A Dog Story

Once upon a time, our family decided that instead of having another baby, we would have a dog.

Like a smart dog-owner-to-be, I did my research. I read tons of books on dogs, browsed the internet pet sites, watched “Dog Whisperer” and dog training videos on on demand cable. I imagined how wonderful it would be for Matthew to have a dog to play with, and a guard dog, as well.

I personally preferred, as did my son, a small dog, the likes of a Yorkshire terrier or a chihuahua. But as I browsed the internet for a chance to adopt one, I realized that it was not as easy as I thought. I had to pay more than I was willing to shell out, the dog people have to come to your house to assess your home situation, the paperwork, yadiyadiya. Cheapskate that I was, I wanted a dog for free with none of the hassles and I wanted it right away.

We got one for free, alright. We were offered an American bulldog puppy by a friend of the daughter of my husband’s friend. I looked into the internet to find what kind of dog this was, and it said that it was a big, strong dog, a loyal pet and a perfect guardian. As I read more stories about this breed, I envisioned our American bulldog rescuing Matthew from snakes, or saving him from drowning, or driving intruders away. My sister-in-law, on the other hand, warned us that this dog drools, smells, sheds hair and would be too big for our space. I was oblivious; like one blinded from reality. I was the type of person that wanted instant gratification: I wanted my dog and I couldn’t wait.

DJ was a darling puppy when we got him, with brown, mournful eyes. The first night, I woke up at three in the morning to let him out the house to potty. The next morning, there was pee and poop in the living room, the dining area and the den. I would wake up in the wee hours of the morning everyday to let him out the house. It was like having a newborn baby. I read everything on potty training but no matter how I tried I couldn’t make him poop and pee at will. Armed with my book knowledge, a clicker, and a bag of treats, I couldn’t make him sit, stay or heel. Talking about alpha personalities, it was clearly evident who the boss in the house was. Matthew was so scared to death of him the idea of him playing with DJ was out of the question.

Like responsible pet owners, we would take DJ to get his shots, we kept him on a leash in public, he had his engraved dog tag in case he got lost, we washed him and cut his nails, took him to the groomer’s. We bought him toys and treats; his dog food was part of the household budget, and his crate cost more than a baby stroller or car seat.

As DJ got older his dog smell and poop odor became more pronounced. This was even more problematic because we still couldn’t potty train him. Plus, he was shedding hair all over the house. At this point he was confined to his crate, as having him roam the house at will was non negotiable. As he got bigger, our twice-daily walks became wrestling matches. He would jump up at me, and I would end up with scratches and bruises from the whole exercise. When he’s off the leash, he became wild and rambunctious and to protect myself I would block him off with a grocery cart or with the patio table or chair. He would clamber on to the chair or table as I tried to keep him away in classic cat and mouse fashion. Just getting him back into his crate required an elaborate scheme of me blockading everything else and putting all sorts of treats or curiosities inside to lure him in. I was desperate for help. But “Bark Busters”, which promised to make a Lassie out of Cujo, would cost me more than 500 bucks.

Since he was most of the time inside his crate, we knew DJ needed an outlet for his energy. I would take him to the dog park where I consorted with other dog owners while he romped in the poop fertilized grass. However, I was forced, later on, to take him to the big dogs section which was a nightmare for Matthew and me. We would cower on the side as the huge dogs would surround us to either sniff our crotches, or growl . We would jump onto the picnic tables to avoid being run over by the pack.

I love to sleep in on my days off but with DJ, I was forced to wake up early to let him out the house. I had to walk him even when I was tired from work or too sick, to avoid disastrous consequences: disastrous because if he poops inside the odor would spread like a stink bomb up to the rafters of the second floor. It was a horrendous smell.

Walking him everyday, needless to say, was a Herculean task. Literally. He would fly off like a chicken out of the coop, while I trail like a reed in the wind. It was like holding down a galloping horse. And since we live in a country where we were to pick up after our dog-- germophobic, odor-conscious-me would be out there with my plastic bag and my gloves, picking up after DJ like a true law abiding resident alien.

As time went on, DJ’s dog smell became so pervasive we had to take his crate outside. The sad thing was, I couldn’t keep him out of the crate because he would dig at my plants, and gnaw his teeth on the fence or the patio furniture. He wrecked our upholstery and whisked foam all over the patio. He would knock over the garbage bin or eat the plants.

I was thinking more and more that this was a good idea gone awfully wrong. We may have to give him up. As scared as little Matthew was of DJ, he kept saying no.

The decisive moment came one day. I was outside our house with DJ, and to give him a little exercise I made the mistake of taking him off his leash without my usual grocery-cart shield. The taste of leash-free-freedom made him giddy. He was bounding and zooming in and out of my sight. I was standing on the pavement when I saw DJ make a bee line, and with a jump rammed his 75 lb frame of steel into me in a football tackle that landed me on my back with a wham if not for my ample butt I would have cracked a pelvic bone. The pain on my bottom was instantaneous. I almost fainted. As I lay there momentarily stunned, DJ went on top of me with his paws. I tried to ward him off. It felt like a scene from “When Animals Attack”. I managed to stand up, bawling like a baby. I’ve never been knocked down, with the wind wiped out of me like that. The effect was utterly dramatic. I walked towards the house, still dizzy and faint, wailing shamelessly, people from a block away probably heard me.

From then on, my husband became DJ’s official “handler”. There would be no more walks or potty breaks for me. My reprieve was only temporary, though. It so happened that my husband had to leave the country for three weeks leaving me and Matt with the dog. I begged him to give DJ away before he left. The prospect of three weeks singlehandedly dogsitting for DJ was unbearable. DJ had beaten me up so bad I was a broken woman.

I set myself on a mission to find DJ a new home. I asked people at work, sent emails around, searched my social network for anyone at all who would take an interest in adopting an American bulldog. There were, perhaps, two or three people who responded but for one reason or another, backed out at the last minute. It seemed like a hopeless cause. Meantime, my husband had gone leaving me with DJ.

The last straw that put me over the edge and made me call the County Animal Shelter was a letter of complaint from the homeowner’s association that our dog was causing a noise disturbance in the neighborhood. I became paranoid. Who would make and how dare these people make a complaint like that? We were told we cannot leave our dog outside the house. I thought, if we cannot have our dog in the house, and cannot have him out, where else can we put him?

And so, one day, the person from the animal shelter came. As I led DJ solemnly out of the house the nosy neighbors were there (perhaps, even the ones who complained about our dog) to witness DJ go to the "slaughter house". I would have loved to say to those neighbors: “Are you happy now?”

I do not know if DJ got adopted or had to be put down. The lady from the animal shelter did not sound so optimistic after DJ tried to nip her hand. She said that if a dog showed any sign of aggression at all, they would not risk giving him away to another home.

And so ended that chapter in our lives.

The lesson I learned from DJ was an expensive and hard-earned one. I entered the dog-ownership process with high hopes and expectations, and spent six stressful months trying to make a relationship with an ill-chosen pet work. Hard as I try, I could not remember having any fond memories of DJ.

Our family’s first attempt at having a dog had failed. It was first and last, my failure and it leaves me with a bad taste in the mouth that DJ had to suffer for it.

To anyone who plans to adopt a pet, let my trials as an ex-dog-owner be a lesson to you. The End.