A shaggy dog story

I'm not fond of dogs, but my wife and both my kids desperately wanted one. So, over the summer, I caved in. A couple of months ago we got a dog from the local shelter. She was seven years old, of unknown breed, but she seemed good-tempered and friendly so we fostered her as a prelude to adoption.

She hadn't been ill-treated but she hadn't been properly looked after either. She was partly bald and we had to bathe her in medicated shampoo. Before she came home she had some dental work done. So when she came she had very few teeth left and couldn't eat unless we mashed her food into a paste. The only brand of dog biscuits she liked was rock hard, even after soaking, so this was awkward.

We worked hard building up her trust and getting her to settle herself at night (we can't sleep with a dog) and when left for an hour or so during the day. Then she got a bout of kennel cough because she hadn't been immunised.

At this time we also found out she might be at the early stages of going blind, that she had more dental work needed, that she had problems with her back legs and that she had at least two benign tumours on her body that would need removing. Because she was a foster dog we wouldn't at least, be liable for the vet bills.

Then she got a funny tummy. Then she seemed to get tired very quickly and she stopped jumping up, almost like she found it painful to do so. She went back to the vet who said it was just a tummy bug and prescribed painkillers. But it went on so she went back to the vet again who said it was more tummy bugs and prescribed more painkillers.

Then she almost died, twice, and after the second time the vet finally took us seriously, gave the dog a scan and diagonsed a potentially lethal infection of the organs. She was literally 24 hours away from death.

So she had an emergency operation and came home to us a day later. She was clearly in agony and she was a changed dog. All the work we'd done was undone - she hated to be left for even a moment and would whine if you even went upstairs. If you went out, just for ten minutes, you'd come back to a dog salivating and panting in panic. She howled all night in such distress that we had to have her in the bedroom with the result that neither she nor we got any sleep.

After a week, she seemed much more well physically. But the behavior problems continued. No one had slept for a week and we were utterly traumatised by seeing her suffer and terrified of the other medical issues she had and what the future might hold. Having spent a fortnight completely bound up with the dog's illness we'd done nothing else, not got ready for the holidays, not got setted in to my new job (I'd had to have emergency time off to help). So, now that she was stronger, we made the decision to take her back to the shelter: she seemed to need and want full-time care and company and with a family, we just didn't feel equipped to provide that.

As I said, I'm not fond of dogs. And to be honest I mostly found her a pain to have around in the house, and my wife did most of the caring and looking after the medical issues. But I'm also soppy, have a bad habit of anthropomorphizing animals and I take my responsibility of care seriously. So in spite of my discomfort, I was just as devastated as anyone else to see her suffer and to have to take her back. I feel like I've failed the charity and, most of all, failed the dog.

I took her back myself because the children would have found it too traumatic, and I was in bits. She never seemed that strongly attached to us, but the last thing I heard as I left was her feet scrabbling on the floor, and I hope that wasn't her trying to come after me. I hope she's comfortable enough back at the shelter, not cold, not sick, being given food mashed up as she likes and not wondering what the hell happened to us all and the house she lived in for two months. I keep wondering whether, if we'd worked harder and cancelled the holiday season, she might have settled down again and done better. I hope she gets well soon, doesn't have the terrifying litany of medical issues that seemed like a possibility, and finds a nice home where she can have some peace and company.

I was awake most of last night worrying about all this. So it seems we can't sleep with or without the dog

Sorry, I just needed to vent. But mostly I'm sorry for the dog.

I put down our dog of 13 years a few months ago. Samwise Gangee, the Magical Black Hobbit was his name (Sam for short, and Samuel L Jackson was his “real name”). He was a Shetland Sheepdog, amazing in every way, and the ultimate in dog intelligence. He understood what we said. It was crazy. He knew 40 “tricks” and could have been a showdog.

He was acting hanky, growly. Not his character. Wasn’t cleaning his ass. Took him to the groomer thinking he had anal sac issues, and he did. Anal cancer. A 1/2 of 1% type cancer. You know the kind that doesn’t metastasize and is curable? Yeah, this is the opposite of that.

My wife couldn’t do it and I didn’t want to burden her, so I took him to the death row. I was a fucking mess. They stabbed him with a needle the size of the Eiffel Tower and he whipped back to bite the eyes out of whoever did that, then he mellowed, was high AF, laid down and his tongue was hanging out. It was horrible to witness. Then they shot him again and he was no more. You can watch the light leave their eyes. It’s fucking brutal.

When my current dog dies, I’m taking him in the woods, digging a hole, tossing a medium rare 16 oz porterhouse in the hole, and shooting him in the back of the head with a .45. I’ll never watch a dog die at a vet again.

The smell of strange pets and death, of panic and fear, of urine and feces, the strange people who they remember stab them with needles...fuck that. My dog, my proud, strong dog, was whispering and shaking and pissed himself as his last acts of life.

Never again. You did the right thing, Matt.