If we knew the pain and suffering that could follow, would we ever make any big decisions or would we just sit, perpetually crippled, afraid to do anything? For me, sometimes I suspect the latter. It's a good thing I can't anticipate every eventuality, because as my husband so eloquently reminded me as we were going through the events of last week, these experiences, good and bad, joyful and sorrowful, make up life itself.
Things didn't work out with our dog, Finn. Even though I know it was the right decision for my family, it's hard for me to write about this because the guilt and sorrow I feel is wrenching. However, it's always my goal to write candidly about my experiences raising a family, so here goes.
Getting a dog was no impulse decision for us. Mark and I had talked and researched a lot. We knew we wanted to adopt a shelter dog, and we were heavily leaning toward choosing an adult dog. We didn't feel up for the trappings of raising a puppy. Breed didn't much matter; we wanted to find the right personality (and preferably a dog that was a little less allergenic for all of our sneezy noses and itchy eyes).
I had reservations about taking the boys to look at dogs with us - too easy to get attached, I reasoned. But Mark correctly asserted that the kids needed to be with us so we could see how the dogs interacted.
Our first visit was overwhelming, to say the least. Pushing open the door to the anteroom that housed the first group of dogs was loud, but as we made our way back to the back of the shelter, where more dogs lived, it was cacophony. We couldn't even talk to the person next to us, so loud was the barking. It was a lot for the boys and even for Mark, but I made my way around, trying to identify the dogs that remained calm through the chaos.
We settled on a few dogs that seemed like they could fit but couldn't interact with any of them that day, as most of the dogs there had recently come from Tennessee and were in quarantine. We filled out an application and decided to come again a few days later to meet the three dogs that had made our short list.
At the top of our list was a 1-year-old hound/shepherd mix named Todd. But when we returned on a Thursday afternoon, the first dog we met was Bruno, a Catahoula Leopard dog mix. We were a little skeptical upfront because Bruno was just shy of six months old - younger than the adult dog we'd said we wanted.
The connection with Bruno, however, was immediate. We all felt it. He especially seemed to bond with Mark. We adored the white stripe down the middle of his face and his calm demeanor.
We met Jada, also on our list, and she did not care for us at all. Todd was lovely, but we'd already fallen for Bruno. Flying high with euphoria, we made plans to pick up Bruno two days later.
In the intervening two days, I was wracked with worry and doubt. Were we really ready for this? Mark and I both read about Catahoulas. Some aspects of their personalities seemed like a perfect fit, others not. The hard part was knowing how much Catahoula he had in him and how much another breed, or even breeds. It made it difficult to draw any conclusions.
In the end, we took a leap of faith and brought Bruno home. As we talked with the worker at the shelter, we were delighted to hear her say that we could still change Bruno's name. We debated the possibilities excitedly as we drove to the pet store to pick up some supplies, Bruno peering curiously out the windows. We finally settled on Finley - Finn for short.
The first days Finn was with us, we couldn't believe our luck. We were prepared for the unexpected. We assumed we'd be dealing with some house training issues. We didn't look forward to the prospect of him chewing on our things but were realistic about the fact that it probably would happen. We expected a disrupted night or two as he eased into sleeping in the kennel we'd bought.
None of the negatives happened. Finn was house trained from the beginning. He didn't have a single accident. He half-heartedly picked up a Lego tire or two from time to time, but for the most part, he left our stuff alone. He slept silently all night in his kennel. He didn't beg for food, didn't bother people while they were eating. He rarely barked or made a peep at all.
In the end, what didn't work with Finn was not something we'd anticipated, and it felt like an issue that was much more complicated than house training. At first, Finn was fantastic with the boys. The entire time we had him, he gamely tolerated Gus's annoying habits of pulling at his hears and tail. The first time the kids took him downstairs for a romp, he chased and nipped at them a bit. Puppy play, we assured the boys.
The first time I felt truly nervous was when Finn spotted our 1-year-old neighbor boy playing at the outskirts of our backyard. I think it was the first time I'd really heard him growl and bark - perfectly normal, my mom and Mark told me when I fretted. He just feels protective of his domain.
Finn, though, began to behave unpredictably toward the boys. One day I'd taken him for a walk with my nephew. My nephew was walking beside us when Finn caught sight of his leash and got riled up, a common occurrence with him. He rounded on my nephew, growling, jumping up and snapping at his shoulder blades. The same thing happened again with Gus days later.
The day I decided I couldn't keep Finn, though, was Paul's first day of school. The day had begun in a lovely way. I'll never forget the sound of Paul's laughter and delight upon seeing that Finn could shake.
I was feeling iffy toward Finn that day because he had had the incident with Gus while we were out for a walk in the afternoon. Nevertheless, I took Finn out on his leash to wait in the driveway for Paul's bus. It was supposed to be one of those beautiful moments: dog, tail wagging, reunites with boy after school. Paul came running, and Finn began to bark, growl and jump. By the time Paul reached our driveway, Finn was so worked up, he would hardly let Paul pass. Poor Paul just cowered. That was it. I couldn't do it any longer.
I don't pin any of this on Finn. It's just his personality. It's in his nature to be protective, but our house is one of constant comings and goings. Finn's temperament just felt like the wrong fit for us. His unpredictability with kids was daunting to me, and I didn't feel like I had the know-how or the resources to train it out of him; I felt skeptical that it was possible. In the end, I thought it was best for us and for Finn for him to be placed in a more suitable home.
Telling the kids was one of the hardest things we've ever had to do. Paul was explosive in his grief, Ben more reserved yet determined to change my mind. "If he's really, really good tomorrow, can't we keep him?" the boys begged.
I was resolved, though, and remained so, even though the prospect of returning Finn to the shelter made me feel ill. I made myself do it, though by the time the day arrived to bring Finn back, I didn't want to anymore.
It's done now, and it hurts, the kids most of all. As a mom, I'm supposed to prevent pain, to relieve pain, not inflict it. To have done so is truly hard to accept.
I understand and respect if you disagree with our decision. To me, we tried and failed at something we went into with altruism and best faith. It came down to doing what I thought was best for the kids, as everything does when you're a parent.
As for now, I'm hoping for healed hearts and mended spirits as we walk through this painful part of our journey.
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