had been crying for the fact that I had thought I was done with dogs and had not been done. I had been crying for Tundra without knowing his story.

I cried in a different way now.

I cried because Tundra had laid against his dead person for 14 minutes before strangers had taken him away.

Saoirse waited.

When I could speak, I said, “Saoirse. So he has trauma from the accident.”

She said, “Brennan. He has trauma. But not the trauma everyone has been assuming.”

She turned a page in her file.

She said, “Brennan. I interviewed Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell’s veterinarian Dr. Bouchard-Demidov on Friday. She told me that Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell had a strict ritual whenever he took Tundra in the car. When Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell would pull into a destination — the vet, the grocery store, the dog park, the YMCA — he would always say the same phrase to Tundra before getting out. He would say, in his Polish-American accent, ‘I will be back, Tundra. Wait here. I will not be long.’ And then he would close the door. He would leave Tundra in the back seat. He would go do whatever he needed to do. He would return ten or fifteen or thirty minutes later. He would open the door. He would say, ‘Tundra. I am back. Let us go.’ And he would drive home.”

She paused.

She said, “Brennan. On the morning of January 9th, 2023, Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell did not say his phrase to Tundra. He did not pull into the YMCA. He did not get out and come back. He did not open the back door and say, ‘Tundra. I am back. Let us go.'”

She paused.

She said, “Brennan. Tundra is not afraid of cars. Tundra is afraid that whoever gets in a car with him will not come back out. That is what he has been telling us for 16 months. He is not panicking when he sees an open car door because he thinks the car will hurt him. He is panicking because the last time he got in a car with someone, that person was carried out of the car by two New York State Troopers and Tundra was carried away in a different direction. He is not phobic of vehicles. He is phobic of being left in vehicles. And every single trainer has been trying to push him into the car as if the car was the problem. The car is not the problem. The leaving is the problem.”

I sat at my kitchen table for a long time.

I cried.

I said, “Saoirse. What do we do.”

She said, “Brennan. We do not put him in the car. We do not force the issue. I am going to sit in your car, with the doors open, with the engine off, and I am going to read a book for one hour a day. I am going to do this every day for as long as it takes. I am not going to look at Tundra. I am not going to call him. I am not going to coax him. I am going to demonstrate to him, every single day, that a human being can sit in a car for an hour and then get out of the car and walk away alive. I am going to show him that getting into a car does not mean the person in the car will not come back. If I am right, he will eventually join me. I do not know when. I do not know how long. I will charge you only on the day he gets in the car himself. Everything before that is on me. I want to be right more than I want to be paid.”

I shook her hand.

I said, “Saoirse. Start tomorrow.”

I want to tell you about days 1 through 21.

Saoirse came to my house every single day at 2:00 p.m. She drove the 38 minutes from her own house in Glens Falls, New York to my house outside Saratoga Springs every single afternoon, in good weather and bad. She had to cancel two other clients to make room for the daily appointment. She did not bill them for the cancellations.

She would arrive in her own car — a 2018 silver Honda CR-V — and she would park in my driveway.

She would walk to my Subaru.

She would open the driver’s-side door of my Subaru.

She would also open the rear driver’s-side passenger door.

She would sit in the driver’s seat.

She would leave both doors open.

She had brought a paperback book — a copy of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky in a translation by Pevear and Volokhonsky. She told me later that she had been wanting to re-read it for years and had been waiting for the right project to read it during.

She would read for one hour.

She would not look at Tundra.

She would not call him.

She would not move toward him.

She would just read.

For the first eight days, Tundra watched her from the back porch of my house.

He sat with his back against the porch wall.

He stared at her.

He did not approach. He did not bark. He did not whimper. He just watched.

I watched too. From my kitchen window. I would make myself coffee and stand at the window and watch a 38-year-old behaviorist read Dostoyevsky in my parked Subaru while a 78-pound German Shepherd watched her from the back porch.

At 3:00 p.m. every day, Saoirse would close her book.

She would step out of the Subaru.

She would close both doors.

She would walk over to my back porch.

She would say to Tundra, in her quiet voice, “Tundra. I am leaving now. I came back out of the car. I am going to come back tomorrow. I will sit in the car again. I will leave it again. I am okay.”

She did not pet him.

She did not approach him.

She just told him.

Then she would walk to her own Honda CR-V and drive away.

This happened for eight days in a row.

On day 9 — Sunday, July 14th, 2024 — Tundra walked off the back porch for the first time during one of Saoirse’s reading hours.

He walked across the back yard.

He stopped about 20 feet from my Subaru.

He sat down in the grass.

He watched her read at 20 feet instead of 50 feet.

Saoirse did not look at him.

She kept reading.

She left at 3:00 p.m.

She told him she was leaving and that she was coming back tomorrow.

She drove away.

On day 12 — Wednesday, July 17th — Tundra closed to 10 feet.

On day 15 — Saturday, July 20th — he closed to 5 feet.

On day 17 — Monday, July 22nd — he laid down in the grass approximately 3 feet from the open driver’s-side door of my Subaru.

He laid there for the full hour.

Saoirse did not look at him.

She read.

When she got out at 3:00 p.m., she stepped over him carefully.

She told him she was leaving and that she was coming back tomorrow.

She drove away.

I want to tell you about day 22.

Wednesday, July 24th, 2024.

It was a clear sunny summer afternoon. The temperature was 79 degrees. Saoirse arrived at 2:00 p.m. as she had for 21 previous days.

She parked her CR-V.

She walked to my Subaru.

She opened the driver’s-side door.

She opened the rear driver’s-side door.

She sat in the driver’s seat.

She opened her book.

I was at the kitchen window with my coffee.

Tundra was on the back porch.

At 2:14 p.m., Tundra walked off the back porch.

He walked across the back yard.

He walked up to the open rear driver’s-side door.

He stopped.

He sniffed the threshold of the back seat.

He sniffed the upholstery.

He sniffed the seatbelt buckle.

Saoirse did not look at him.

She read.

At 2:18 p.m. — four minutes after Tundra had reached the open door — Tundra placed his right front paw on the threshold.

He paused.

He pulled the paw back.

He looked into the back seat.

He looked at the empty space where, in his old Highlander with Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell, there had been a folded-down right side with a soft blue blanket and a chew toy and everything he needed.

My Subaru did not have that. It had a normal back seat.

He looked at Saoirse in the driver’s seat.

She was reading.

She had not looked at him.

At 2:19 p.m. — five minutes after arrival — Tundra jumped into the back seat.

He landed on the upholstery.

He turned around.

He laid down on the back seat.

He positioned himself on the right side, where his blanket would have been in the Highlander.

He looked at Saoirse.

His ears were forward.

His tail was still.

He was trembling lightly.

Saoirse did not look at him.

She kept reading.

I was at the kitchen window.

I started crying.

I wanted to run outside.

I did not.

I knew that running outside would interrupt whatever was happening. I had not been given any role in what was happening. Saoirse was the one with the book in the driver’s seat. Tundra was the one in the back seat where he had not been since January 9th, 2023. I was the one at the kitchen window watching a 38-year-old woman read Dostoyevsky and a 4-year-old German Shepherd lay in my back seat for the first time in nineteen months.

I stayed at the window.

For the next 41 minutes, Saoirse read.

Tundra laid in the back seat.

He did not move.

The car was not running. No engine sounds. No movement. Just stillness.

At 3:00 p.m. Saoirse closed her book.

She placed it on the passenger seat.

She stepped out of the driver’s seat.

She closed the driver’s door.

She walked around to the back of the car.

She opened the rear passenger door wider.

She did not say anything to Tundra.

She walked toward my house.

Tundra stood up in the back seat.

He paused.

He looked at Saoirse walking away.

He jumped out of the back seat.

He walked behind Saoirse.

He followed her to my back porch.

Saoirse turned around at the porch steps.

She looked at Tundra for the first time since she had arrived.

She said, very quietly, “Tundra. We both got out of the car. I came back out. You came back out. The car was not the end of anything. I am leaving now. I am coming back tomorrow.”

She walked to her Honda CR-V.

She drove away.

Tundra watched her drive away from my back porch.

He thumped his tail twice.

I came out of my house.

I knelt down on the porch next to him.

I put my arm around his neck.

I cried into his fur for almost forty minutes.

He let me.

He had never let me hug him this way before.

I want to tell you what happened in the next 23 days.

Day 23 — Tundra jumped into the back seat at 2:11 p.m. — three minutes after Saoirse arrived.

He laid in the back seat for the full hour.

Saoirse read.

They both got out at 3:00 p.m.

Day 27 — Tundra started anticipating Saoirse. He was waiting at the front of the driveway at 1:55 p.m. When her CR-V pulled up, he walked behind her to my Subaru. He was in the back seat before she had finished opening the driver’s door.

Day 30 — Wednesday, August 21st, 2024. Saoirse made a small change to the routine.

She arrived at 2:00 p.m. as usual.

She opened the doors.

She sat in the driver’s seat.

Tundra jumped into the back seat as usual.

He laid down on the right side as usual.

Saoirse did not open her book yet.

She closed her door.

She closed the back door from the inside using her remote.

She put the key in the ignition.

She turned the engine on.

The engine made a soft purring sound.

Tundra started trembling.

His ears went back.

He stood up in the back seat.

He looked at the closed doors.

He looked at Saoirse in the driver’s seat.

He pawed at the back door once.

Saoirse did not turn around.

She said, in her quiet voice, “Tundra. I am not going anywhere. I am just turning on the engine. The engine is on. I am still here. You are still here. I am not driving. I am not leaving you. The engine is on. That is all.”

Tundra stood for about thirty seconds.

Then he laid back down.

Saoirse opened her book.

She read for one hour with the engine running.

Tundra laid in the back seat the entire time.

He was trembling lightly for the first ten minutes.

Then the trembling stopped.

At 3:00 p.m. Saoirse turned the engine off.

She closed her book.

She got out.

She opened the back door for Tundra.

He jumped out.

He thumped his tail.

They both walked to my back porch.

Day 45 — Tuesday, September 6th, 2024.

Saoirse arrived at 2:00 p.m.

She opened both doors.

Tundra jumped into the back seat.

He laid down on the right side.

Saoirse closed the doors.

She put the key in the ignition.

She turned the engine on.

She put the Subaru in reverse.

She backed out of my driveway.

Tundra stood up in the back seat.

His ears went forward.

His tail was tucked but not all the way.

He was tense but he was not panicking.

Saoirse drove to the end of my block.

She turned right.

She drove around the block.

It took approximately 4 minutes.

Throughout the drive, Saoirse spoke quietly to Tundra without looking at him.

She said, “Tundra. We are driving. We are not leaving anyone. I am still in the front seat. You are still in the back seat. We are going to come back to your house. Brennan is at the house. We are coming back to Brennan. I am not going anywhere alone. You are not going anywhere alone. We are both coming back.”

She turned the Subaru into my driveway.

She put it in park.

She turned the engine off.

She got out of the driver’s seat.

She walked around to the back driver’s-side door.

She opened the door.

Tundra stood up.

He looked at Saoirse.

He jumped out of the back seat.

I was on the front porch.

I had been waiting.

Tundra walked across the gravel of my driveway toward me.

Saoirse walked behind him.

Tundra reached the porch.

He sat down at my feet.

He looked up at me.

He thumped his tail.

Once. Twice. Three times.

I sat down on the porch next to him.

I put my hand on his head.

He pressed his head against my chest.

I looked at Saoirse.

She was crying.

She said, very quietly, “Brennan. That was day 45. We just drove around a block. He stayed. He came back. He got out. He is okay. I am charging you for the day, by the way.”

I laughed.

I cried at the same time.

I wrote her a check for $180.

She framed it.

She has it on the wall of her home office in Glens Falls, New York.

It is the only invoice she has ever framed.

I want to tell you what happened in the next four months.

By mid-October of 2024 — about six weeks after day 45 — Tundra was riding willingly in my Subaru on short trips. We did the vet first. Dr. Henrietta Mendizabal-Bouchard at my own practice met him in the parking lot. She did his entire physical exam in the back seat of my Subaru for the first visit so we would not push his comfort zone too fast. He let her examine him there. He thumped his tail when she finished. She cried.

By December of 2024 — about three and a half months after day 45 — Tundra was going to the dog park. He was riding in the back seat with his head out the window. He was discovering the joy of road wind on his face for the first time in 22 months.

He was a different dog.

He was alive in a way he had not been since the morning of January 9th, 2023.

I want to write down a few things before I finish.

The first thing. Saoirse Hartwell-Mackiewicz has, since Tundra’s case, become one of the most sought-after behaviorists in the northeastern United States. She has published three peer-reviewed papers on what she calls “category-specific loss trauma” in companion animals. Her central thesis — that many cases of perceived phobia in companion animals are actually unresolved grief from a specific traumatic loss — has been widely cited and is now being incorporated into the training curricula of multiple veterinary behavior programs across the country. She is currently writing a book about Tundra’s case. The working title is The Brothers Karamazov: A Behaviorist’s Case Notes from 45 Days in a Parked Subaru. I am one of the named characters. She has read me draft chapters over the phone. I have cried at each one.

The second thing. Tundra is now 6 years old. He has been with me for almost two years. He has lived with me for 86% of the time he has been alive since his original owner died. He is a 78-pound German Shepherd who loves road trips. We have driven together to Boston, to Lake Placid, to my sister’s house in Buffalo, and to a small cabin I rent on Lake George every August. He sleeps on the back seat with his head propped on the right side where Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell used to fold down the seat for him. I have installed a small soft blue blanket in that spot. I bought it specifically because Saoirse had told me about the blanket in the Highlander. He sleeps on it during every drive. He has not panicked in a car since day 45.

The third thing. I drove to Schenectady with Tundra on the morning of January 9th, 2025 — the second anniversary of Mr. Demitri Olufsen-Hartwell’s death. I had pulled the address of Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell’s grave from the obituary in the Schenectady Daily Gazette archives. He was buried at Calvary Cemetery on Eastern Avenue. I drove Tundra there in my Subaru. He rode in the back seat on his blanket. He did not panic. He did not whine. He was calm.

I parked at the cemetery. I clipped his leash on. I walked him through the cemetery gates.

We found Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell’s grave.

It was a small flat marker. The marker said:

DEMITRI OLUFSEN-HARTWELL — 1955-2023 — TEACHER. HUSBAND. FRIEND OF DOGS.

I knelt down on the grass.

Tundra sat down next to me.

He looked at the marker.

He thumped his tail.

Three times.

I want to tell you that I do not know what dogs understand about cemeteries.

I do not know if Tundra understood that his original owner was buried under that marker.

I know that he sat next to me on the grass for about 25 minutes. He did not whimper. He did not pull at the leash. He did not seem distressed.

He sat next to me the way he sits next to me in my kitchen when I am drinking coffee in the morning.

He sat there with me.

He was just present.

When we stood up to leave, Tundra walked over to the marker. He sniffed it. He laid down on the grass next to it. He stayed there for about two more minutes.

Then he stood up.

He walked back to me.

He thumped his tail.

Once.

We walked back to my Subaru together.

He jumped into the back seat.

He laid down on his blue blanket.

I drove home.

I want to end with one more thing.

About six weeks after our visit to the cemetery, in late February of 2025, I received a small package in the mail. It had been forwarded to me by the estate executor of Mr. Demitri Olufsen-Hartwell — Mr. Anders Pawlowski-Whitcombe, 71 years old, a retired Schenectady probate attorney who had taken on the estate two years earlier and had finally completed the file in early 2025.

The package contained a small object wrapped in tissue paper.

It contained a typed letter from Mr. Pawlowski-Whitcombe.

The letter said:

“Dear Mr. Castellanos-Vance,

I am the estate executor for the late Mr. Demitri Olufsen-Hartwell. I have spent two years closing out his small estate. In going through his apartment in the final weeks of cleaning, I found a small object I believe was meant for the next owner of his dog. It was in a sealed envelope marked “FOR TUNDRA’S NEXT PERSON.” Mr. Olufsen-Hartwell had clearly anticipated, as elderly single men sometimes do, that his dog might one day need a new home. I am forwarding the object to you, as you are now Tundra’s person. With my warm regards,

Anders Pawlowski-Whitcombe, Esq.”

I unwrapped the tissue paper.

Inside was a small worn dog chew toy. A rubber bone, slightly chewed on at the ends, in a faded blue color that matched the blanket Saoirse had described.

There was a small handwritten note attached.

The handwriting was shaky and elderly.

The note said:

“To the next person of Tundra —

This is his favorite toy. He has had it since he was a puppy. He sleeps with it in the back seat of my car when we drive. He is a good dog. He is a quiet dog. He is afraid of being left alone. Please do not leave him alone in cars. He does not understand it. Take him with you. Always.

If you are reading this, I am gone. I am sorry I had to leave him. Please tell him I would have stayed if I could. Please tell him I tried.

— Demitri

P.S. — His name is Tundra because he was born in February in a working-line litter in Cooperstown and the snow was deep that day. He loves snow. He loves rides. He loves people. He is a good boy.”

I sat at my kitchen table.

I cried for almost two hours.

Tundra came over.

He laid his head on my knee.

I held the rubber bone in my hand.

I showed it to him.

His ears went forward.

He sniffed it.

He took it gently from my fingers.

He carried it to my back seat.

He laid down on the blue blanket.

He chewed the rubber bone for about ten minutes.

Then he laid his head on it.

He fell asleep.

He has slept with that rubber bone on his blanket in the back seat of my Subaru every single time we have driven together since.

If you have a dog who has been called traumatized or broken or un-trainable — please consider that the trauma might not be what everyone is assuming. Please consider that the dog might be telling you something specific that we are not listening to. Please consider hiring a behaviorist who will sit with the question for as long as it takes to understand the answer. Please consider that the answer might be something the dog has been trying to say for a very long time.

If you have lost a person — please understand that the people you loved tried to come back to you. They tried to keep the promise of I will be back. They tried. Sometimes they could not. That is not their fault. It is also not yours. It is also not the fault of the dog who waited for them.

Mr. Demitri Olufsen-Hartwell tried to come back to Tundra on the morning of January 9th, 2023.

He could not.

I am the next person.

Tundra is the same good dog.

He sleeps on a blue blanket in the back seat of my Subaru with a rubber bone he has had since he was a puppy.

We drive everywhere together now.

The leaving is over.

If this story moved you, follow the page — there are more like Tundra and Saoirse and Demitri I haven’t told yet.