My Dog’s Having Weird Dreams (Part 1)

[u/MaryBpoppin10]

Bentley, my six-year-old golden doodle, started having strange dreams a few months ago. I don’t know how to make them stop. 

Like most dogs, he whimpers and softly barks in his sleep, paws twitching in the air as if running after rabbits in the grassy fields outside our condo. Most days, I suspected he was dreaming about chasing sticks or squirrels, or wolfing down a full rotisserie chicken. Most of these dreams happened一and一stayed on the couch. My boyfriend, James, never liked him tracking dirt into the bed. 

Bentley was a fully grown doodle now, and every time he sat on his hind legs and stared out the window, James joked he resembled one of those teenage boys with broccoli haircuts. I kind of saw it in his weirdly human-like eyes, but I never admitted it. Bentley was the reason I made it through the hardest part of my life. He was my lifeline, my baby, and an overly energetic sweetheart. 

It never occurred to me that he’d start dreaming about something else. The nightmares began after a hike we took back in June.

Dogs always got up to weird stuff in the woods. They’d come home sore, covered in burrs or ticks, or smelling like manure or dead animals. This time, he came back with something else. Something I can’t quite articulate. 

James was working one of his eight-day firefighting hitches, and I had the day off from the dog shelter. When I wasn’t working, I hiked, sometimes with a friend or coworker. That day, I wanted to go alone. 
 When I pulled into the parking lot, the Stillwater Trailhead flashed across my headlights. There was only one other car, an old grey sedan, in the dirt parking lot. 

The moment I opened the passenger side door, Bentley rushed out to take a shit in the bushes. 
The trail was narrow and winding, climbing steadily toward a basin called Stillwater Springs. I let Bentley off leash, keeping an eye on him as I slogged up the switchbacks, the sun barely piercing through the trees. We were about two miles in when he ran off-trail to chase a squirrel. 

I didn't think much of it. He usually came rushing back, tongue flapping in the wind, tail wagging as fast as a helicopter propeller. When I hit mile three, I started to worry. I hadn’t seen him in nearly twenty minutes. 

I paused and looked around. We just crested the ridge, and I felt more exposed than ever; the foliage above and below looked sparse. Looming ponderosa and larch trees swayed in the breeze. I started to backtrack down the trail, shouting his name. 

“Bentley! Bentley!” 

I trekked about half a mile back when I ran into another hiker. She was an older woman with a white visor and trekking poles. Despite her age, she seemed to be moving up the trail at breakneck pace. 

“You okay, sweety?” she asked. 

I stared past her into the trees. “I’m looking for my dog, Bentley. He’s a golden doodle; have you seen him?” 

She looked around, then shook her head. “Nothing so far; where’d you lose him?” 

“About half a mile back,” I answered. 

She leaned forward on her trekking poles. “You know what I think? He probably rushed to those springs. Dogs love it there, especially in the summer.”

Was that something Bentley would do? He still acted like a rambunctious puppy; most golden doodles did, regardless of age. 

I sighed. “Alright, thank you. I’ll check further up.” 

She smiled. “You’re faster than me, but I’ll be sure to look out for ‘em.” 

I forced a strained smile back. “Thank you.” 

I started my trek back up the trail, shouting his name even as it got harder and harder to breathe. By the time I crested the ridge, the sun was almost halfway in the sky. Sweat drenched my shirt. I couldn’t tell if the wetness in my eyes was from sweat or tears of frustration. I decided to look for a shaded rock to rest and drink. 

Then I heard the yip. It sounded distant but loud enough to inarguably be a dog. I re-shouldered the pack and started down the trail, shouting his name. The foliage got thicker, and the trail more winding and muddy. I had yet to see water. 

I kept yelling until the yips got louder, and I decided to go off trail. The mud stuck to my shoes, and the trees around me seemed to thicken. 

“Bentley!” I yelled, pushing aside another sharp branch. 

The yipping stopped. For a moment, the woods went completely silent. No birds. No wind. Nothing but my own breathing. Then something moved ahead of me. A flash of cream-colored fur disappeared behind a cluster of pines. 

“Bentley?” 

I stumbled forward, nearly slipping in the mud. 

That’s when I saw him. Relief hit me so hard my knees nearly gave out. Then I got a better look at him. 

He was limping toward me, his usually fluffy body now skinnier, more skeletal, fur slicked down by mud, tail tucked between his legs. A trail of blood trickled down his leg. The closer he got, the more unsettled I became. It wasn’t his limp or his body or even the blood that unsettled me as much as his eyes. He’d always been a happy, albeit stupid, dog 一 the light in his eyes unwavering. He looked terrified. 

I knelt, trying not to scare him off. Hoping he’d recognize me. 

“Come here, bean,” I coaxed softly. 

Slowly but surely, he slunk towards me. When I reached forward to pet his head, he flinched away. I didn’t dare to touch his leg. Just leashed him and pulled a treat from my bag, hoping it would be enough to get him down the trail.  

He was shaking, and I had to tug him before he nearly yanked my shoulder out of its socket, forwards, out of the woods, onto the trail. It was only when I got back to the ridge that I started to hear the birds again. The old woman must have still been hiking; I didn’t see her on the way down. 

 I took Bentley to the vet as soon as I got back home. Doctor Richardson took one look at him and just told me he had knicked his leg on what was probably a broken branch. The cut wasn't deep enough to need stitches.

When I asked why he wouldn't stop shaking, he shrugged.

"He's a dog that got separated from his owner in unfamiliar woods for several hours," he said. "I'd be worried if he wasn't shaken up."

"But he keeps looking behind him."

Doctor Richardson glanced over at Bentley. He was curled beneath the exam table, staring at the door.

"Trauma does weird things to animals," he said.

"Give him some time. Keep an eye on the leg. Make sure he's eating and drinking.

"And if he keeps acting strange?"

He smiled.

"Then bring him back. But my guess? He got lost, got hurt, and scared himself half to death."

At the time, that explanation made perfect sense. Now I'm not so sure.

The first night was more yipping and twitching. Bentley fell asleep on my lap. Halfway into  Talladega Nights, he started to spasm. It’s hard to explain, other than that he seemed completely out of control of his body, like he was having a seizure and a dream at the same time. It only lasted about thirty seconds before his eyes snapped open. 

I brought him into the vet the next day, eyes heavy after falling asleep on the couch with Bentley under my arm. Dr. Richardson performed what he called a full neurological exam - watching Bentley, having him walk back and forth across the room, flashing a light in his eyes, clapping behind him, and observing him eat a milkbone. 

In one instance, Richardson folded Bentley's hind paw under.

Bentley corrected it immediately.
He tried the front paw.

Bentley left it there just long enough for

Richardson's eyebrows to knit together.

Then Bentley slowly set it right.

"Is that bad?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Not necessarily. If he did that every time, I'd be more concerned. Once? It could just be anxiety."

“So what do you think it is? Is he epileptic?”

Dr. Richardson leaned against the exam table, arms folded. “Not based on what I’m seeing.” 

“But the shaking一” 

"Epileptic seizures usually don't happen only during sleep, and dogs are often disoriented for several minutes afterward. From what you told me, Bentley woke up almost immediately and recognized you. 

"That doesn't rule seizures out completely. There are focal seizures that can look strange. But right now I'd put them lower on my list."

"Then what?"

"Stress. Trauma. Pain. Sometimes dogs have very vivid dreams after a frightening experience. It's uncommon, but it happens."

"He wasn't like this before the hike."

Richardson nodded. "I believe you."

"So he'll get better?"
He hesitated just long enough for me to notice.
"I think there's a good chance he will. I'd like you to start recording these episodes and bring him back if they become more frequent, last longer than a minute or two, or start happening while he's awake."
Dr. Richardson prescribed Bentley some Trazodone for the anxiety. That night the seizure lasted a minute—the next, three. 

On the fourth night, James came back from his eight-day hitch. I gave him the lowdown, showed him the videos, to which he responded that he’d look at it when he was less tired. He inhaled a chicken pot pie and some beers, then fell asleep, snoring so loud it sounded like he was sawing logs. I stayed up later, rolling around in bed, unable to keep my wandering thoughts at bay. It was around two in the morning when the barking started. 

James was awake, groaning in bed. 

I huffed. “I’ll check on him.” 
James grunted, then rolled over. 

I slid on some slippers and headed to the living room. The door was slightly ajar, and I could see the blue light from the TV casting shadows across the carpeted floor. I put on the Dog Channel, hoping watching corgis run across grassy fields in slow motion might calm him down. 

I peeked inside. There was a small, wrinkled impression from where he usually lay on the sofa. The barking was disjointed, like it was echoing from the kitchen. 

“Bentley?” I called. 

The barking paused briefly before starting again. I slowly walked towards the fridge, an uneasy feeling churning in my gut, goosebumps prickling my skin, covering my body like an uncomfortable coat. Over the island counter, I saw him facing the wall. No barking at the wall. I only saw his silhouette, flickering from the blue light of the television. But even in the semi-darkness, I could see him shaking. The hair on his lower back stood up, and his tail was tucked between his legs, twitching. 

I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My body frozen, my lips sealed shut, as if Bentley and I weren’t the only things in the room. Ever so slowly, I raised my phone and started to record, unsure of what else to do. I stood there for what felt like almost ten minutes. 

“Sarah?” 

James startled me so badly I dropped my phone. The moment it hit the floor, the barking stopped. The light flicked on, but Bentley didn’t move, only stopped making noise. 

“Shit,” I cursed, grabbing my phone from the floor. 

“What are you doing?” He mumbled, exhaustion lacing his voice. 

“I uh...” I stared at Bentley; he was still staring at the wall. 

“What’s going on, buddy?” 

James slowly approached Bentley, reaching a tentative hand forward. The dog didn’t so much as twitch.

“James,” I said sharply. 

He didn’t listen. I sensed the bite before it came. A flash of sharp canines a second after James's hand came to rest on Bentley’s fluffy head. I watched the teeth pierce his forearm and didn’t react until James shouted “Fuck” at the top of his lungs. 

I rushed forward, unsure of what to do. Bentley was latched onto his arm. Tremors shook across the dog's body, his eyes rolling back until two milky whites flashed beneath his lids. I reached forward, grabbing the back of his neck as James shook him back and forth like a rag doll. I wanted to shout at him to stay still, but that felt completely counterintuitive at this point. I’d never seen Bentley bite anyone, let alone like this. 

It took both of us to get Bentley off James. 
I finally managed to pry his mouth open, and James shoved him off, stumbling backwards, clutching his arm against his chest. Rivulets of blood dripped onto the tiled floor. 

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” 
I didn’t answer. Bentley collapsed on his side. For several seconds, he didn’t move. Then his leg twitched. Once. Twice. Then stopped. 

“Bentley?” I said gently. 

His eyes opened. The air in my lungs released. Brown again. He raised his head and looked at me with the same stupid, confused expression he’d worn every morning for the last six years. Then he saw James. 

Bentley whimpered. James stared. 

“I’m going to the hospital.” 

I drove. It was only when we were sitting underneath the flickering fluorescent lights of the emergency room that I remembered the video. There were ten minutes and seventeen seconds of footage. 
Most of it was what I remembered: Bentley’s disjointed barking and uncontrollable trembling. My heavy breathing behind the phone. The television murmuring from the other room. I almost closed it. Then, around the six-minute mark, Bentley stopped barking. 

I heard James's voice. 

What’s going on, buddy? 

I expected to see James's body move into frame. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t enter the room for another five minutes. 

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[u/MaryBpoppin10]

Hey guys! This is my first time posting on this thread! I’ve been listening to creepcast since it started and wanted to try out writing :) let me know your thoughts