You may have read my previous post about how much I've learned from my dogs, or this one, about having dogs and a new baby. Now I have one I wish I didn't have to write - the dog bite story.
In the world of thinking people, we tend toward paths of comfort. For some, black and white is the path of choice. Things are wrong or right. Good or bad. Others prefer a more considered path, assessing each situation, appreciating gray. I would say, I gravitate toward the black and white. Life is simpler, more easily managed. For example, the answer to a dog bite is easy. "Bye, bye, doggie."
Have you heard this before? Once a dog bites and breaks the skin, they'll be aggressive again. They'll have a taste for blood; it's like cracking open their primal wolf taste buds. They'll be unmanageable. Lost forever to the world of civilized pets. This is black and white thinking. Maybe there's science behind it, I don't know.
When I was 5 years old, our neighbor's sheepdog bit me. He was tied to a line in their front yard and dozing in the shade. Having recently watched this classic, I convinced myself the dog was a human in disguise and could talk.
I approached him on all fours, probably quoting lines from the movie. What was he to think? "This pigtailed creature is cornering me." "I'm defenseless!" "Why is she talking like that?" "Get away!"
He snapped. Not a hang-on-and-fling-her-around-until-she-stops-breathing snap, but the get-the-heck-out-of-my-space type that sends little girls to the hospital. It was my face, the left eye area to be exact. I remember the flowers and candy the church sent. I remember the neighbors.
They came with swollen eyes, fingers nervously touching other fingers. I remember quiet voices, hushed questions about what to do with the dog. My parents called me in and asked me. Did our neighbors need to "get rid of it?" "No!" "It was my fault, I thought he would talk to me . . ." Commence blubbering and streaming tears.
The dog survived. As a kid, I knew better. Black and white solutions cannot be applied universally.
Well, twenty-five years later, I had to take a lesson from my five year old self when Toby, our grumpy old cairn terrier, bit my baby in the neck. I say baby, but he'll be two in a few months.
Caleb is a dog teaser, a bully. You can have your debate about nature vs. nurture, but I'm convinced we're all born sinners. Mean. Self-serving. We can have moments of great kindness, sure. But our natural instinct is to please ourselves, which sometimes means hurting others.
For my little boy, it pleases him to shuffle his feet right up against the dog and keep walking until he has the dog pinned in a corner or against a wall. Then, he falls on top of the dog. We have witnessed this several times before and corrected the little man's behavior and praised our dogs for their passive response. But one day, this dog had enough.
We were coming in from grocery shopping and my hands were full. Caleb came behind me, and Toby met us at the door. I heard a low growl and turned around to see Caleb "falling" on Toby and then the awful scream of my child. There was blood. Blood coming from the soft baby skin of Caleb's neck. There was terrible screaming and crying and I could feel the panic rising up in my throat.
I called my husband. I called my mom. I prayed. I cleaned up the blood and tried to put pressure against the wound. They came rushing in. Paul to hold the baby and calm his worked-up wife. My mom, the medical professional, to assess the damage. We decided we should take Caleb in. It was a precaution. No stitches needed. He's fine.
I am not fine.
My life didn't flash before my eyes in that moment, but Toby's did. His bouncing steps as a puppy, the way he snorts when he swims, the crazy look of hunger every time I bring him a bowl of food. This was the end of Toby. Black and white. You bit my baby. On the neck!
Heartless? I still feel cold inside sometimes toward him. This isn't the way it's supposed to be with man's best friend. I love him, but I can never trust him again.
As an adult with a leaning toward black and white resolution, getting rid of Toby would be easier. I can even create a story line that satisfies me: an older person living alone, wanting a canine companion who mostly eats and sleeps and is always excited for a walk. They nestle together in a big downy bed and snore in alternating rhythms. Sounds nice. Meanwhile, I don't have to give sidelong glances every time my son is in the same room as my dog or kennel Toby every time a visitor under three feet tall enters our home.
"He has to go."
"No! It wasn't his fault."
How will my son, the bully, learn to treat animals with care and respect? What happens when he corners the neighbor's dog? All the "what ifs" of future pain and circumstance play in my brain.
Are you waiting for the moral to the story? There isn't one really. Except life is hard. Decisions are easier if you live by formula. But what if formulas upset the balance of justice and encourage lack of character in your offspring?
Anyway. Toby is still here. Caleb isn't afraid of him, but keeps a distance. I still don't trust the dog I love. I still wrestle with the idea of getting rid of him. This is what happens when you choose gray. It's uncomfortable. It makes you think and write really long blog posts.
