A couple of weeks ago on Facebook I posted a picture of myself with my beloved German shepherd, Otto.
In 2010 we picked him up from an airport in Chicago, transported to us from the Czech. Republic, to Germany and into our arms. Otto was not my first difficult German shepherd; I suspect he will not be my last. Though I always hope that from one pet German shepherd to the next I learn and learn and learn and mistakes become successes that turn to wins the next time around.
I have found that I am doing amazingly well since that afternoon in the vet’s office where I held Otto in my arms where he took his last breath. Otto was not sick and I did not put him down to save him from suffering. I put him down to save myself suffering.
The week before he died I was brushing Otto. He was in the midst of a wicked shedding cycle and we are in the midst of selling our house. The two didn’t go together well. While I was running the brush down his belly I must have caused him some pain. Otto did not warn me with a whine or a bark or a snap – he bit me. Of course I was shocked and at first I looked at him and quietly whispered, “Otto, you bit me.”
I only felt a slight scratch to my neck but thought I better go inside and look in the mirror to assess if there was any damage. What I saw in the mirror made me gasp. Otto had bitten off half of my right earlobe. Gone. It was gone. It wasn’t dangling there, half-bitten off. It was gone. I began to sob as the blood poured from my head.
My boys at college, my husband working and living 100 miles away, I called my surrogate daughter, Maria, and as she answered the phone I blurted to her, “Otto bit me.”
This was not the first time Otto had bitten. We had already dodged three bite bullets and had only been reported to the police once. For every bite I told myself it would never happen again. I loved Otto and had invested hundreds of hours training him and trialing with him and loving him. I believed he loved me too.
After lying to the people who patched me and stitched me and referred me to a plastic surgeon I went home and forgave my big black dog. With so many changes going on in my life I never, not for one second in the first few days, pondered ending his life.
That Sunday I sent an email to the woman who invested as many hours helping me train Otto as I invested training him. Deb said she could not tell me what to do but that I deserved better than Otto and if he would bite me, the person who loved him most, then who might he bite next? She suggested I put him down with love and respect knowing I had loved him as best as I could.
I began to sob, knowing she was right. Who would he bite next? My children, grandchildren? Me? Would the next person lose a finger or an eye or be marred beyond repair?
On Monday I brought him to the vet. I did not tell them why I was putting him down and they did not ask. A dog is considered property and its’ owner can choose whether it live or die.
My friend Denise accompanied me and we sobbed in each other’s arms. She is also a German shepherd owner who had trained alongside me many, many hours. The difference is her dog, Fritz, was brought home as a young puppy. A formidable dog who many joked would do better with a saddle than a leash, he is not a biter.
Otto lived a life in fear. Since I didn’t welcome him into my home until he was 14 months old I do not know how is first months were spent. But I can guess. They were likely spent alone in a kennel with other barking dogs. Someone took him out to work him and judge his capabilities for obtaining excellence in the Schutzhund world. He was labeled subpar and ignored. No one played with him, groomed him, or loved him.
And now we are back to a one-dog family. Our little Yorkie-poo Cisco an only dog again. I am still outside playing with him every day, as I did with Otto when he was alive. I pour my heart and soul into my dogs and when I am outside I look to my left, where there are two large dogs living and I look to my left, where there are also two dogs living, one large and one small. Never, ever have I seen anyone outside playing with bouncing balls to happy fetching dogs in those yards.
Do we bring dogs into our lives to make us happy or to make the dogs happy? Why do people buy and adopt dogs only to have them sit in their house 24 hours a day, let outside only to pee and poop? Am I a worse person because I bled for my dog but wiped it up with his life? I don’t know.
But here is what I have learned as contemplate three surgeries to repair my damaged ear: I will have other dogs and I will love them deeply. I will not continue crying for Otto because he lived a life of fear and Deb is right: if he would bite the one who loved him most then what must his very existence have felt like?
If someday my life is so filled with fear that I can only react with unrepairable damage to those I love most then I hope I too can die in the arms of someone who loves me most. If I had waited until he damaged someone beyond repair, then Otto’s life would likely have ended alone in a cold cell at the pound. I am choosing to believe I made the hard choice, but also the right choice.
And all of this, as I stop to wonder why I am not crying more or suffering more or missing the dog who was always at my side more, is what is called resilience. We suffer and bleed, we cry and question, and then we make a choice to move on. We have to.
That was a beautiful post.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much!
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