Woof No More

If you are from P.E.T.A., please stop reading now. This post is not for you. I seriously mean it. Consider browsing a blog filled with successful pet stories, where The People and their well-adjusted, well-trained Dog frolic into the sunset, happily ever after. This is not one of those stories.

Little Squirt wants a dog for Christmas, suspiciously after viewing the “I Want A Dog For Christmas, Charlie Brown” DVD 17 times in a row. We already have a long-haired daschund, Rudy, who occasionally is one dog too many. But Little Squirt insists that Rudy needs a friend. He does not consider our three cats and three hamsters friends enough for Rudy, apparently. But I shudder at the thought. Another dog = Another possible Pet-Gone-Wrong. Here is the story of one example.

Several years ago, our beloved pug, Molly, died suddenly on a Saturday afternoon. We spent the evening having a “memorial service” for her with the kids; celebrating her life of 9 years.

The very next morning after Molly’s death, on the way home from church, I convinced Super Hubs to stop by the local pet shop, “just to look at the cute puppies for the fun of it.” “Ok, but we are ABSOLUTELY NOT coming home with a new puppy already, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he stated.

“Of course not!! How much of a cold-hearted nutcase do you think I am?!!” I said incredulously. I was appalled that he would even suggest I would consider such a thing. True, my pet buying track record was thus far less than stellar. I had made a few impulsive pet buying mistakes during our marital history. Okay, quite a few. Many. I have this soft spot in my heart for warm, fuzzy creatures. But surely he did not believe that I would think of replacing our 9-year-old dog with a new one THE VERY NEXT DAY AFTER HER DEATH! Jeeez!!!!!

We went into the pet shop to browse. My family headed off to see the fish-filled aquariums, while I viewed the puppies. An overly-zealous employee caught me eyeing a black boxer/lab mix, and asked if I wanted to pet her. “Sure! I LOVE dogs!” I replied enthusiastically. He put us together in one of those little Pet Viewing Rooms where you can play with the puppies while listening to a musical CD playing subliminal messages such as “Take me home!” and “You MUST have me.”

Within 10 minutes of looking into this lab/boxer’s big brown eyes, and smelling her puppy fragrance, I was sold. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this dog was God’s answer for our family. This dog would erase our sadness from Molly’s death and be the answer to THE PERFECT PET for the next 10-15 years. It would be a homo sapien /canine marriage made in heaven.

As Super Hubs walked by the Pet Viewing Room, he did a double-take, saw me with the puppy, and a look of horror crossed his face. “We are SO not buying that dog!” He said. “Let me remind you that our precious pet died just yesterday and we are still in a mourning period. And then there’s the fact that we are leaving for a 700-mile drive to my parents’ house at the end of the week. There is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY we are leaving this store with that dog. I put my foot down!” Ten minutes and $700+ later, we headed to our station wagon with 5 lbs. of IAMS and an 8-week-old BIG MISTAKE. I can be a bit persuasive when I am determined.

From the moment we arrived home, it became abundantly clear that this new puppy of ours, whom we named Gracie, had severe social and psychological issues. As we walked her into the front door of her new home, she ran straight under the kitchen table, where she remained in a quivering ball for the next 6 hours. She apparently was the only puppy on the planet that did not like people. And most especially, she did not like children. She snapped and growled at my kids as they tried to coax her out of hiding.

When I finally tempted her out from under the table with a piece of bologna, a new and very strange relationship was born. With that offer of processed meat, I became Gracie’s BEST FRIEND FOR LIFE, her SOUL MATE, her PERSON TO SWIM ACROSS OCEANS FOR. Everyone else became a threat to her relationship with me. I felt a bit pleased. A tad flattered. And then extremely suffocated.

Gracie followed me everywhere I went that first week. We were joined at the hip. I could not leave the room without her going into hysterical barking. She slept next to me. She growled at my children. She attacked my cats. And she glared at Super Hubs.
I began to feel the slightest twinge of doubt. Had I possibly made a mistake? Should I not have bought the very first dog that I saw, less than 24 hours after Molly’s death? Perhaps I had been a bit hasty? …….Nah. Probably not.

My marriage suffered a bit that week. And then there was the question of our upcoming trip to CT to visit my in-laws. What would we do with the puppy? After exhausting all possibilities, it became apparent that we had no choice but to bring Gracie with us. In the car. For a 20-hour drive. As the thought of this began to dawn on my husband, it wasn’t one of our better marital moments. “I’ll take care of her. She won’t bother anybody. It’ll be my problem,” I promised. “Trust me.”

We headed to CT at the end of the week, with the dog crate in the back of the station wagon. It was a very long drive. VERY LONG. The dog barked and howled in the crate for the first 120 miles. The kids complained for 120 miles. Super Hubs stewed for 120 miles. I ended up carrying 50# of lab/boxer mix on my lap for the rest of the way, just to keep peace. I ate my meals in the car. I became intimately acquainted with every “dog potty” area between The Midwest and Hoboken, while Super Hubs honked the horn impatiently. The air conditioning broke. It was hot. It was smelly. It was not pretty. Certain people in my family were very cranky for most of the 20 hour trip.

I tried to get Super Hubs to see the “half-full glass” of the situation. “This is an adventure! You, me, the kids and the dog. Taking a family vacation all together. How very American! And kind of funny, really. A good memory, yes?!” I said brightly. He did not agree. He most definitely did not agree.

Late, late that evening, we pulled into the CT driveway of my in-laws. They aren’t exactly “pet people”, and so Gracie and her crate were sent to spend the week in their mudroom. And, because of her previously mentioned neurotic attachment to me which included barking obsessively whenever I wasn’t in sight, I spent much of my vacation on a cot in the mudroom as well.

Our week in CT went by slowly. My family went off on fun dogless adventures while I was relegated to stay home and “baby-sit” Gracie. One morning, desperately needing a break from her, I tied the dog to a tree in the backyard so I could sit in the kitchen alone. Seeing me, her beloved mistress, through the sliding glass door, Gracie yanked so hard on her chain that she broke it and a branch off the oak tree to which she was tied. She ran through the yard to reunite with me, knocked over two big ceramic pots filled with azaleas and then scratched a big gash on the kitchen door. An oak tree and two azaleas taken out in less than 10 minutes! It was surreal, like a really bad “Lassie Come Home” remake. And I had to re-pot the azaleas.

Spending lots of time alone with the dog in CT gave me time to think. Time to reflect. And time to resent. And I was beginning to resent this dog in a big way. I was feeling smothered. And I missed my family. No one could come near me without the dog becoming threatened. I felt depressed and weepy. It was a rotten vacation. I knew what had to be done. Gracie would need to find a new home.

On the return car trip home, I gingerly broached the subject to Super Hubs. “Honey,” I began. “I’ve been doing some thinking. Maybe we made a mistake. Maybe we were a little bit too quick to buy this dog. “ “Oh, YA THINK??????!!!!!!” He quipped back.
“Yes, I do think. I’ve concluded that this dog is not working out. And so when we get back home, I think you need to find her a new home.” And with that request, was born SUPER HUBS’S QUEST TO GET RID OF THIS DOG. And he embraced this quest as if he was one of King Arthur’s Knights seeking the Holy Grail.

He began with the pet shop where we had purchased her. The interesting thing about pet shops is that once the puppy is purchased and leaves their property, they no longer want the puppy back under any circumstances. Not even for free. NOT EVER. Apparently, the minute the puppy walks out the pet shop door, it may contract a Pandemic Puppy Plague, which could wipe out all the other puppies in the shop. And perhaps the hamsters as well.

The animal shelters were all full. There was a waiting list to take unwanted dogs. They did not want ours. Who knew this was such a common problem?

Another interesting tidbit is that none of our friends were in the market for a free puppy at that time. Or they were all away on vacation. We aren’t quite certain, as none of them returned our calls.

But it was becoming clear that Gracie needed to leave the our home, and fast! And it became Crystal Clear the night she snapped at my daughter, nearly biting her eye. So Super Hubs and I did the only thing we possibly could. We are not proud of it. We neither recommend nor condone it. But we felt we had no other choice.

One evening, under the cover of darkness, adorned completely in black hooded outfits, we headed to a dog shelter which was closed for the evening. We attached Gracie and her leash to the front door of the shelter, with a full dish of puppy chow in reach.……..And then we drove away. FAR away, for the shelter was in a completely different county, which will go unnamed to protect the innocent. And we left Gracie and her puppy chow, howling and barking on the front steps. Alone. With a last look and a very slight pang of guilt, I realized that this dog was gone forever. I could have my life back. YIPPEEE!!!!!

I guess the moral of this story is that it is not wise to buy a new puppy the very next day after your beloved pet dog dies. You need to have a grieving period. And do graduate-level puppy research first. Or my point may be that spending $700+ on a dog that you get rid of three weeks later is a deplorable waste of resources. It really is. Or perhaps I just needed to inform you that I really don’t look good wearing basic black. It washes me out.

But, more importantly, did I learn my lesson??? Absolutely not. I have since had other pet horror stories, to be told at a later date. And occasionally I still wear black.

Glean from this what you choose. In any case, this story is honestly, completely, mostly true. And I dedicate it to Molly, the dog of my heart.