Every step in the process of re-homing my dog feels like a loss. Reaching out to the shelter. Answering their emails. Scheduling a vet visit. Scheduling an intake visit. Every single step feels like I’m saying goodbye. Every step feels like a betrayal and a failure on my part. If I have a savior complex (and given my core belief that there’s good in everything and everything is deserving of love and care – I kinda do), my dog puts it to the test. He’s a really good dog with some issues. Aren’t we all? If I had unlimited resources (or significantly more resources) including money and energy, I might be able to keep him and continue to work with him. I could look for bigger apartments that allow dogs (and specifically allow pit bulls). I could pay for more intensive training. I could hire help. But I don’t. I feel like there’s an end of my leash joke to be made.
I know my dog’s temperament, and unless he can be socialized with other dogs better (and I’m not sure that he can), neither of us would do well in a city environment. I don’t know his history. He was 3 or 4 years old when I adopted him, and his habits and temper were fairly well established. I’m pretty sure he was abused and perhaps trained to be aggressive. Unfortunately, given the breed, that’s entirely possible. He has a high prey drive which I’ve spent two years working on. Now on our walks, he’ll usually ignore squirrels and bunnies. Sometimes, he ignores cats, and there are a few neighborhood dogs who he’s been trained to ignore (mostly).
For him (and me), it’s the unpredictable world that poses challenges – new dogs and new people. In some respects, he’s like the monster in Young Frankenstein. He can be trained to dance. His soul can be soothed. But he might be unintentionally destructive and dangerous. He might loose it at the least predictable moments. Yesterday on our afternoon walk, we passed by two dogs. I usually try to avoid seeing other dogs, but there wasn’t any place for us to go. In both cases, my dog lunged and growled and barked. He was a meaner version of the cartoon character being held back screaming “let me at ’em, let me at ’em.” If he weren’t 70 pounds and terrifying (in this state), this might be laughable.
Today I took him to the vet. The last time we were there, he growled, bared his teeth, and snapped when the vet tried to look in his ears. We had to muzzle him, and it took two of us and towel draped over his head to keep him under control. Today, we muzzled him right away. He still growled and tried to snap. Again, it took two of us to keep him in check. In that state, he doesn’t seem to recognize me and would probably bite me as easily as he would bite a stranger (hence the muzzle). While I can usually soothe him, I’m careful to keep my fingers away from his chompers (even muzzles allow some give). I asked the vet to send his records to the shelter. We commiserated over what a difficult and sad decision this is. Being nobody’s fault doesn’t make it easy – and I’m angry at his previous owner or owners. I’m also disappointed in myself for not being able to do more.
Despite having seen him several times before, the vet is still surprised by his Jekyll and Hyde nature. He’ll sit, he’ll lay down, he’ll listen to almost every command I give. And then there’s his crazy side (which is somewhat understandable, but seems to be crazier than the other dogs she sees). Strangers see him and they say how beautiful he is and remark on how well trained he is. We’ve worked hard to get to this point. A woman came into the vet’s office as we were getting ready to leave and said he seems like such a sweet soul…. he went up to her wagging his tail and butt. He is a good boy and can be very sweet.
By the time we left the vet’s office, we were both ready to go home. He was panting from nervousness and I was sweating from anxiety. His challenges and outbursts of aggression remind me of why I have to do this, but so often, I can’t ignore his more endearing qualities. Tomorrow, I take him to the shelter for an intake evaluation and paperwork. I’ll be transferring ownership to them, but will continue to care for him until he’s adopted. Tomorrow, I expect the pit in my stomach to return – only more pronounced. I expect we’ll both be anxious – though he’ll love the car ride over. He’ll be thinking he’s going to the park… and maybe after the intake, if the weather cooperates, I’ll feel guilty and we’ll visit the park.
I keep trying to remind myself that he may end up somewhere that is better for him – where he’ll get more attention and more freedom. I hope he ends up with someone who is able to take the next steps with him, or be better equipped to manage just as he is. I thought I could give him his forever home. That’s proving hard to do when I haven’t found mine.