I just murdered my dog
December 12th 2008 03:12
I just murdered my dog.
Well, not me, personally, the vet did the actual deed. I ordered the hit.
Jesse was a beautiful dog – a border collie cross, with large brown eyes; a pert nose so cute that is she were human people would be asking plastic surgeons for one just like it; a startling white fur collar contrasting against a kohl black coat; and pretty white shoes.
Her fur – not too long nor too short – was the Jenniffer Aniston of doggy dos. She was beautiful.
Her personality, almost from when we first met her, was perky, energetic and so friendly. Completely besotted with humans, she would charge at them with tongue prepared to lick their cares away.
Indeed, when dark times came, she was the constant friend. Always there to pat, or yell at, or talk to, or run with, no further explanation necessary. She’d just look at me with those big, brown eyes and I knew there were bigger things in the world than my pain.
Ours was never the most harmonious of relationships. She was supposed to be a miniature poodle, black. No shedding, no allergy-causing hair. But when my then boyfriend (he’s now my husband) and I walked in to the RSPCA shelter 13 years ago, we fell in love with this soft doll of a dog, the quiet one, at the back of the cage, just lying there, willing us to take her home. Her pink tongue rough on my palm.
So we scooped her up, put her in a box and took her home. She was to be our surrogate child – it was a dog or a baby I had told my partner. Silly, I know. Blame it on hormones. Such a burden to place on a dog.
I had this picture in my head – partner, dog and I frolicking in the sand, weaving in and out of the surf, maybe throwing a ball, smiling, smiling and laughing. Dog beside the dinner table, taking scraps with intelligent grace, no mess, no fuss. Dog on couch, curled into a ball, my hand resting on fur, gently patting, absently sharing comfort of touch.
After the first night of incessant howling, whimpering and simpering (that was just us), and after adopting a sleeping position of one hand in a box, a foot on the floor, and pillow over the head, we took her back to the RSPCA. For hours we sat in the waiting room, considering, pondering. In the end we just couldn’t do it. Love had captivated us.
She came home. That night, she fell off the couch. She yelped like a child and I rushed to pick her up. Her leg askew, licking, nipping, pain. After a while and a bit of a rub, she calmed down and began to play.
We rang the RSPCA – they said it was probably just a complication of the operation. What operation? She had been desexed the day before we picked her up. But she’s only six week’s old. Yes, we don’t let them leave without being desexed.
Trust is thin on the ground in animal welfare circles. The past has taught them well.
At least we know why she was the quietest little thing in that cage. She was doped to the eyeballs. No wonder she was now so full of jump, racing around the house in a set pattern, wearing a path into the lawn.
She grew. We noticed she had a wet bottom most of the time. Wetter and wetter, we were buying towels for the dog to pee on. It just wouldn’t do. So we took her to the vet, who referred us to the vet hospital. Worry, like which I now know is maternal concern. UQ experts poked and prodded, gave her a barium radium test, we spent thousands. ``She has a loose sphincter, and normally we would sling it to her abdomen wall, but she’s so active I don’t think it would last long. Here’s a script, go to the chemist and ask for psuedoephedrin. Yes, the stuff they make speed from.’’ ``You want us to give our already hyper border collie speed?’’ ``Um, yes. Watch out for personality changes, but that is the best course of action.’’
We tried, and chose the pee. She became an outside-only dog and that was OK.
Jesse was there for our endless house moves, and then the wedding, and the friends and the parties and the houseguiests, and the walks. Always with a wet bottom.
Once, she floated out of our backyard and down the road. It must have been horrific. The weight of the freak floodwaters had smashed our back gates, lifted wardrobes and motor mowers, decimated huge pots full of soil. A neighbour spied her among the rubble, and tied her to a lamppost. Since then, she acted as our early storm warning system. We could tell the severity of an approaching cell just from the tone of her whimper.
She endured the territory-changing event of a child entering the house with joy. She’d treat our human child as a rare gem, sniffing and nose-nudging until the child was old enough to pat her. Then they were friends, one sneezy little girl riding her bike with her best mate Jesse. Slowly, that love turned arms-length, as an ageing Jesse became less tolerant to the energetic whims of a human puppy and that child more allergic to her pal. A mere lick would summon the anithistime from the top pantry shelf.
But still, Jess endured, albeit more slowly. The decision was really made the day we took her to the beach for the second last time. She was uncontrollable, even on a leash. She had changed, who was this dog? When she whipped Lauren – accidentially – with her lead, the doubt began. We persevered. The last time we took her, she almost ate another dog.
Her peeing reached flood proportion. The storms were effecting her more. The night barking could no longer be defeated by an electronic collar. She found it hard to get up. She was so skinny.
After a while, my partner rang the vet. Guilt delayed us – if we decided to kill her, what would that say about us as people? If we couldn’t tough out a little bit more of a loved one’s behaviour, what did that say about us as parents? And Jesse wasn’t doing it on purpose – she was a dog, so how come she had to bear the burden of our failings?
It was the single worst decision to make. It was irreversible. We’d never made an irreversible decision that we weren’t 100 per cent sure about. The closest would be deciding to have a child – but that is adding to the world, not taking away.
We had to do the unthinkable – weigh our love against our lifestyle. We had to quantify our love, actually divide our love into that which we had for our human family away from the love we had for Jess. It was so superficial, we thought, to choose a bark-pee-poo-allergy-bite-free existence over perseverance and loyalty and love.
The vet said she would need an x-ray, more pills and tests. No, we couldn’t go through that again. The vet said she’d have two years left in her, as long as we nursed her carefully. No, we couldn’t go through that. We booked the final appointment. And cried.
We lied to our child – Jesse is now living at a beautiful farm, with lots of room to run around, endless food to eat, and many, many toys. Yes, there are children at this farm to play with her. Yes, I think she might have to fly there, because it’s a long way away. Yes, I think Jesse is excited, too, about her trip. Yes, we can’t see here again because it’s so far away. This was a much bigger lie than Santa Claus. Maybe the farm is what we think Heaven will be like – I certainly hope Jess is there now.
The day she died I gave her a tin of her favourite – red salmon. No common bones for her, thank you very much. I apologised, more for the human race than for the deed I had determined. I am so sorry dogs have to be pets and humans get to decide things like that. It’s not fair. But it’s the way life is. We are at the top of the food chain.
I admonished myself. It’s only a dog. Do you feel the same way about the cows you make die or the chickens or the lambs? No, but they didn’t throw up 10 times around the perimeter of my rumpus room and in the occupied guest room after eating a cane toad. They didn’t vomit in the front footwell of my car the first time we took our new brother-in-law for a family holiday on the coast. They didn’t look at me with those big brown eyes when I was so depressed I couldn’t bathe my baby, and nudge my hand so I had to move.
No more pets. It’s too painful.
Yes, I murdered my dog. Sometimes I hate being a human. But that’s not really because Jesse had to die by my decree. It’s more because while I mourn Jesse not being; I know it was the right thing to do, for my family.
Vale, Jess. Good dog.
Well, not me, personally, the vet did the actual deed. I ordered the hit.
Jesse was a beautiful dog – a border collie cross, with large brown eyes; a pert nose so cute that is she were human people would be asking plastic surgeons for one just like it; a startling white fur collar contrasting against a kohl black coat; and pretty white shoes.
Her fur – not too long nor too short – was the Jenniffer Aniston of doggy dos. She was beautiful.
Her personality, almost from when we first met her, was perky, energetic and so friendly. Completely besotted with humans, she would charge at them with tongue prepared to lick their cares away.
Ours was never the most harmonious of relationships. She was supposed to be a miniature poodle, black. No shedding, no allergy-causing hair. But when my then boyfriend (he’s now my husband) and I walked in to the RSPCA shelter 13 years ago, we fell in love with this soft doll of a dog, the quiet one, at the back of the cage, just lying there, willing us to take her home. Her pink tongue rough on my palm.
So we scooped her up, put her in a box and took her home. She was to be our surrogate child – it was a dog or a baby I had told my partner. Silly, I know. Blame it on hormones. Such a burden to place on a dog.
I had this picture in my head – partner, dog and I frolicking in the sand, weaving in and out of the surf, maybe throwing a ball, smiling, smiling and laughing. Dog beside the dinner table, taking scraps with intelligent grace, no mess, no fuss. Dog on couch, curled into a ball, my hand resting on fur, gently patting, absently sharing comfort of touch.
She came home. That night, she fell off the couch. She yelped like a child and I rushed to pick her up. Her leg askew, licking, nipping, pain. After a while and a bit of a rub, she calmed down and began to play.
We rang the RSPCA – they said it was probably just a complication of the operation. What operation? She had been desexed the day before we picked her up. But she’s only six week’s old. Yes, we don’t let them leave without being desexed.
Trust is thin on the ground in animal welfare circles. The past has taught them well.
At least we know why she was the quietest little thing in that cage. She was doped to the eyeballs. No wonder she was now so full of jump, racing around the house in a set pattern, wearing a path into the lawn.
She grew. We noticed she had a wet bottom most of the time. Wetter and wetter, we were buying towels for the dog to pee on. It just wouldn’t do. So we took her to the vet, who referred us to the vet hospital. Worry, like which I now know is maternal concern. UQ experts poked and prodded, gave her a barium radium test, we spent thousands. ``She has a loose sphincter, and normally we would sling it to her abdomen wall, but she’s so active I don’t think it would last long. Here’s a script, go to the chemist and ask for psuedoephedrin. Yes, the stuff they make speed from.’’ ``You want us to give our already hyper border collie speed?’’ ``Um, yes. Watch out for personality changes, but that is the best course of action.’’
We tried, and chose the pee. She became an outside-only dog and that was OK.
Jesse was there for our endless house moves, and then the wedding, and the friends and the parties and the houseguiests, and the walks. Always with a wet bottom.
Once, she floated out of our backyard and down the road. It must have been horrific. The weight of the freak floodwaters had smashed our back gates, lifted wardrobes and motor mowers, decimated huge pots full of soil. A neighbour spied her among the rubble, and tied her to a lamppost. Since then, she acted as our early storm warning system. We could tell the severity of an approaching cell just from the tone of her whimper.
She endured the territory-changing event of a child entering the house with joy. She’d treat our human child as a rare gem, sniffing and nose-nudging until the child was old enough to pat her. Then they were friends, one sneezy little girl riding her bike with her best mate Jesse. Slowly, that love turned arms-length, as an ageing Jesse became less tolerant to the energetic whims of a human puppy and that child more allergic to her pal. A mere lick would summon the anithistime from the top pantry shelf.
But still, Jess endured, albeit more slowly. The decision was really made the day we took her to the beach for the second last time. She was uncontrollable, even on a leash. She had changed, who was this dog? When she whipped Lauren – accidentially – with her lead, the doubt began. We persevered. The last time we took her, she almost ate another dog.
Her peeing reached flood proportion. The storms were effecting her more. The night barking could no longer be defeated by an electronic collar. She found it hard to get up. She was so skinny.
After a while, my partner rang the vet. Guilt delayed us – if we decided to kill her, what would that say about us as people? If we couldn’t tough out a little bit more of a loved one’s behaviour, what did that say about us as parents? And Jesse wasn’t doing it on purpose – she was a dog, so how come she had to bear the burden of our failings?
It was the single worst decision to make. It was irreversible. We’d never made an irreversible decision that we weren’t 100 per cent sure about. The closest would be deciding to have a child – but that is adding to the world, not taking away.
We had to do the unthinkable – weigh our love against our lifestyle. We had to quantify our love, actually divide our love into that which we had for our human family away from the love we had for Jess. It was so superficial, we thought, to choose a bark-pee-poo-allergy-bite-free existence over perseverance and loyalty and love.
The vet said she would need an x-ray, more pills and tests. No, we couldn’t go through that again. The vet said she’d have two years left in her, as long as we nursed her carefully. No, we couldn’t go through that. We booked the final appointment. And cried.
We lied to our child – Jesse is now living at a beautiful farm, with lots of room to run around, endless food to eat, and many, many toys. Yes, there are children at this farm to play with her. Yes, I think she might have to fly there, because it’s a long way away. Yes, I think Jesse is excited, too, about her trip. Yes, we can’t see here again because it’s so far away. This was a much bigger lie than Santa Claus. Maybe the farm is what we think Heaven will be like – I certainly hope Jess is there now.
The day she died I gave her a tin of her favourite – red salmon. No common bones for her, thank you very much. I apologised, more for the human race than for the deed I had determined. I am so sorry dogs have to be pets and humans get to decide things like that. It’s not fair. But it’s the way life is. We are at the top of the food chain.
I admonished myself. It’s only a dog. Do you feel the same way about the cows you make die or the chickens or the lambs? No, but they didn’t throw up 10 times around the perimeter of my rumpus room and in the occupied guest room after eating a cane toad. They didn’t vomit in the front footwell of my car the first time we took our new brother-in-law for a family holiday on the coast. They didn’t look at me with those big brown eyes when I was so depressed I couldn’t bathe my baby, and nudge my hand so I had to move.
No more pets. It’s too painful.
Yes, I murdered my dog. Sometimes I hate being a human. But that’s not really because Jesse had to die by my decree. It’s more because while I mourn Jesse not being; I know it was the right thing to do, for my family.
Vale, Jess. Good dog.
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