Saving Him

"Don't do it," I warned, "not that one."

But, she didn't even seem to breathe. And I recognized that stare, those glazed eyes. It was no use, she'd been captured and her decision was already made. Months later, my cousin, Lin, would tell me that she'd never heard the shelter manager tell her that the dog had been returned twice. She would vaguely remember something about his being abused and thrown out to the streets and that maybe there was an incident with another dog, a person. But those warnings had been easy for her to ignore, "You saw how cute and lovable he was."

And I had. But I was still immune. Even when he'd cuddled in my lap as I sat on the shelter floor that day, I'd barricaded my heart. I had heard the shelter manager clearly and I tried again, "I'm telling you-this is not a good choice." But her eyes remained glazed and, within the hour, I was driving the seventy miles back home-the little ball of fluff lying next to my cousin on the back seat.

"Remember," I admonished, watching her through the rear view mirror, "I'm not taking care of this one."

I looked at the road in front of me and blinked away the blurry view. My cousin had taken her mother to the breeder's to pick their last dog, a bichon. The runt of the litter, he was a bit 'off' and though he became quickly attached to Lin, he never warmed to my aunt, the rest of the family or most others; in fact he growled at anyone who wasn't my cousin.

That is, until I started showing up at the house to check on my aunt after her hip surgery. I am not sure exactly how it happened or why it happened, but, for some reason, after a bit, Jim didn't growl at me either. Lin had her hands full with a needing family so I figured I could help by buffering some of the contention about the dog , and I started changing personal commitments to be there for Jim when my cousin couldn't. It wasn't long before he and I developed a great love for each other too.

But great love can be a double-edged sword. And that's what this great love became. It slit my heart the day the tests confirmed that the three-year-old had lymphoma.

And it finished me off a couple of months later on the day my cousin chose to end his suffering.

Well, I had to deal with the anguish of family around me. But loving a dog was a choice and I would never put myself into that position again-not to mention giving so much of myself for a responsibility I had never asked for. So I continually reminded my cousin that if she got another dog, she was on her own.

I blinked my eyes clear.

"Remember," I said again, waiting for her to acknowledge, "I'm not taking care of this one."

"Okay," she said quietly. My eyes turned back to the rear view mirror. I looked at the ball of fluff sitting beside her, grateful that I felt nothing.

I dropped them off at home and watched as the shih tzu jumped up and down on everyone. My cousin's family-my aunt, my uncle, my cousin, disabled from MS, and her aide were all smiling. Surely, the shelter manager was wrong. I relaxed and left for home.

But later that day, I got the call. Moments after he'd played cute and jumpy, the dog had turned vicious. He'd bit my aunt and the aide. He'd growled at anyone who wasn't my cousin.

Didn't matter, I wasn't acquiescing: My cousin would have to figure this out on her own. So even when she told me that she'd cage him during the day while she was at work, I was determined to stay out of it.

That is, till my aunt called a few days into the first week, "This dog is crying all day long. Can you do something?"

No. Say no, I thought. But this was my fragile aunt asking. And she was really pissed at my besieged, overwhelmed do-everything-for-the-family-all-by-herself cousin. And then there was the crying dog in the cage. The picture lodged in my throat. So, instead of no, I whined "okay" and gritted my teeth. I'm just doing this today, I told myself, just today. And I left to pick up the dog who, for some reason, didn't growl at me either.

A world war ensued at my cousin's: her family had had enough of badly socialized dogs and they wanted her to get rid of him. She wanted to keep him. I cringed inside. I understood both points of view, I did. But, my heart twisted. This dog's vicious nature was obvious testament to the abuse, the abandonment he'd endured. He couldn't even look directly at my cousin or me. Would he survive another abandonment?

The vet had told us that he was a little older than one when we'd picked him up, which meant that he'd been abused and living on the streets, shipped up to a shelter here and returned twice while still a puppy. His pained life jumped at me--add the guilt that I had about Jim and the belief that if I'd just been more, he would have lived, and one day of taking care of the shih tzu, Pete, turned into another. And one hour turned into three. And pretty soon I was canceling personal commitments in order to take care of my cousin's dog.

Obligation mixed with resentment, but I still took care of him. And it wasn't easy. He was awful with other dogs, awful with adults...just awful with everyone other than my cousin and me. And even she and I had to be careful about the way we touched him.

So I walked on egg shells when I took the dog anywhere and my cousin and I plied him with love. We were sure we were doing things wrong because everyone told us so. We were too lenient, we didn't discipline or yell at him enough, we treated him like a child, not a dog.

People on the streets would admonish me, "You're letting him walk you. Who's the alpha?"

I'd secretly growl at those people but wouldn't say anything. Maybe they were right and my way would never work, but I didn't want to be the alpha dog. What I wanted was the same thing I wanted for any little person whose care I'd been entrusted with: I wanted the little guy to feel safe, to know that he could trust. And I wanted him to behave in way that would keep him safe and connected in the world. If I had to discipline him at all, it was only with that in mind. I hoped that he would somehow pick up on my intention.

So when he tried to attack a human someone I would explain his past to the offended party and their anger toward him would mitigate. I would bend, stroke Pete and tell him calmly, "that's not okay sweetheart, but I'm here and you're okay." When he'd hurt himself and start crying, I'd pick him up and cuddle and soothe him. When it started raining during our walks, I'd tuck him into my clothes and run home with him.

"He's a dog," some people raged, "what is wrong with you?"

Well, I wasn't sure, and what could I say anyway? Maybe a part of me believed them. After all, I'd said similar words years before I had been converted by the dogs I had loved and cared for.

So the way I treated him was the only way I could. I carried him when a liver disease incapacitated him. And then I bought him a carriage. I could go on, but you see where this is headed. And you see what I was becoming. Without wanting to; without realizing it was happening, one sunny day, months after we'd brought him home from the shelter, I realized that my feeling of obligation had turned into deep love.

It's been a year and a half since Pete drove home with us. It's not perfect, there are still problems: My aunt still growls about him and, of course, he growls back. I still have to watch him carefully around others, still get cranky about a responsibility I never asked for, and still fear that my life will lead somewhere else and he'll feel abandoned again. When I reach for him too quickly or tell him no, he sometimes cowers - which means his memories still haunt him, and, so, they haunt me.

But it's all changed too. He sits at my aunt's feet and she feeds him; she worries when he doesn't look well and calls me if my cousin's not home. He used to run from their house, now it's a haven he runs to, even when my cousin isn't home. He's got his favorite chair, his favorite bed on the window sill that he and the cat sometimes share, and his favorite spot on the couch - cuddled next to my cousin when she is home.

I can bring him pretty much anywhere these days. We still keep our distance from most big dogs and I warn adults not to reach for him, but there's not a small dog pen I can't take him to and not a small child he doesn't adore. And when he does act in a way not socially acceptable, I need just bend to him, look him in the eye, stroke his back and his behavior stops. He's even been known to walk apologetically to the offended party-then, of course, run back to my side.

As long as it's safe, he walks without a leash. People stop me and ask how I get my dog to listen so well. I want to tell them that he listens because I never tried to be the alpha dog and I always let him walk me, but, instead, I just smile and tell them how different he is from when we first picked him up.

I could tell them that he listens well because for the first time in his life, he feels loved and safe; that he somehow knows that Lin saved him and he trusts my cousin and me to do what's in his best interest. I could also tell them that I know all of this because of the way he somersaults when Lin or I walk into the room, or the way he falls asleep on one of us when he's had a trying day.

But, truly I know it because of the way he stares into my eyes - which he does a lot now. My heart flips, shivers play my spine and sometimes my eyes get all wet. Those of you who have been converted as I have know exactly what I mean.

I smile at my bottomless love for this little guy and often think about the shelter when Lin ignored my admonishments-how her glazed eyes had seen what I couldn't. And if, in the process, she'd dragged me into something that was a lot bigger than just getting a dog.

Story sent in by Jen Carver