Sad Dog’s Story by Maggie Digiovanni

November 1, 2013

My story should never have happened, but it did, and all out of misguided kindness.

Someone found me wandering the streets, or maybe it was in a strange yard.  They took me to Rescue that readily took me in, hoping to find a permanent home for a 12 pound mixed breed dog.

After the initial checking me over and clipping my scraggly fur, Rescue found a foster home for me.  The person was kind until they found out rather soggily that I had no control over my bladder in their lovely home.  They passed me on.

The new foster welcomed me with open arms until her house was so drenched with my urine she could no longer stand it.  She asked to be relieved (no pun intended) of my care.  So willing was she to help me, she traveled a few hours to my new foster home.

“My dining room is afloat.  What can I do?” this foster asked Rescue.

“There is nothing you can do except give him back.  He will go to a pound for you were the last person for him.  He will be put down because he’s not adoptable,” replied Rescue.

After a day of soaking that in (no pun, really), Foster called Rescue again.

“He can’t be put down.  I’ll adopt him.  Surely he can be trained if I try hard enough,” she avowed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”  She rejoiced in her decision and grabbed the mop for puddles that were growing as she had another male dog in the house.  We tried to outdo each other in having our markings on top.

Diapers made just for me arrived and I wore them proudly until I wanted to tinkle.  I always managed to move the diaper just enough to continue wetting the floor.  Bigger diapers were ordered.  A barricade was set up barring the dining room from my entrance.  No problem.  I knocked it down with a satisfactory crash which brought Foster running to get me outside in time.

This is where the story should have ended until I took it into my head to destroy the older male and become the dominant male in the house.  He was easy prey, being blind and barely able to walk at the age of 16 or about 112 in dog years.  I attacked without warning pinning him to the floor, savaging his left eye.

Foster whacked me with a magazine and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck.  I didn’t want to let go until she lifted me in the air.  The old male staggered around the room looking as though he would die on the spot.  He was stronger than I thought.  He survived.

Foster tried to keep us separated and, for the most part succeeded.  At some point during the next couple of days, we ended up passing each other in a hallway.  I pounced, intent on finishing the job.

Foster emailed Rescue asking to either return me or be given another place to take me.  Rescue said the H.S.S.C. was where I should go.  Foster packed all my diapers, food, and even my bed but forgot my paperwork.  She tried to explain that I was a good dog most of the time, but seemed to have a grudge against the older dog.

“Perhaps,” she said, “he thinks he’s doing the senior dog a favor by putting him out of his misery.  True, the old boy has trouble walking and his sight is gone, but he doesn’t seem to be in any pain.  I brought him home to live his last years in peace.”

“Then this dog is violent?”

“No, not to anyone or anything else except the senior dog.  He’s a joy to be with other than that.  The diapers and barricade have helped tremendously with the wetting problem.  He’s such a sweet disposition, except around Senior.  Can you find him a home?  Can you take him in?”

“Probably not, but send us his papers and we’ll make a decision.”

Foster stopped at a pet store.  No toys or treats this time.  She bought a muzzle to prevent me attacking Senior.  It’s a terrible thing that I try to remove and sometimes I succeed.  I can’t open my mouth very wide, although I can lap a bit of water.  She removes it at meal times and when we’re alone in a room.

This is a sad dog story because not enough was known about me before Foster jumped in to adopt.  Had she waited even a week, my designs on the Senior would have come out.

So, here we are, three miserable souls.  She’s terrified I’ll be put down.  I hate wearing this muzzle.  She’s terrified I’ll kill Senior.  I hate this muzzle and being separated from the rest of the pack, especially the cute female dog.  She’s feeling guilty over making a choice that has put part of her pack in danger.  Senior has a damaged eye, Foster has vet bills, and me, well, I hate this muzzle.

Can anyone help us?  Does anyone with a fenced yard want a great dog that would rather live outdoors than inside?  I love to run and run and run, but we have no fenced yard.  I love to chase lizards, but Foster won’t allow them indoors.  I would be the most perfect dog in the world for someone with a fenced yard to set me free.


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