Before she blows and destroys lives, let me explain why I choose to live with a furry ticking time bomb.
The device is seemingly designed for multi-stage detonation. How many stages she’s got in ‘er is a mystery. Eipo first went off as a puppy, pinning and nipping our friend’s kindergarten daughter while we sipped lemonade in the backyard. I chewed her out but good.
That shook us up, and alerted us to her combustibility. We took precautions, and over time the four-legged device proved her ability to move safely among humans.
A few years went by.
Then, Christmas in North Dakota. We had the volatile one and her comparably inert brother leashed to the guest bed; it was too cold to leave them outside, and they were too big and hairy to let loose in the house. A young niece ran into the room and our chow-spaniel mix growled, snarled, and wound up on her back, with me on top, topping her savage act. That was the last time Eipo and her brother traveled with us.
The final strike came five years later, on day three of a visit from my cousin’s family. We were serving dinner on the deck, the scent of grilled steak in the air. My little cuz-child went to pet the bomb from behind and got bit in the face. There was simultaneous horror and relief to see the skin broken below the eye.
The cousins pleaded with me not to put her down as they decamped the next morning. But the appointment was made for that afternoon, and I had my family say their goodbyes.
Eipo and I were in the staging room when the veterinarian came in and informed me, as I dried my tears, of the 15-day quarantine law for biters. And I realized then that I couldn’t abandon this doggie who loves me and my family so much, couldn’t leave her for two weeks of lock-up prior to the lethal injection.
So, what started as a home quarantine arrangement devolved to a pardon. We resolved to an incredible level of vigilance, and wasted little time backsliding. There were too many distractions to faithfully execute our role as probation officers, and we were lulled by sweet kisses and the way her whole backside wags when she sees us.
If a child had lost an eye . . . I know I’d be beyond devastated. Yes, the risk still exists, frightfully clear in my mind. Yet I didn’t put her down.
I’ve done my share of killing. I’m not soft on death for animals. I have no problem naming a pig, watching it grow and develop a unique personality, and then having a slice of Wilbur with my eggs.
I laugh every time someone tells me PETA stands for People Eating Tasty Animals.
But dogs . . . .
We’ve genetically modified these organisms to maximize their intelligence and human-esque emotions. We also understand that dogs come with animal instincts, and without guarantees. We accept this risk in exchange for doggy benefits. In my cousins’ opinion, the brutal act and implied future risk didn’t warrant ending the dog’s life.
Life is precious. That a stupendous gap still exists between man and beast doesn’t reduce the absolute value of the dog’s life. It’s sobering how easy it would be to have the bomb permanently defused, just a short drive and a check for $50.
It’s difficult to say which lesson my kids would learn: the need to make hard choices, or the acceptability of shucking burdens that are too heavy.
It’s hard to know which lesson I’m teaching myself.
Yet it’s clear that the only inexcusable choice is to do nothing. We will go for obedience training, but know that we can’t teach an old dog new tricks. The only likely benefit is what our kids learn from our action.
I do know this: If Eipo bites the trainer, she’s toast.
Allan Harris (apedroharris@yahoo.com) of Castle Rock is a finance manager and novelist.
