My college-aged daughter was living at home the day she said, “I really want a dog, Mom.” After her dad and I said no in every language we could think of, she dragged me to the Humane Society. By the end of that day, guess what? The house was run by a hundred-pound rott-lab mix named Bandit. Beautiful shiny black and white coat, dazzlingly clean teeth, Bandit seemed as if he wanted to fit in. And we tried to welcome him.
The first week, he proved that in his mind, small animals, such as my four cats, were prey items. He bit one slower feline, Paladine, in the back haunches. Paladine had two puncture marks that did more to preserve the cats-hate-dogs myth than real injury. So we thought, “Hmm, Bandit isn’t good with cats.” My daughter took him to dog school. She discovered Bandit wasn’t good with other dogs, either. So, cats and other dogs were out.
Over the next year and a half, this dog gave new meaning to the word “stubborn.” He dug. He ate shoes. He dug through trash and ate garbage. On walks, he lunged for other dogs, pulling me helplessly behind. If we put him outside, he barked. And barked. He was so scared of loud noises like the vacuum, that he tried to eat it too. And one day, he ran from the house to bite my husband as he mowed the back lawn. The cats were smug, giving me those, “I told you so” looks.
My daughter was still in college but she now lived in a small trailer park–no dogs allowed.
I contacted the Humane Society. I was astonished. They wouldn’t take Bandit back. Or give him to anyone else. I could take out a newspaper ad, they said, or put Bandit on Craigs List. But that wouldn’t be a great idea because lowlifes who torture or do cruel things to animals are always trolling for victims. No, the animal welfare person said, the kindest thing would be to put him down. I said, “No thanks,” and waited another six months.
Finally, as the rainy season in Oregon opened the skies, I had to do something. Bandit was becoming harder for me to handle. My husband couldn’t deal with him. Neither would any of my other three young adult kids. I asked around, but no miracle person appeared to take Bandit to a new and better home.
So yesterday I did the worst thing. I took Bandit (all one hundred pounds plus of him) to the Humane Society. I gave my information and paid the fee. I paid extra so I wouldn’t have to take his body home with me. Then I proceeded to lose it. I cried so hard the staff was in tears. One woman with a poodle sniffed and said, “All your dog needs is a little training.” But she didn’t volunteer, either. I couldn’t bring myself to go in and hold his head or paw, but the person handling the details said she’d take good care of him. I kissed his neck goodbye.
My husband led me away, bawling loudly. In the car, I asked if he thought God would be mad at me for all of this. He shook his head, and repeated the shelter’s comments. “We cannot rehome Bandit because he bit someone. It’s the kindest thing.”
And I thought, “For whom?”
The whole thing is a lesson in rationalization. I had to do it, God. Didn’t I? If all dogs go to heaven, what about the scumbags who kill them? Maybe Bandit has forgiven me. Maybe God’s not mad. Maybe someday I’ll be able to keep from starting every prayer with, “I killed the dog, God.” And then I’ll really grasp the meaning of grace.
I’m not a big fan of the Humane Society for the reasons you detail. They just don’t seem to get it. They could have taken the dog back and given him to a home where there were no other animals.
They have all these stupid rules that make no sense. I’m sure you heard the whole Ellen DeGeneres thing, and that made me furious, too. Those people are so hung up on rules they forget that they are supposed to be on the sie of the ANIMAL.
No one can blame you for what you did. People do a lot worse.
I’m sure the dog has gone on to a better life.
Lynn
Wow. Sorrow and guilt about your son and your dog, at the same time. That’s a lot to deal with.
Yet it’s natural, I think, to share grief between two issues of sadness. When my dog had to be sent away when I was about 9, I cried in the bathtub. When my grandfather died soon after, I cried again in the bathtub, and now the two losses are fused together in my mind. I can’t think about one without thinking about the other. And, of course, about the water in the tub.
I was hoping to comment on your post above, but I don’t see a comment link. Is that intentional? Anyway, I just wanted to say, if your son reads your article in the paper — as I just did, in the Inquirer — how could that really be bad? Your honesty is worth a lot, both to you and, I think, to him. And what’s happening now is, you wrote, leading toward your son’s death. If your published piece could have even a 10% chance of helping him, why not give it a try? Tell him, as if you had never said it before, how much you love him, and then hand him the newspaper.
My best wishes to all of you.
P.S. I wrote the above comment based on similar experiences in our own family, not merely as speculative advice. I think if I were in your son’s place, a half-page newspaper article would open my eyes wide, if only for a short time, but maybe enough to go back to NA — which I think will be the only way out for him. And now, thanks to your article, I think he will make it, will get out of that sad cycle.