On losing Henry.

I wrote about Henry in the last entry; our “fake” cockapoo who ended up being a kind of pomeranian mix.

We rescued him a week after my husband’s poodle died.  I insisted that we go to the highest kill shelter in the area and find a dog.  We met Henry.  He was energetic and seemed sweet.  He interacted with our cats pretty well and though our little girl at the time was scared, we brought him home.  For a while, we were able to exercise him with new toys and walks.  Life got a bit crazy, but we always made sure he had new toys and a huge yard to run in.  At some point, after our son came home, we thought perhaps he might want a friend to play with since our lives were busier and busier.  In walked Sarah; also from the same high-kill puppy mill rescue.  Sugar sweet but also energetic.

But Henry was already having problems.  After reading about our the impact of our chaotic house, we read that crating Henry some of the time might help him to feel more safe.  We bought a large (but not TOO large) crate, lined it with memory foam inserts and plenty of toys and treats.  We would keep the crate door open and allow him to walk in and out.  If we had company – because now Henry was starting to bark a bit more aggressively at strangers – we would encourage him into the crate to remain until he was calm.

Henry had been with us for close to 3 years and I still remember the moment where I realized something was very very wrong.

I was taking Henry to the vet for a checkup.  Henry sat with his leash in the front seat of my car and I was casually petting his head as we made the short drive to the vet.  Within a moment or two, Henry growled and snapped at my hand, nearly biting me.

What?

I was stunned.  I stared at him, calling his name.  I tried again to go near his head but he pulled away and was growling.  I assumed he was sick.  We were on our way to the vet, so surely she would find something wrong.  Perhaps I had touched something that hurt him.  He was not truly a mean dog!  Maybe he was scared in the car.

The vet cleared him, noting a bit of wax buildup in his ears and a small amount of yeast.  She prescribed an ear medicine.  I let my husband do the honors of administering it because I was still badly shaken up from Henry’s growl and nip.  He seemed to tolerate the medication but in a few days, I saw my husband growled at and nipped as well.

More vet calls.  Vet talked about steroids in the cream and “maybe” just “maybe” this was having an impact.  Stop the cream, and call in a few days.

Thus began a roller coaster.  Sometimes he would act perfectly fine.  At other times, my children would come running in from the back yard:  “Henry almost bit [insert kid here]”.  Was it Sarah?  She had been with us at least six months by then – was she upsetting him?  More vet visits.  Another round of meds.  Finally, psychotropic meds were given to him; basically Doggy Prozac.  The doggy prozac worked but left him sleeping on the floor.  He didn’t seem happy and when it wore off, he was back to his old self.

$500 consultation from the animal behaviorist.  She stayed two hours.  She watched Henry and Sarah interact.  I asked her if she thought they liked each other – was Sarah upsetting him?  No, she answered, I think they actually like each other.  She gave her reasons why; detailed, behaviorist reasons.  She asked to see Henry’s vet records.  I printed them off but then she asked if we could call the vet.  Apparently, she was looking for “vet notes” similar to “doctor notes” that patients do not always see. I discounted her request as annoying – I SHOWED you his vet records.  See?  But she insisted.  The vet agreed to email them directly to her.

On Henry’s first visit to the vet, after they took him away from his to examine him, the vet scribbled:  “Showed aggression during exam – growling”.  On another visit:  “Restraint needed – growling.  Bite risk.”  BITE RISK?  No one had ever told us that, but there it was – a day-glo fluorescent pink sticker over a part of his file we never saw.  Bite risk.  He had never bitten anyone; nipped? Yes.  But not bitten.  And another visit:  “Restraint for exam – aggressive”.

No one had ever told us this, and all of this occurred outside of our view.  It was for this reason the animal behaviorist wanted to see those records.

And so we were given the list of things to try.  She tested his IQ (“he’s a super smart dog”) followed by a test after he’d taken the prozac (“Yup, it leaves him flat and really sedated, see how slow he is to respond to this test?”) and here was our list with exposure therapies, and other medications to try, and an obedience class he could take perhaps when he was less of a risk to others, and on and on it went.  My eyes glazed over.  By now I had four children.  How could I fit this all in?  How could we help him?

He needed to be groomed.  He was that kind of dog.  And our last groomer had quit.  We had hired a mobile groomer in the hopes that it would upset him less.  She groomed him and brought him back into the house looking adorable.  “I won’t be back,” she flatly said, mumbling something about her schedule and where we were located and “I’ll call you with the name of another groomer who works in your area” and she never called.  We knew why.

My husband tried to trim  just his bangs, but when Henry snapped and pulled away from even that….

…the “E” word came up.

Euthanasia.

“No,” I insisted.  “We’re the failures here because we can’t do this [extensive] list of what he needs.  If someone who loved dogs – a good rescue who knows dogs like him with behaviors – could do this, he would have a chance. He wasn’t always this bad!  He used to play with my cats!”

His hair grew longer.  No one would groom him.

No child in my house would touch him anymore, either.

Someone had to do something.  Couldn’t he have a chance?

I began the slow, tentative process of asking around.  Did anyone know of a rescue that specialized in difficult dogs like Henry?

Eventually the answer came:  Yes.

An animal shelter in another county mentioned a place, half rescue, half farm.  In rare cases where dogs came into the shelter and simply could not live in families, they brought those dogs there.  There was a cost involved to relinquish an animal.  They had a behaviorist and several experienced foster families and if none of those worked, then he could live on the farm with other dogs like him.  I had actually heard of this place before; having followed the story of a dog who had been in and out of this particular shelter for years before the shelter decided to bring him to this place.

I contacted them and after reviewing the paperwork and talking for a long while, they agreed to take Henry.

I drove him the long way in my car while the children were with my husband.  Henry sat so quietly on my car seat, I could hardly understand.  It made me want to turn around – see? He’s okay!  When I reached the rescue worker who would bring him the rest of the way, I was sobbing.  I signed the paperwork, gave over all of his toys and his bed and a bag of food and the fee.  I was shocked Henry had let me pick him up and place in him her carrier without barking or nipping.  The woman told me all of the right things; about where Henry would go and how he would be treated and that this place would help him and that hopefully he would find a family.  I cried and I turned away.  My first dog failure.  I felt sick.  My heart was broken and I could not imagine how confused and awful Henry must have felt.  In that brief moment, I thought perhaps euthanizing him would have been better.  But would it really have been better for him?  Or just for me?  Or what?  There were no clear answers.

For days, weeks….even months after, I stalked the facebook page and website of the rescue, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.  A picture.  An update.  Something.  I texted the woman (and the other worker) once or twice just to ask.  No one answered me.  I still sometimes look, hoping to hear something.  They posted one picture when he first came into care.  I never saw him offered for adoption to a family.  I tell myself that a foster family loved him and worked with him and rescued him but I also know he could have easily been euthanized by someone else.

I never saw Henry again, and in spite of my best efforts, I have no idea what became of him.  I wish I knew; I wish someone affiliated with that rescue would have told me.  But, as another friend who also rescues dogs explained, when you sign that paper, that is not your dog anymore.  Apparently there have been incidents where people have treated rescues as extended daycare and have tried to get their dogs back.  It has become a practice not to communicate with the original owners anymore sometimes.  I guess that is what happened here, but I will never know.

And the same thing is happening to Sugar Sweet Sarah.  Not an image of her on the rescue’s website.  Nothing.  Texting the woman I was connected with yields no answers.  She hasn’t yet been offered for adoption.  Again, I may never know if she is okay or see her again.

On top of the pain I’ve felt over two dog failures, I’ve never had the ability to know that those dogs were okay.  Just to see an image of them, safe and happy somewhere else.  Nothing.  They have just vanished into the world of rescues.

I hate that.  I carry that sick guilt with me.  Perhaps I deserve it; I know there are those that adore dogs that would probably argue that.

I’m so sorry, Henry and Sarah.  I’m sorry we failed you.  I pray you are loved and at peace wherever you are.  Forgive us for not being your forever family.  Please know, we tried our best.  I’m sorry our best wasn’t enough.