Debby Does…

I wrote this on social media yesterday, but thought I’d share it here for posterity and different views.

Over the weekend, like many of you, I became aware of a passage in a national politician’s book referencing the killing of her 14 month old puppy, Cricket. A dog, she said, she hated, deemed untrainable, and called a killer.

Obviously, everyone has weighed in on this, but I guess one more voice won’t hurt.

Don’t kill puppies. And, don’t even get me started on the goat.

Even more concerning is that it seems clear that she did it in anger. This is a person with children. This reminds me of the reason that I don’t think we should give teachers guns, but that’s another issue.

I have had dogs my entire life, even when I shouldn’t have! My first dog, Kibby (named for the Lebanese food), was a saint who tolerated being kicked by my dad when she ate. I loved her with the undying passion that an only child holds for her first, sweet dog. Her death was the first experience I had with great loss. I thought I would never heal.

After that came Daisy (because it rhymed with crazy), Molly, Molly Border Collie, Scout (Jean Louise), Tilly, and Addie. All declared the very best dogs in the world during their residence, despite the fact that sometimes they were simply awful and often extraordinarily expensive. Yes, I’m looking at you, Matilda.

In the middle there, before Molly, was another dog. Her name was Hiawatha. <cue laughter>

Hiawatha came to me and my roommate, Mark, from a house full of drunken frat boys. She was a tiny hound mix, with the sweetest countenance, who had spent much of her puppyhood drinking beer out of a bowl. I think it had damaging effects.

Hiawatha was angelic or demonic, depending on her mood. She was catlike and, at one point, broker her leg climbing on the windowsill, getting it caught on the blinds’ string, requiring a very tiny cast. She had horrific separation anxiety and, as two busy and sort of hapless college students, we were flummoxed as to what to do with her. She had eaten all of our upstairs landing carpet, could not be housebroken, and seemed hell bent on making sure not one dime of our security deposit remained.

One day, I took her to the Bloomington Animal Shelter and asked them to take her. I mean, after all, we told ourselves, we took her out of the goodness of our hearts and it just wasn’t working out. It wasn’t our fault. She was incorrigible.

The woman at the counter took full stock of me. Blank faced she said, “Fine. You can leave her here. We will euthanize her.” She knew the exact effect it would have.

I gathered up sweet, messy Hiawatha and took her home. We put an ad in the paper, interviewed some farmers, some locals, and, then, Mark ultimately placed her with two doting lesbians who cared for her and loved her until her final days.

You know what else they did? They trained her.

That is the responsibility of the pet owner. And, if you cannot do it yourself, it is your bound duty to this creature to find someone who can.

In the United States, we euthanize 1.5 million animals in shelters annually. The reasons for those deaths are myriad. Each one should break our hearts. We shouldn’t need Sarah McLachlan to sing us into guilty donations and adoptions. The shelter should always be your first stop, after planning and thinking and deciding that a pet is right for you and your family.

I’m incredibly embarrassed that I went to the shelter that day with little Hiawatha. I just didn’t know where to go for help. Thankfully, that guardian angel behind the intake counter knew just what to say to spoiled, rotten me. I have never forgotten that moment and how it made me feel. I held a life in my arms and almost sacrificed her because of my own stupidity and ineptitude.

What a sacred bond we have with these souls! We are joined to them in such symbiotic ways—we sleep with them; we are their food source; we are the purveyors of play; and we potty with them, whether we like it or not. I often joke that Tilly must think she is the most special dog on earth because we pick up and “save” her dookie! As if we have a Tilly turd scrapbook!

I don’t know of any dogs who are more loved than mine, but I bet there are lots. Most of my life’s decisions are based on what they need and how I can facilitate their happiness. I mean, my entire retirement has consisted of moving their beds throughout the house to guarantee them both equal and happy sunshine as they sleep.

Do I yell at them? Do I curse them? Do they drive me crazy? Yep. They’re my kiddos. I wouldn’t trade them for the world. You can keep your full bred whatevers. These funny mixed breed characters built out of the parts bin are the only dogs on earth for me. The day I say goodbye to my Tilly will break me in ways I dare not imagine.

Cricket was just 14 months old and full of puppyness and natural instincts. She needed a trainer, loads of patience, and, clearly, some daily time to get out all that energy that puppies have. Instead, she got a shotgun and a gravel pit.

That makes me want to vomit. It makes my heart ache. And, it really pisses me off.

If you’ve got a couple dollars, could you share it with my favorite shelter? https://sasfapr.org/donate/ . They really need it. Plus, I’d be eternally grateful.

Tilly and Addie would appreciate it too, especially from their late afternoon sunshine bed position.

Long live the dogs and god bless Hiawatha.