Saying Goodbye to Our Puppy

I still remember the first time I saw him. It was just a picture of a sweet, 2 week old puppy.
He had been rescued along with his siblings and his mother. I fell in love with him instantly,
a kind of fierce love that let me know he was meant to be my puppy. I got in touch with the
rescue right away and he was earmarked as mine.

He came home to us, alongside his brother when he was 8 weeks old. We were their fosters,
taking care of them as they got neutered and got ready for adoption. Our older dog, Keeva was
so excited to have puppies in her life. She watched them sleeping in the crate, these sweet,
precious puppies. They slid on the ice in our backyard and filled our world with late night
bathroom breaks and laughter. We handed his brother off to his family when they were 12
weeks, and we signed his adoption papers. Zeke was ours. This little puppy, who was learning
and growing. I thought he would be a part of our household until the day he died. I wanted to do
so much for him. I wanted him to only know joy and love. We have pictures of him laying on top
of Keeva, this little rambunctious ball of life.

He grew and we saw the first signs of potential issues in his puppy class. I worried that we had
brought him to be trained too late. But we tried. He was separated from the rest of his class by a
partial wall because the first time he walked into class, he let out a high pitched whine. He was
nervous and excited and couldn’t contain himself. The trainers said he needed to be evaluated
and they set up a first evaluation. The trainer who was evaluating him never got back to us for
a second evaluation, though we tried to contact her.

But he loved Keeva, and we were committed to helping him learn how to walk past other dogs
without being scared. We were busy, and trying to get trainers to answer us was hard. We
worked with him, but it was never perfect. We just kept trying. We could only do what we knew
and I’m not sure we ever knew enough. We called trainers, but there was no reply. And to be
honest, at our old house, he only had a few scrapes with Keeva, relatively minor. Most of the
time they curled up together and came to us for belly scratches. We did what we could.

He always wanted to be so close to us, dropping the full weight of his body against our chests,
like he was trying to merge into us, becoming one with us. He would roll over and stick his stomach
up in the air, wanting belly scratches. His favorite place in our bed was under the covers between us.
He would lay his head on our legs and be so content.

Then this summer, as he approached 18 months, there was an incident with the neighbor’s 5 lb dog.
I was at a church retreat and the dogs accidentally got out of the fenced backyard while Jamie was
there with them. He followed them and the little dog decided to jump toward them. Jamie thinks they
thought it was a game. They didn’t seem to be vicious, but they didn’t stop and the dog died. I was
wracked with guilt, and both dogs were placed on a 10 day bite hold. They stayed in the same pen
together at the ARL and I was so worried that Zeke would get excited and something would happen.
That something never did happen and they came back into our care.

We started looking at moving. We discovered that we could actually buy a house, and we found the
perfect place. They would get a large backyard in a neighborhood where we could start fresh. We
moved in and it was and still is a perfect house for us.

But moving proved to be too much for our reactive pup. He started jumping at all the sounds. And
as he ramped up, he started jumping Keeva too, getting into skirmishes. We doubled down and tried
to find a trainer with renewed energy. We separated the dogs when he was likely to be excited and
worked hard on training him the best we could. It was hard, but we did find a trainer finally. We had a
date. We just had to work with Zeke and wait until we could get professional help.

But that date would never come. Instead, Friday came. I didn’t even want to go to work that afternoon,
but I was scheduled and I knew I would be okay once I got there. A few hours into my shift I got a call
from Jamie. The dogs had a bad fight and he thought his hand was broken. Evidently they had been
curled up, relaxed and happy, when a big banging noise outside startled Zeke. He immediately went
after Keeva. Jamie tried to break it up, and a bite intended for Keeva instead went into Jamie’s hand.
It was one of the hardest hours of my life as I contacted supervisors and waited for backup so I could
go home.

Thank God my parents happened to be in town to help me deal with what was going on. I took Jamie
to the hospital and then, on his insistence, left him there while I went with my mother to take each dog
to the veterinary hospital. Zeke was taken first. He was in pain and still filled with adrenaline. He
freaked out as the vet took him back because he saw another dog. They asked for permission to
sedate him so they could care for him. The last time I saw my puppy, my Zeke, the dog who crawled
into my lap, who loved to run with me and was obsessed with his toys, was as he bucked and barked
while being taken into the back room by the vets.

I got a hold of the rescue whom we had gotten him from and asked for them to pick him up from the
hospital. We would pay for his bills, but we couldn’t take care of him any more. Jamie’s hand was
broken and Keeva was in rough shape too. We had to protect everyone. He needed to not be in our
home.

It was a long night, going from the VA to another hospital with Jamie, having a hand surgeon clean
out his wounds and begin preparing him for surgery to put pins in his hand. I came back home to
Keeva, whom my parents had picked up from the hospital, and laid down next to her at 4 am.
She cried. I cried. I kept my hand on her as we fell asleep together.

And now it is Saturday. Jamie is still in the hospital. Keeva is home, mostly sleeping as I go back and
forth between her and Jamie. And as I get close to bed, all I can think of is Zeke. He is so loving,
yet a part of him is broken. I don’t believe in demons, but if I thought an exorcist could take his
reactivity away from him, I would contact one in a second. Just yesterday I was curled up on the
couch with him, his full weight pressing into my stomach, his tongue showering me with kisses.  

Mom told me it is parental guilt, the thoughts I have that I somehow failed him, that I wasn’t enough.
Intellectually, I know she’s right, but I still hold the shame of this moment. I still beat myself up for not
finding a trainer sooner, even though I tried. Shame tells me I didn’t try hard enough.

I know that in the end, I didn’t do anything wrong. I tried. I fought hard to help this little guy. I was
devoted to him. From the second I first saw him, I loved him. And now, out of love, I have to say
goodbye. His toys are still scattered around the house. His bowl lays in the kitchen. I still expect to
see his face in the window when I walk up to the door. But this time, he’s not coming home. Not to
my home. He has to find another one. He is on his own journey now, separated from us, who have
raised him and loved him from the beginning, who saw his face and had to call him ours. I can only
imagine how he’s reacting as they try to help him adjust. I worry that he may still end up being put
down, though I know who he is 98% of the time. He is funny and quirky and in love with people.
He just can’t be with other dogs because of his issues.

I sat in the backyard tonight, watching Keeva walk slowly through the grass. I looked up to the moon
and I asked where the resurrection could be in this moment. Where would the healing come from?
How could this time of deep pain be transformed into something more? I don’t have any answers,
but I looked up to the moon, and I prayed what I pray when I have no words left to say, trusting that
a mother who watched her son die on a cross can carry my pain with her too. “Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst all women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death. Amen.” I trust that this
woman who has felt the deepest sorrow a human can feel can carry my sorrows too. And as she said
goodbye, I say goodbye too.

Goodbye Zeke. Goodbye my sweet little puppy, so full of life. Goodbye to your beautiful smile and
your cute little spots around your nose. Goodbye to you jumping up into my lap and pressing into me.
Goodbye to letting you under the covers and feeling your boney little chin on my leg. Goodbye to
tossing your balls endlessly down the halls and running around with you in the backyard. Goodbye to
your gigantic smile as you jog by my side. Goodbye to you talking to us in whimpers as you
impatiently sit for your food. Goodbye to you licking Keeva’s face and trying relentlessly to get her to
play with you. Goodbye to all the love and laughter you brought into our lives. I wish I could have had
you until your dying day. I pray your death is in at least a decade. You have so much still to offer.
I love you Zeke. From the moment I saw your squishy little puppy face, I was devoted to you.
May Mary carry you as you go off into the unknown. Goodbye.