September, 2012, was an insignificant month to the world,but to us earthshattering, we lost our dog, Tazzie, just a few weeks over theage of fifteen, which is ancient for a purebred Rottweiler. We had gotten her from a kill shelter when she was a puppy, the onlyplace we adopt our fury family members from, so it was true to form we wouldlook again, in doggie jail, for another son or daughter. My husband and I haveno children, except our dogs.
It was a hot morning, which meant it’d be scorching inCamarillo, the kill shelter we decided to adopt from, two weeks after Tazzie’s passing.Still with a heavy heart over her loss, we went. As we approached the parkinglot, we heard a crying howl, a screeching of pain and agony. I had to find outwhere this was coming from.
“We’re not getting a dog that’s loud,” my hubby whispered,walking behind me at a rapid clip.
I ignored him. We walked way to the back of the kennels thatwere lined in small rows, the outside surrounded by a six-foot fence that youcould barely put a finger through, the back part, enclosed on a cold concreteslab. The sound grew louder until we turned a corner and came face to facewith, Eli–the name on the fence of his stall–a gorgeous chocolate lab. Theminute his eyes met mine, he went quiet. The minute my heart met his, the acheover Tazzie softened, and I knew there was no leaving this beautiful boy inprison, on death row.
“No!” My husband was no longer whispering.
I had already found out that his family, who had recentlylost their home, brought in Eli. He was almost ten years old, a purebredchocolate lab, and in obvious severe separation grieving. We knew how eachother felt, our hearts melded. He had to come home with us.
“I said No!” My husband was firm. “We can’t bring a barking,loud dog home, you know what happened with the neighbors last time…”
He babbled on while my mind went into manipulative overload.“Let’s just try. He’s wounded. He’ll calm down when we get him home,” I whined.
“You don’t know that.” He gave me a look, the glare when hemeans it, and won’t be swayed by an agenda. “He’s the loudest dog here…”
I stopped hearing him and put my attention on Eli, Help me out here, boy. Do something. Elimoved closer to the fence, his face smashed up against it, his yellow eyessoftened, his tale wag intensified, and he stared, not at me, but my husband.
“Look, he likes you!”
“No!”
In desperation, I stopped talking and let Eli take over. Ilooked back and forth at the two of them, until my husband reached out a handto Eli’s face, now coming through the grooves in the cold metal wiring keepinghim from us. My husband rubbed an ear, got down on a knee to allow Eli to lickhis face, while tears moved down my cheeks. My heart was bursting inanticipation, until my husband stood and gave me his saddest look, “I wish wecould…we can’t get a loud dog.”
Unfortunately, he was right. Our place backed on an officebuilding that had psychologists and a psychiatrists working in it and we hadbeen warned before to handle yourbarking dogs or else. It took a lotof damage control and stress reduction on our parts over that one. I also did not want to overlystress my husband, and the look he gave me told me it would were I to continue topursue this. I gave it one more try, “Can we just take him home and try. It mayjust be this place. He’d been with a family, loved by a family, warmed by them,for almost ten years. I’d cry too…”
My husband said nothing. He reached in and hugged me, a hugthat said, I’m sorry.
There was nothing left for me to do but cry. I could notlook at another dog that day, but before we left I went into the shelter’soffice. “When is Eli going to be put down?”
The women in a uniform was cold, officious, matter of fact,when she replied. “Two days.”
I felt nauseated. We knew Eli was on death row but two days! I became so anxious my heartwas missing beats. I went crying to my husband and told him.
“We can’t save them all, honey.” He talked and made sense but it did nothingto calm my aching heart. I could hear Eli in the background, crying.
We stood outside the gate to the shelter for over twentyminutes, saying nothing. I could notwalk out. My husband had to gently lead me to the car, open the door, and nudgeme in. For the next ten minutes, driving up Highway 101 into Ventura, I cried.My husband looked over to me from time to time, to say, I’m sorry. Just before we were to make the turn off to Ojai, wherewe live, I asked him if we could go get a bite to eat and talk. I had no ideawhat I was going to say.
He turned the car around and we went to Lassen’s, a healthfood grocery store and restaurant, got something, sat at the table, and saidnothing. I cried while we ate. My crying has an effect on my husband, and inthe purity of an honest emotion, through his love for me, his heart sank. “Okay, we can give it a try, but if he’s loudhe has to go back.”
Eli jumped in the car; his head out the window the wholeride home, and not a peep out of his handsome mouth. Not a single bark, theminute we got him to the house, and nothing the rest of that day. And, everyother day, for weeks moving into months. That dog didn’t bark at strangers, atthe mailman, at the doorbell, he just wagged his tail, but when we left himalone we heard him cry from our back deck as we drove away. We had to bring him with us, which was nosacrifice because he loved to be in the car. He became my husband’s dog andfollowed him everywhere, inseparable they were.
Eli lived with us from that September through to Tuesday,July 17, just last week, when he died suddenly of what the vet thought was ananeurysm. He came to us from death row and filled the emptiness left by Tazzie.He came to us with the biggest most grateful heart we’d ever known. We’ve beenrescuing dogs from kill shelters for over twenty-seven years, but there was nodog like Eli. He screamed at that kennel, he cried and begged to get out ofthere, and the minute he was taken home and made a part of a family, ourfamily, he was the perfect pet.
We miss him, his tale wagging when we enter the room, thecircle he turns when finding just the right spot to lay down in, his noiseperched against his leash, telling us he wants a walk, the way he jumped up anddown when it was meal time, but most of all the way he’d get up next to us,particularly my husband, as if to say, yousaved my life, I love you.