Tuesday, October 18, 2005

During the daylight hours I am calm and somewhat rational. Why is it that in the dark of night my imagination runs away with me?

We must get rid of Fred the Beagle. Not only has he made a mockery of being housetrained but he bit me. Hard. Funny, because there's really not an ounce of aggressiveness in him unless you get him near food. He had broken into the trash can (after ripping apart the child safety lock) and was eating the contents when I returned home (from the busstop?). I gave him a push to get him away from the trash so that I could begin cleaning and instead of staying put he charged right back in. Another gentle push and he turned and bit my forearm, breaking the skin (as if that even matters...he isn't rabid or anything). He's been growling at me now when I try to pet him as he eats, something I was always able to do.

I am not worried about him biting me again. I would keep him anyway and work around it because it is only on a rare occasion and he's otherwise very docile. But it's the kids. And the visiting kids that I worry about. But I must MAKE myself worry about it because I will let it slide to the back of my mind so that I can take a sail down the river of denial. If I sound as if I would put my kids in harms way I don't really think I am. You have to know Fred to appreciate him and they respect the whole food issue and we are watchful.

But. The fact remains that he must go. And I know, that by making this call, he will most likely be put down. It is a very hard phone call to make. I spent a long time crying and petting him last night. Every time I closed my eyes to try to sleep I could only picture him in the shelter kennel shaking from the chilly cement and wondering where I was. *fuck* and now I am crying again.

My son, always kind of unsure of the large spazzy lab, loved Fred at first sight. Calm, no jumping or barking. And he'll follow you to the ends of the earth if you pet him and scratch his belly. He feeds and walks Fred mostly without complaint. He sits on the floor with him, absently scratching his ears as he watches TV or talks about school. Fred was the dog the boy needed. And now I must break not only my heart but my son's.

I know, it's for the best and all of that. I DO NOT want a child, visiting or living in my home to be bitten by him. And logic and rationale must win out over love this time. But this is a fucking shitty decision to have to make. And it has been made, the question is when. I keep procrastinating. The rescue leagues don't want him. He's too old, they say...too hard to adopt. Again, fuck. There is more crying to be done. And I must find the perfect time to lie to the kids about where he is to go. Off to a home, with a big yard to walk in and only grownups. (My kids know about the biting and that he must go, but it's been an abstract idea unti this week). Can I just pretend that's where he'll be going? Can I convince myself? Maybe. Until I shut my eyes.

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