When A Bad Dog Went Really Bad

Ceri - January, 2007 - March 5, 2012

Even though it happened over a week ago now, I still haven't found a way to talk about it.  It doesn't seem like it should hurt that much, but it really, really does.  So much, in fact, that I've adopted my I-can't-deal-with-this strategy: I stop thinking about it, shove it to the back of my mind-attic, and pile furniture and boxes and old clothes and roller skates and everything else I can think of on top of it, so that it doesn't emerge.

Last week - March 5th, to be precise - my Ceri-dog had to be put down.  My Bad Dog.  Doggie Face.  Monkey Dog.  But mostly my Bad Dog.

Ceri was a bad dog.  Just how bad was something which was continuously being revealed - even though I had her for four years - and the depths of her badness were sometimes pretty amazing.  But last Sunday, March 4th, she became too bad for this world, and on Monday, she had to be put down.

I found Ceri in a blizzard.  No exaggeration.  January 8th, 2008, I was driving home late from work - this was when I lived in Lake Arrowhead, CA, where blizzards actually happen - and was completely focused on just making it home without crashing/sliding/drifting/dying.  Somehow, though, I managed to see this little black speck, sitting patiently (something, I came to learn, which was extraordinary with Ceri), waiting.  I realized it was a dog, and wondered what the hell any living thing would be doing outside and not actively trying to find shelter in a blizzard.  I stopped the car, opened the door, and the dog took off.

I'm ashamed to admit that that was perhaps the one time in my life when I decided not to chase an animal which was clearly in need of help.  I put my own selfish considerations (I was dressed for the office, not animal-hunting in the snow) ahead of the dog's welfare, and continued on home, which was another quarter of a mile (so about 5 minutes in those conditions) away.  I arrived safely, went inside, and thought about the dog all night.

The next morning the snow had stopped, and wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, the plows had actually managed to get out and clear the roads by the time I needed to leave for work.  So I was driving to work, up the same street where I had seen the dog, and who should come trotting out in front of my car?

It was clearly a sign.  So I got out, whistled, and the dog trotted right up to the car, and hopped in, just like she knew who I was, had been waiting for me, and couldn't wait to get started.  (It was always a sure-fire method of capturing Ceri when she would escape, and take off for wondrous parts unknown.  Simply drive by her in the car, whistle or call to her, open the door, and she'd jump right in, dreams of freedom and escape forgotten.)  I took her home, put her in the spare bedroom/my office, gave her food and water, figured I'd deal with the potty damage when I got home, and left for the day.

We named her Cerberus, after the black, three-headed dog that guards the entrance to Hades.  It never really seemed that appropriate, although she was a fairly good guard dog.  So we called her Ceri for short (soft s, like sari).  But that didn't really matter, either.  She pretty rapidly became Bad Dog.  She even responded to it.

And holy hell, was she bad.  She destroyed over $1,000 worth of shoes, ate blinds, peed on everything, and couldn't hold a poo to save her life.  She jumped fences, killed small creatures if given half a chance, and tried impressions of a mountain goat on our fifty-foot-high back deck railing.  She ate poos straight from the litter box, scattering litter all over the floor, made noises like a horny monkey when excited (my brother still does the best impression I've ever heard), and was a true escape artist.

But, the thing was, she was the sweetest dog I've ever seen.  She would look at you, lick your face (often smelling like cat poo, which was delightful), pant, smile, and you'd forgive her.  She was bad, but it wasn't intentional.  She was just . . . Ceri.  She existed in her own Ceri world.  Which is not to say I didn't get mad at her.  I did.  But I forgave her.  Over and over and over.

When I moved to Virginia, I couldn't take Ceri.  I would be living in an apartment the size of a glorified shoebox (okay, slightly smaller), and didn't have a yard.  I'd be gone who-knew-how-many hours a day, and Ceri would go completely nuts for even a second in such a confined space.  So she stayed with my ex-boyfriend, who eventually took her with him to Arizona.

We thought she'd be happy in Arizona.  A nice big yard, people who loved her, and lots of outside time and attention.

I got a text from my ex the evening of March 4th.  Ceri had gotten out of the yard and killed a neighbor's cat.  Shock mingled with suspicion.  How had that happened?  Had it really been an accident, or was she let out on purpose?  I felt grief for the family, knowing full well what it feels like to lose a pet.  Shock was rapidly compounded by shock.  Ceri was running up and down the street, threatening other animals and people alike.

Ceri?  My Ceri?  My Bad Dog?  Ceri had never threatened another human in her dim little life, unless one counts being drooled on and panted at a threat.  What had happened?

I still don't know.  I don't know what circumstances caused Ceri to change.  Once my ex had caught up with her, and had subdued her, and I heard how she had been changing over the months since they had moved to Arizona, he had already made the decision to have her put down.  Attacking cats was one thing, but attacking people - it wasn't something which could be tolerated.  Even the vet was supportive - it would take months and months of behavior therapy to rehabilitate her, and even that wasn't guaranteed to work.  My ex was living with his girlfriend and her three small children.  It wasn't a risk he could take.

So the morning of March 5th, he took her to the vet.  She was put to sleep.  Just went to sleep.  For the last time.  And now there's a giant Ceri-shaped hole in my heart, and enough guilt to fill an ocean.  What if I had brought her with me?  Would she still have changed, have snapped?  What had happened?

There are some things you can forgive, and some things you can forget.  I'll never forgive myself for leaving Ceri behind, and I'll never forget my sweet doggie-faced Bad Dog.