7 years later, Part 4 of Euthanizing Aggressive Dogs: Sometimes It's the Best Choice
Collie in blue chair
Sierra rests her head, and that long nose, while taking a nap in her favorite chair. Photo by Phyllis DeGioia/VIN.
Eight weeks ago I brought home a second dog.
This news doesn't sound like a big deal, but to me it is enormous. Seven years ago this summer I euthanized my dog Dodger, an English setter, for aggression. Everyone expected me to get another dog quickly, as I usually do. But I just couldn't. The sorrow that had branched out in every direction like lightning across a night sky planted its root in my heart, and I wasn’t about to risk enduring that particular pain again when it could be prevented by not getting another dog. My faith in my ability to select a non-aggressive dog was non-existent.
My other dog, Zita, was seriously happy to be away from the crazy dog. She relaxed so much. At the time, I also had a cat who was sick frequently, and my finances were a lot easier with just two pets. I lost Dickens, the cat, about two years ago, but Z still seemed happy to have all the attention. There were no big surprises, no puncture wounds, vet bills for only one pet.
Life was easy. Not just easier, but easy.
Years after he is gone, I still think of Dodger, my beloved English setter, doing what he loved best: running flat out at seemingly unattainable speed, as graceful as birds in flight and covering ground nearly as quickly. I have no fear that I will forget how good Dodger could be and how much I loved him.
English setter digging a deep hole
Dodger was happy most of the time, and did everything with 100% effort. Photo by Phyllis DeGioia/VIN
I still ogle English setters.
During work breaks, I have always perused pet adoption sites looking at photos of dogs and bunnies, just for fun. It made me happy to look at all those animals and looking was enough. I would sometimes send photos of bunnies with particularly long ears to my friends. A few months ago I started to talk more with a co-worker who breeds collies. All of her dogs have Italian names - Nicolo, Amore, Raffadali, Franco – and I started thinking about how pretty her dogs are, and how “Lassie, Timmy’s in the well!” was never in the TV show, a movie, or the books, but is a well-known trope despite reality.
So, I started looking at collies available for adoption, with no more interest than usual, and saw Sierra. Her eyes spoke to me in a way none of the others had. The rescue group was located a few hours away across the state border, and their website said they usually did not adopt out of state. No big deal because of course I was not looking for a dog, but God she was pretty. Her eyes had a language unto themselves, and I kept going back to speak with them. Commenters thought she was pretty, but she was 12 years old. Most folks want to be able to spend more than a few years with their new dog. In my opinion, seniors are the sweetest because they are the most vulnerable, and I love them.
A few weeks went by, and I kept going back to look at her. Finally, I poured my heart into an application, knowing they didn’t usually adopt out of state. After a week of not hearing from them, I told myself it was for the best – eh, not to be – and tried not to think about it. About three weeks after I applied, though, they called asking about a mistake I’d made on the application.
My hopes climbed.
That second conversation was the come-to-Jesus call that for me would make or break the adoption. I told the adoption counselor about Dodger and my choice, and that I did not want a project. I just wanted an easy, happy dog with absolutely no traces of aggression, period, and if their rescue wouldn’t adopt to me because I euthanized an aggressive dog, that was fine.
I kept my tone professional but in my heart my attitude was a defiant “Screw you if you think I’m a terrible person because I know I did the right thing.”
She seemed a little surprised.
“We don’t take dogs with a known bite history,” she said. “We can’t place aggressive dogs, so the only thing we can do is euthanize them.”
I was so surprised I almost dropped the phone. Many rescue groups place aggressive dogs, sometimes not disclosing the truth about them. They have good intentions, but as my father used to say, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Human safety is always the priority and hiding something as dangerous as a bite history does irreparable harm to the willingness of people to adopt from shelters and rescues. People have to understand what behavioral issues their potential dog has in order for the adoption to work.
Thanks to COVID, the home inspection was done over my cell phone in a Facebook live call. I walked around the house pointing the phone at the parts of the house they were interested in: the dog’s access front and back, the fence, where she would sleep, etc.
The next step was talking to Sierra’s foster mom and seeing if we both thought Sierra was a good fit. I repeated my mantra about not wanting an aggressive dog and that all I cared about was a good temperament. I wanted her to be a therapy dog if we could ever go into a hospital to volunteer again. Foster mom assured me that Sierra was a total sweetheart who liked other dogs, could handle steps on her own, and had no housetraining problems. The emphasis was on sweetheart.
Sierra belonged to an elderly couple, but she was really the husband’s dog. After he died, the wife experienced some major life issue, something like a house fire. She may have changed the 12-year-old dog’s food. Between the grief, stress, and life changes, Sierra became severely itchy and scratched out huge bald patches all over her body. The widow gave Sierra up because she felt she couldn’t care for the dog. The rescue’s vet cleared up the skin infections. The foster mom switched her to a more appropriate food. By the time they photographed Sierra for her adoption page, her coat looked normal.
The last step was meeting in person.
Sierra would be my dog, not my boyfriend’s, but if they didn’t like each other it was all over. Erik, Zita and I drove for 3 hours to see if the dogs would get along and if we all liked each other. Zita was a pill at first, as she always is with unknown dogs on leashes, but chilled out. I fell in love with Sierra and Sierra fell in love with Erik; while I asked questions, he gave her belly rubs. I left her wearing a bandana infused with our three scents.
The next week they formally approved my application and she was “suddenly” mine.
First things first. I wanted to be able to buy her whatever I wanted without worrying about cost. I cancelled my order for a fancy refrigerator, held up by COVID, and ordered one for less than half the price. She has a new crate, orthopedic bed, grooming tools suggested by my collie breeder colleague, ID tag, new vet, and a veterinary dermatologist. She’s on a food allergy trial now with allergy meds despite being night and day improved from her semi-bald appearance when she went into rescue. She still smells a bit, her coat gets a bit icky after a while, and she licks her hoo hoo (technical term) more than is strictly necessary. My vet believes that spay incontinence causes the excess licking because Sierra keeps cleaning herself, so she is on another med for that issue.
She and Zita, who is almost 10, are not best buds yet but they get along and invite each other to play. Sierra doesn’t care about toys or Zita’s food so there’s no resource guarding on the part of my alpha girl. Sierra sleeps in her crate sometimes and likes to nap in there, but she thankfully avoids those steep stairs I fell down and sleeps downstairs. Because Z is just like me – all emotion and speed – and Sierra moves leisurely and is as slow to eat as Erik is, the dogs are fed in separate rooms. Sierra has to stare at her food for a while before eating as though she’s waiting to see if her kibble will magically turn into prime rib (Erik claims he’s letting his cool). Zita and I shovel it in as quickly as we can. My dad used to help himself off my plate, so someone literally took food away from me every day. Z has no excuse other than being a dog.
Erik refers to the girls as “his doggle woggles.” Uh huh.
Rough collie gets belly rub
Sierra gets a belly rub - life itself, in her opinion - from Erik. Photo by Phyllis DeGioia/VIN
Sierra and I have both come a long way: she from a broken heart, infected skin and repeated grief, and me from years of uncertainty and self-doubt about getting another dog. Normally I get another dog within a couple of months of losing one; I even found Zita the day after her predecessor died. Z had been wandering near the local shelter, apparently dumped. Seven long years after Dodger, I managed to pick out a perfect dog for me, despite all manner of doubt.
I have moved past my sorrow, finally, and Sierra is working on moving past hers. She misses her foster mom, too, I think, as she spent several months with her. Our grief should remain in the past if we want to enjoy our life, but rushing past it doesn’t make it go away. We have to experience the grief to eradicate it. Putting grief out of sight on a shelf keeps it on the shelf, always looming nearby. That’s just storing the grief until you deal with it or the grief forces you to deal with it.
These days Sierra can be found sticking her 4.5-inch long nose – Why the long face, Sierra? - into my elbow for attention. Attention is life itself to dogs. My 1.25-inches long nose is too short to poke anywhere, but Sierra, Zita and I understand that life moves on if you embrace the difficulties and then let them go.
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