The panic attacks came on without any warning. One day my son was a carefree little boy, and seemingly overnight he was a teenager struggling with an anxiety disorder that was like some kind of massive, hairy beast clinging to his back. My boy was afraid of hurting himself and others, of walking through the kitchen and seeing the knives, of sleeping, of not sleeping. In short, he was a mess.

"You're okay, son," I'd tell him. "Your mind is playing tricks on you. You're going to be okay." He'd just look at me, eyes filled with fear and desperation. On one afternoon walk, he collapsed on the sidewalk, unable to even propel himself forward. I held him in my lap like some sort of suburban Pietà.

Parenting is filled with difficult moments, but the helplessness that accompanies watching one's child suffer is immense. Unlike a skinned knee, an adhesive bandage does nothing for mental health issues. A psychiatrist prescribed pills that helped a bit, but here we sat on the sidewalk, low moans emanating from the head in my lap.

Soothing words didn't help much either, but that's all I had in my medicine chest. "It's all in your mind, son. You need to get out of your head and stop dwelling on this. You've created a feedback loop — you obsess about how anxious you feel, which makes you feel more anxious, which makes you obsess about how anxious you feel. You need to focus on something else." I may as well have told him to stop having brown eyes.

You need to focus on something else. I'm not a mental health professional, but intuitively that made sense. If the boy had something to worry about other than worry, perhaps he could break out of his feedback loop.

The next day after school we loaded into the car. "Where are we going, Dad?"

"It's a surprise," I said. When we pulled into the parking lot of the SPCA a few minutes later, I told him that he could go inside and pick out any dog that he wanted.

"Really? I can have a dog?" My son was back for a moment, the happy boy with the smiling eyes, and then he darkened again. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said.

"Why not?"

"What if I hurt it?"

"You aren't going to hurt it."

"I don't know how to take care of a dog."

"Sure you do," I said. "You just love them and feed them and treat them like friends."

"What if we're sleeping and I roll over and crush it?"

"Dogs are smart. I'm sure he'll get out of the way."

We walked up and down the halls of dog prison, looking at all of the inmates. The fresh meat jumped and yipped, the lifers simply ignored us. Somewhere in the distance a St. Bernard played a sad song on his harmonica. A sweet little terrier right out of a children's movie pawed at his gate and lolled his pink tongue around his furry mouth.

"Can we see that one?" My son asked.

"Archie? Sure. I'll meet you out back at the playpen," the volunteer said. For the next hour Archie ran around in the grass behind the SPCA, wagging everything he could possibly wag and licking my kid's face. He came home with us that night.

The business of dog ownership filled the idle moments: letting Archie out, then letting him back in two minutes later when he scratched at the door; feeding him, walking him, playing with him. If Archie wanted attention he'd simply take it, jumping onto my son's lap and stick his little black nose in the boy's face. It's hard to retreat into one's own head when a wagging fur ball demands attention. My son's worried moans were gone, replaced by laughter.

It has now been four years with Archie. Sure, my son still has panic attacks now and then, but their frequency and duration is less severe. Having a furry little friend to love and care for gave him so many different things: companionship, purpose, something to focus on other than the anxious record playing repeatedly in his mind. To say that Archie changed the boy's life understates how important he has been. My boy is back, and it's all thanks to a mutt.

And he still hasn't been squished in a sleep-related accident.

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