In the year since November 8, 2018, I can’t even count the number of people who’ve said to me — usually in a whisper — words like, “There but for the grace of….” They don’t even have to finish the sentence.
Watching the horror unfold in Butte County, watching as the count of lives and homes lost mounted day by terrible day, listening to the stories of a firestorm bearing down at an astounding speed of a six-tenths of a mile per second, none of us was immune to the truth that what happened there could happen almost anywhere in California. We simply can’t deny that, every bit as much as the people in Paradise, Magalia, and Concow, many of us live in or near areas where these kinds of terrible blazes are possible.
Something as unthinkable as what happened last year in the Camp Fire is no longer unthinkable.
The human toll of this disaster in terms of both lives lost and lives devastated remains incalculable. But from the explosion of the very first embers, united with those human victims were the animal inhabitants that also became fire casualties — most heartrendingly, the thousands of companion animals that were killed, injured, and lost.
Because my dog Joey and I are a certified therapy dog team, for three days after the fire started we made the 76-mile drive to the Chico and Oroville shelters hoping to bring some measure of comfort to the evacuees.
I will never forget the shell-shocked expression on the faces in those evacuation shelters, people staggering numbly from one room to another like human zombies, barely conscious of anything except the horrible reality they’d experienced.
I’ll also never forget the hands that reached out to Joey, the faces that cracked into unaccustomed smiles, the eyes that lit up with joy or overflowed with tears just to see and touch and hug a dog — perhaps in remembrance of the one they’d loved and lost in the terrible inferno — and feel even for just one moment the compassion and kindness that only such a creature can offer, on a day when all they had felt before was hopelessness.
Now as then, my thoughts turn to the companion animals that survived, but that lost their homes, their safe havens, and often their human families. Their worlds too were reduced to ashes, to charred remnants of a life that was no more.
We can’t know for sure what went through their minds as they limped alone through the blazing streets or fled with their humans through a sea of flames as the tires of the car they were in began to melt. We can’t know for sure what they felt being caged in an unknown place surrounded by strangers and alien smells and sounds, as they waited and hoped to be reunited with their people.
What we can know is that often, the dogs that have gone through experiences like the Camp Fire are just as psychologically wounded as humans are. It even has a name: Canine Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD).
Veterinary experts have known for decades that dogs can suffer emotionally after a traumatic experience, whether it’s on the battlefield or in the house next door. While the concept of C-PTSD is relatively new — it was first seen in dogs returning from war — anyone who’s ever adopted a dog with history of abuse or abandonment or forced isolation knows what it looks like, even if they never knew its name.
Symptoms of canine PTSD vary from dog to dog and can include everything from hyper-vigilance, changes in temperament, and chronic howling or whining, to avoidance of areas where they were previously comfortable, impaired learning ability, and either excessive clinging to humans or alternatively, refusal to bond with them.
The dogs who lived through the Camp Fire, especially those who’ve been permanently separated from their original human families, face a long healing process … but healing IS possible. Much revolves around teaching the dog that the world is not a cruel and fearful place, that he has a safe and secure refuge where he is loved and protected. Play and exercise are also important to recovery for these dogs: essentially, they need to relearn to have fun.
Like the people who endured this horrific disaster, the community’s companion animals have suffered as well.
We can never eradicate the anguish, the trauma, or the memories … we can’t turn back the calendar pages and erase what happened a year ago … but we can be there for one another, human and canine alike, and do our best to move forward together into the light.
Joan Merriam lives in northern California with her Golden Retriever Joey, her Maine Coon cat Indy, and the abiding spirit of her beloved Golden Retriever Casey in whose memory this column is named. You can reach Joan at joan@joanmerriam.com.