A Heart for Dogs

I love dogs.  I have especially loved Golden Retrievers ever since our beautiful Lucky came into my life in 2003.  Losing him left me so sad, I started to follow other dog lovers on social media. Lately, in addition to cute photos, I have been surprised to see videos of dogs being put to bed in pajamas, taken about town in strollers, fed from a fork off a kids’ table, walking the streets with sunglasses, playing the piano, and being read bedtime stories.  

My husband often brought up the possibility of cloning Lucky before he passed, but to be honest, there were a few things I thought were in need of improvement.  For example, he could never be around other dogs without feeling threatened and having a total personality change.  Then my sweet, docile retriever would turn into a barking Alpha male ready to take on that Great Dane or half-pint Poodle walking across the street.  In reality, Lucky got himself slapped by a cat that wandered into our backyard, and he zoomed to the back door with a bloody nose, in need of a safe space.

Once, TV preacher Creflo Dollar advised people who were sad over the death of a dog to get another one like it, even call it by the same name if it would cheer them up.  I never considered doing such a thing, though I did once see the most perfect Golden Retriever for sale by Lucky’s breeder.  This gorgeous creature had been returned due to hair issues--a reasonable consideration, because you really have no idea how a Golden’s hair will mess with your life before you own one.

We met Max and made an instant decision to buy him.  He was gorgeous, larger than Lucky, but he walked next to me on his leash as though he had already had obedience training.  But Max was not Lucky. 

From the time we got him home, he was celebrated, friends brought toys, treats, they were so happy we took the plunge.  Very soon, the calm dog on that leash at the breeder disappeared, and Max acted as if he were raised by wolves, running and jumping on people, scratching furniture, digging gashes in our floors, attempting to take a nice bite out of you if you didn’t pay him enough attention. We called the breeder in a week and she assured us she would take him back, but maybe we could try some advanced obedience training.

After ten days of residential obedience training, Max came home and did all the same things he had before. He’d jump up on the counter, steal and chew through the clicker, stand on my tables to eyeball people, and pull out of his collar or harness on the short walks I dared to take him on.

True, I was able to train him to go to his crate, pick up a toy, ring a bell to go out, and wait by the door. My husband and I exhibited the trainers’ new hand signals, and put into practice all they advised.  We turned away when he jumped, ignored the bad behavior that wasn’t a major threat to his or our safety, and worked with a whistle and cheese in extreme circumstances.  We excelled; Max did not.

We were told having him neutered would help.  It didn’t, unless you count the hours when he was too drugged to be a delinquent.  He even ate through two cones.  When he was in his massive crate, constructed for the ninety-pound dog he was, he gnawed at the latches, rendering at least three unusable.  We tried the vet approved, foul-tasting apple spray to deter him from chewing the crate, but he was determined.  He was chewing every latch on his way to a breakout, and apparently there was little we could do to stop him.

We sought new resources.  An in-house dog trainer suggested holding him on a leash next to me while I sat in a chair at night, to bond and get him settled.  He chewed through two leashes, such was his desire to get away from me and wreak his own kind of havoc.

My husband put him on a zip-line to burn excess energy in a field where we had always let Lucky roam loose.  He barked the whole time and attempted to bite my husband who would periodically approach and attempt to play with him.  It took several tries to even get him back inside and in his crate.

When our adult children visited, they were greatly disappointed to see our lack of progress. He was still trying to bite them, jump on them, and otherwise wear us out.  They were not the first to suggest we make the hard decision and take him back.

I would watch my husband outside with him, trying all the tricks experienced dog owners try.  Steve is a bit of an animal whisperer who grew up in the country and admittedly had much better relationships with his cattle than he did with Max.  My brother, also a dog sensitive, took him out in the field and I watched in horror as Max continued to leap straight up in the air like a fox. 

Steve and I were so burned out, we started taking Max to the day care where his obedience training took place, mid-week, just to give ourselves a break.  There, he could barely wait to get out of the car and go play with his canine friends. We sighed with relief at the thought of having one normal day a week.

We tried everything we could find on the Internet, spoke to everyone we could.  But the hopes we had for Max, walking in the park, companionship, dreaming that his beautiful soul would be part of our family for the next ten or more years, were gone.  We recognized we were for the most part, in a hostage situation.  And though we didn’t want to face the loneliness of life without Max, our children, friends, and family were not coming over much. The ones who did visit, flinched when he went anywhere near them.  We had to face up to our choice--it was Max or us.

After four long months of trying to love Max into submission, we took the long ride back to the breeder.  We prayed for a quick adoption, though we did not hesitate to let the breeder know Max’s habits in detail. Of course we felt sick, sad, and disappointed.

We were immediately offered another dog, a girl, but I wasn’t sure I could opt in for that heartbreak again. As anyone with a love for dogs knows, it’s devastating to part with them.

We provided Max’s picture, which soon went up on Facebook through the breeder. Immediately, a barrage of commentary followed, none of it very pleasant.  People wanted to know what kind of sick people would ever choose to return such a beautiful animal.  The remarks were so vicious, the breeder actually came to our defense explaining Max just wasn’t the right fit.  I knew it wasn’t helping me to read the comments, but I also couldn’t stop myself.

For the next six months to a year, I looked for proof that Max had been adopted.  My husband was secretly calling the breeder for updates, though we tried not to talk about it.  As of a year and a half ago, he hadn’t been, but maybe that suited him, to be with his own on a farm, leaping and jumping and carousing with the puppies.

Yesterday, I saw two fundraisers on Facebook, one for a retired gentleman with serious health issues, the other for a dog needing an operation.  The gentleman had been on Facebook for years and presumably had a far better reach than a dog most people had never interacted with, but as of yesterday, the dog had raised $2500, the gentleman, $20. It left me wondering if there would ever be a fundraiser where a human could outraise a dog.

For whatever social media isn’t, its ability to show us who and what we are is spot on. Those fundraisers reminded me of Max and those accusations that we were somehow heartless and horrible to have returned a dog to a breeder.  But it was the right decision, to prioritize our lives and well being over providing a permanent home for Max. 

Many people say they love animals more than humans, and that is evident when donations are up for dogs and down for humans.  Because as much as we may ascribe dishonest or evil motives to a man trying to raise money for his own health issues, one thing is for sure, we don’t know the motives of the people collecting for the dog, or the temperament of the dog, even if he is wearing cute pajamas.