Melancholy Much More Than I Supposed

“We call them dumb animals, and so they are, for they cannot tell us how they feel, but they do not suffer less because they have no words.” ― Anna Sewell, Black Beauty 

Do you remember reading Black Beauty as a kid--that classic tale of animal life told from the perspective of the horse?  How he starts life happy and loved and then is shuffled and sold from place to place, sometimes loved, sometimes abused, until he ends up back home again in the end?

I am living one of the middle chapters of Black Beauty.

Yesterday I had to take our Roxy to a new home.

We rescued Roxy from a boxer shelter on April 3, 2008.  When she came to us, she was skinny and afraid and young. Ben wanted a dog more than anything else for his twelfth birthday, and I had finally convinced Brad it was a good idea.

We had our struggles with her, to be sure, as I documented in this post. When a dog is rescued, the years prior to their arrival in your home bring unknown scars and baggage, kind of like humans, right?  Roxy never could get along with other dogs--what had happened in her puppyhood, I will never know, but the presence of other dogs forced her tolerant, patient personality to the back and an entirely different dog came out.

If this previously posted run-in a year ago had been our only problem with her, then that would be the end of the story.  She would have lived out her days surrounded by her family, chasing dragonflies and dashing through the irrigation and swimming in the pool and stealing meaty treasures off the counter. As she got older, however, this aggressive behavior intensified. In October, she got out again and caused problems with the neighbor's dogs, this time resulting in minor injury.  Brad patched up the situation with the neighbor, and we vowed to teach our kids to keep the doors and gates closed in an effort to prevent anything from happening again.

Right before I left for Idaho two weeks ago, there was a knock on our door.  An unfamiliar man was there, and he explained that (while I had been gone running kids around), Roxy had yet again escaped our yard, but this time she had attacked his dog so badly that he was taking her to the emergency vet.  I was horrified, embarrassed, and sickened all at once.  After expressing my apologies and my desire to pay the vet bills, I returned to the house to find out the story.  Same story.  Different day.

Open gate.  Dog escaped.

Two problems in less than two months.  As she had gotten older, her aggression towards other dogs was escalating, and I knew right then that her time with our family needed to end.

I held little hope of finding her a home.  I held back the feeling in the pit of my heart that we would end up taking her to the pound where she would go crazy surrounded by all those other animals, only to be put down days later.  Luckily, that nightmare was never realized.  We found a home, but the only problem was that he had no way to come get her--Could we bring her all the way to north Phoenix?

I was happy to do it--until yesterday morning.

I rounded up all of her stuff--beds, treats, leashes, kennel--and loaded it all in the Suburban.  She was curious and suspicious.  She never rode in the car unless she was going to the vet, so when I put her in the kennel in the car, she got nervous.  All the way to Phoenix, she whined and cried, and when I let her out of the kennel, she was shaking.

My heart broke as I unloaded all of her stuff--beds, treats, leashes, kennel--and placed them all in the unfamiliar apartment.  Her new owner seemed like a nice guy who knows dogs and has been wanting one for a while. I offered her a final treat after she obediently sat and stayed for me, then rubbed her head and walked out the door with unexpected tears in my eyes.

The kids were sad, but not as heartbroken as I had anticipated.  Ben was sober but realistic--he was just glad she didn't have to take that condemned walk into the pound. She had been good for him these last four years.  She had taught him responsibility and love in a way I don't think I could have.

I have never thought of myself as a dog lover.  I have often characterized myself as a person who had stewardship over a dog.  Yesterday made me understand myself a little bit better.

As much as I've never thought I was a dog person, I loved her.  She was my companion every day when the kids were at school. She was my doorbell when anyone approached the house.  She was a constant thought in my mind ("Don't leave that in the trash/on the counter/on the floor or Roxy will get it").  She was pillow and playmate and companion.

As much as I was annoyed by her habits, I will miss her lounging in the entry way every winter in her favorite puddle of sunlight.  I will miss her scratch on the door to be let in or lying on the rug by the door to be let out. I will miss checking her kennel every time I leave the house or return home. I will miss the constant jingle of her collar, letting me know she was there.

As much as I tried to convince others that she was Ben's dog--the kids' dog--yesterday brought a new perspective to me. The UPS man came, and I didn't know he was here until the bell rang.  I put leftovers in the trash and didn't take them outside immediately.  I walked through the mudroom and felt so much room between the bench and the kennel--oh yes.  The kennel is gone.

I am the one who will miss her most.  I am the one who really loved her.

Good-bye, Roxy-dog.