Recently Published Essay

Responsible dog ownership requires being a leader of a harmonious pack. I came from a dysfunctional human family or pack with ineptness for leadership. I know how dangerous imbalance can be. My devotion to dogs is as deep as an abyss, rarely tested. One day, I was asked to summon all my strength to do the right thing.

EB was my mother’s dachshund, whom she named after herself, Eva Blake. She came to me when Mom died. Otto was another dachshund from the neighbor’s litter, brought home to keep EB young. Riley was my old lab that everyone called a compass because he always pointed toward me. Patchie was an old kelpie mix that stayed right behind the horse’s tail on every trail ride. Rio was the old Weimaraner, too big for a friend’s backyard. He always led on the trail and ran back to let me know everything was clear ahead. He could get from the house to the barn in four seconds. These five were a family in balance.

Three of them, EB, Riley, and Patchie, died of old age within months of each other.

I promised myself I would spread out the ages of my dogs so that I never suffered so much grief all at once, ever again. Then Rio got so old that he slipped and fell on the hardwood floors. He was also fecally incontinent. Indoors, his hind end barely functioned. Outside, he had tremendous forward motion. He would run like a young stallion with a massive smile as he flew. Not quite yet. I wasn’t ready to lose a fourth. I was hanging on to the short dachshund and the long weimar, but two weren’t enough.

The post online said, “Looking for a home for two dogs, half golden retriever, and half Catahoula hunting dog. One female, one male, brother, and sister. One year old. Bonded.”  An elderly couple had raised them from puppies. They lived in a trailer park kennel and were huge and out of control. “They are too strong for us to take on walks,” the ad said.

No one but me will have room for both dogs. I called. I drove four hours across Montana to pick them up. Moko and Beaufort. The most beautiful, out-of-control, wanting-to-be-loved giant dogs. The boy was at least one hundred pounds and did not like a leash. The girl was all kisses and jumped up with her legs off the ground. I referred to them as “the monsters.”

They did understand the word “crate.” Any more than that would require intense training. For some time, all four dogs seemed fine together. I have a photo of them sleeping together on the couch.

It happened on our daily walk. Moko attacked Rio and took him down. Beaufort followed and went after his neck. Blood. I screamed as Rio howled in pain. The siblings barked in their fury. It was as if they could smell death and were culling the pack. I grabbed them by their collars to pull them off, my helpless friend.

After getting the monsters into a kennel, I rushed my car down the hill to Rio. He was still down, unable to get up on his own. I knew this was his time.

Otto and I took Rio to the vet to say goodbye.

It was clear that Moko and Beaufort were a bonded pack of siblings. Should I separate them, and which one would I give up? How much trauma would they endure being separated? How much sadness would I take giving one up? I had grown to love them both. Moko curled in bed next to me with Otto. Beaufort loved to put his head on my shoulder with one paw on my ribs. They were always happy. They loved to run free on the property together. Playing with each other, never leaving the canyon. I was addicted to watching their beauty, knowing I had given them their happiness. I could not imagine how sad each would be if they lost the other. No, they can’t be separated from each other or me.

I spent the next two years making them sleep in their crates in separate rooms. I ensured they played and ran freely for two hours on the property daily. I was wearing them out so that they stayed calm. I often took only one at a time on a trail ride with my horse off the property in the mountains. By themselves, they were angels. People would see them and comment on their beauty and behavior. They will settle down if I can just get them to age 3.

We practiced individually, Sit, Stay, Come, Down Off, No, and Heel almost daily. They were no longer monsters. Each was bonded to me. They loved Otto, who was now nine years old.

If there were a sound of danger out in the woods, Moko would always get between it and Otto. She would look back and make sure he was safe. Once, the neighbor’s St. Bernard dogs came onto my property and went after Otto. Moko and Beaufort jumped over Otto to get between him and the aggressors.

They played rough in the house. Otto would tease Beaufort by jumping on his massive chest as he rolled on his back, then race under the bed as Beaufort chased him, wanting to play more. I never worried about Otto being outside as I knew Moko and Beaufort were there to protect him from any wilderness dangers.

One afternoon, the three dogs and I were all sleeping on the couch, their legs entwined with mine. Eventually, they decided to go outside and play. I looked out the big picture window and saw them all in the front pasture, wagging their tails.

There was still some snow on the ground. I walked back to my bedroom. I was wearing my robe to sit in the hot tub on the porch. The dogs had come back into the yard and were below the porch. Otto was on his back, looking up at Beaufort. Beaufort was looking down at him.

I said, “Leave him.”

Beaufort instead grabbed Otto in his mouth and shook him like a toy. He threw him to the ground as I jumped off the porch railing and landed on cold snow in my bare feet. “NOOOOO.” Beaufort froze and looked at me, wagging his tale.

Otto was on the ground whimpering. I saw a piece of his lung pulled out from his chest. I was sure his neck was broken. Beaufort picked him up in his mouth again. Then Moko grabbed him as if to help, but they both pulled in opposite directions. Otto’s middle section came open, and his intestines fell out. I was slipping in the snow as I grabbed both of their collars.

They dropped Otto.

I fell back on my ass, gripping both dogs’ collars in my hands. They sat next to me as if the game was over. They acted as if they had done nothing wrong. Otto still whimpered. Torn apart on the ground. I wanted his suffering to end. Somehow, I knew if I let Moko go, she would go over and suffocate him. I let go of my grip around her collar. She went to Otto and placed her mouth gently on his neck. Otto stopped moving.

I got up slowly from the ice and was going to go get my shotgun. Do I have the strength to do the right thing? As I walked inside, I thought instead to reach for the phone. My neighbor was the sheriff or animal control.

He answered. I said, “Moko and Beaufort just killed Otto. You have to come to shoot them.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The dogs were both happy, as if they were just playing. What had happened? The playing must have gotten too rough. Otto had tried to run under the bed, but it was too far. This was the second dog they had attacked and now killed. What if it had been a child?

After two years of intense training and love, they were still a dangerous pack. I had allowed a dangerous pack to exist. Just like the one in which I grew up. I knew they could not continue. I am the leader, but I can’t save them. Am I doing the right thing? I have no choice. Am I doing the right thing? I have no choice.

My neighbor was there in four minutes. I had gone from quiet shock to out-of-control bawling in the same amount of time. He brought another neighbor who also had a gun. They both had small children and looked at me with stoic faces, knowing I had no choice. They brought ropes to tie the dogs down if they had to.

I cried, “No, that’s too cruel. Just let me get dressed.” I was still in my robe.

“It’s OK, Moko. Sit.”  She looked at me with a loving smile, always trusting and wanting to please me. She immediately sat, starting to raise her paw to shake. She was confused that I was crying. I turned my head so that I couldn’t see. One shot to the head, and she was gone.

Then, Beaufort, handsome, beautiful Beaufort, ran to me, sat, and put his head on my shoulder. He licked me with his long tongue across my face. I hugged him around his big thick neck. He pulled back and looked into my eyes, so happy to please me.

“It’s OK. Stay.”  He showed how proud he could make me by lifting his nose to the air, almost in salute. I backed away and turned my head so that I couldn’t see.

Another shot to another head. I opened my mouth wide. No sound came. Then a wail so loud it echoed through the canyon. I fell to my knees. My head fell into my hands.

My family was gone. All three of them were gone in the last thirty minutes. I had been an inept leader—a failure. So much so that it cost them their lives. Thirty minutes earlier, we had all been on the couch. Now they were all gone.

My neighbor, the sheriff, had one body bag in his trunk. He put them all in one bag and took them away in his cruiser.

I was uncontrollably sad and uncomfortably alone for several weeks. The abyss that normally held my devotion to dogs was filled with death, guilt, and failure.

Until I picked up Wolfgang, a new dachshund puppy.

The hole in my heart was immense. The three-pound little guy started to fill it. Wolfie would go on to one day have his own family of four. They were carefully chosen not to be siblings, not to be a pack.

The three who died were cremated, and their ashes were strewn in the pasture where they last played together. Moko and Beaufort would always be young and beautiful. Beautiful monsters. For a time, they were my family.

That day was the worst day of my life. It was also the strongest.