Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror with disgust?  In January of 2002, I had the very unpleasant task of having to put my friend of 14 years down.  Murphy-Dog, an incredibly smart and very loving, Schnauzer who lived to play and wrestle, began having seizures two years prior and it scared my wife and I.  The vet had prescribed medication, but still the seizures came.  After each one, Murphy-Dog would have to re-orient himself with his surroundings and who we were.  That was tough watching him try to regain some sense of familiarity and yet, each time …he’d come through.  He also began drinking large amounts of water and that caused him to spot, which he really didn’t want to do.  We’d find these spots in inconspicuous places, which told us he was ashamed.  Such a great dog.  The seizures became more frequent over the next two years and then, finally, he started having them almost back to back.  The medication served no useful purpose and watching him became very painful.  Then, after suffering several attacks on one fateful evening, I carried him to our bed and tried to comfort him through the night.  Early in the morning, I awoke to a loud, but strange noise which turned out to be my friend, hard in the middle of a strong seizure, kicking the wall with all four paws.  I could do nothing but watch.  When he came out of it. I laid down beside him and just let him sniff me while I stroked his fur, spoke softly to him through my own tears and gave him as much love as I could.  It was time.  By 9am, we were at the vet’s office and I carried him into the room and that is where I let down my friend.  I couldn’t watch him take his final breath and retreated to the waiting area and broke down. It was quick. The vet came out and said it was over.  I retreated even further and rushed to my car where I spent the next half hour crying like baby. Understand something, I am hard nosed, truck driver which grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, fighting and acting tough all of my life and now, when my friend really needed me …I ran like a coward.

You see, two months earlier, we lost Murphy-Dog’s life long mate, Sophie, a beautiful white Schnauzer in a house electrical fire.  Our neighbor, who knew the dogs were trapped inside, broke down the front door and got Sophie first, but she had been taken by the smoke. He then went back into the fire and found Murphy-Dog and by the time he had made it back to the front door, he was on his knees crawling and the fire department met him there.  He also, was overwhelmed by the smoke but recovered as did Murphy-Dog.  Such heroism for two dogs.  And then …there’s me.

Losing Sophie and then Murphy-Dog in such a short time frame took a toll on me that I wasn’t prepared for.  The shame of abandoning my friend, in his final moments, stays with me and if I could take that back, I would give everything I have.  Here’s a lesson …stay with your friend in that moment and don’t spend the rest of your days looking at yourself with disgust as I do.  Learn from my mistake and love your friend, as equally as possible …as they love you.

— Tim from Plainview, TX

It is with heavy heart that I write this as my wife and I have come to the decision that it is time to put to rest our cherished family friend of 15 years.  She is suffering from the basic breakdown of a dogs body that occurs over what I would consider her extremely long life.  Since she was a puppy she has always been a house dog – curling up either next to our bed or in our bed when it was time to go to sleep.  A few months ago she started having extreme difficulties climbing the stairs to our bedroom so we made a bed for her downstairs.  She has been the most faithful kind loving dog that I have ever owned and my family will miss her deeply.  Thank you for giving me a forum to express my sadness.  Ruby RIP

— Greg from Riverside, CA

Buster kitty showed up on our doorstep.  He had a collar on him that was so tight his skin had grown around it. He was almost feral, but not quite.  He didn’t trust us at all, but he was starving.  We cut his collar off and started to feed him, outside. He filled out nicely, what a gorgeous tomcat!  Took him to the vet to get him his shots, get him checked out, get him fixed, and offer him a place in our home.

We found out Buster has FIV from his time outside.

Our vet said his future is unknown, but the choice was ours .  We would be perfectly reasonable if we were to put him down, but we did in fact have a choice.  We wondered why the Vet staff, usually so friendly, was so quiet when we came in to speak with the vet.  They thought they knew how this would turn out, and had all fallen for him during his stay with them while we decided.

(Dang the dust in here, making my eyes water up…)

With some very reasonable adjustments, Buster is now a member of our family.  He got very defensive when I brought the mail in one time (I was carrying a rolled up magazine) so I’m careful about that.  Can’t say what I’d do if i found out who caused him to have  that reaction.  I know what I’d do, I just can’t say.

He’s still trying to figure out showers – warm rain inside? What’s up with that???  15 pounds of Tomcat turning into loveable fuzzball is pretty cool.  He follows us around whenever we’re home.  Needless to say he gets lots of treats to make up for his year of living on the street.

Our favorite couch potato in training!!!

— Paulie from Madison, AL

We will do anything for our pets! In 2003, at 8 years of age, Babe, a Yorkshire Terrier, was a rescue from a breeding farm.  We cared for her and nursed her back to health. She was my buddy as we moved several times in the pursuit of jobs.  You don’t always have the benefit of having human friends, but a four-legged friend loves you unconditionally. Then four years ago, she developed an allergy to regular dog food.  After several vet hopping appointments, we found one who saved her life.  But at 17 years of age, she was in her decline.  For so long, I had tried to save her life that I had adopted a regimen to keep her alive which my daughter likens to hospice.  But in the end, my blind, Alzheimers affected, deaf Babe started to show signs that she was in pain and losing strength.  It is an agonizing decision but now I am at peace as she is, too.

— Teresa from Williams, IA

I found Toby at a local animal shelter. He was lying in a cage with another dog. His back was to me, and he appeared to be sleeping. I inquired about him at the front desk. They told me he had been brought in as a stray. Through his microchip, they located his owners. They were an older couple and could not take care of him anymore. For some reason he was out wandering around on his own. Luckily for him, he was brought in where he could be safe. They told me he was 12 years old, and he had a bad heart condition. His hair was terribly overgrown, dirty and matted. In his paw areas, there were tiny wires embedded. His nails were curled under and digging into the pads of his paws.

I decided that this was the kind of dog I was looking for. I wanted to help a dog that was not only in need, but would also have a harder time getting adopted.

Older dogs, especially those with health problems have a harder time being adopted. Most people want either puppies or younger age dogs.

I brought Toby home on October 29, 2011.

I quickly set about grooming him. I was used to doing my own grooming. I always groomed our other dog that we already owned. It was almost a case of where to start first. I had to cut through thick mats all throughout his body. It took some time, but I finally got through all of the mats. I shaved him down to where he finally looked normal again. He was given a bath, where quite a bit of dirt came off. I decided to leave the nail trimming to a vet.

He was like a whole new dog. I knew he had to feel so much better. He could actually see without hair and mats in front of his eyes. After he went to the vet, he could now walk without his nails digging into his mats. Besides his bad heart and some arthritis, he was in reasonably good shape.

Toby ended up being a wonderful dog. He was loved and pampered. We loved his little quirks and personality. I wish he could have been with us longer, but eventually his kidneys failed. He passed away in my arms at home. I am so glad he was ours, even if it was only for a short time. We now have those memories to remember and enjoy. If we had never adopted him, we would not have had those memories to treasure. Even though it hurt to lose Toby, I would not have traded the joy and privilege of having known him.

— Karen from Bountiful, UT

It was my master’s wife’s fault from the very beginning. I really didn’t even find out about it until I was older, old enough to have earned some respect. For the first six months of my life, I thought my name was Kipper, a reasonably fun name for a studly square-faced boxer like me. I don’t like to brag, but I was beautiful with my brindle coat, perfectly cut ears and tail and a “chest line” to die for.

I didn’t walk, I pranced. I was the master of my domain, until of course, my master came home.  He was one of those kind of humans who tried to act stern, but I could win him over with just a bounce or two and a tail wagging for all its worth.

“Hi Kipper” he’d say.

I would shake with excitement. I’d jump around, wag and being a boxer, salivate, or as “she” called it, “slobber.” She was very nice and fed me well and regularly. But the master was the MASTER, and boy did I love my master. He had a couple of kids, a girl and boy, but he was the real boss. Anything to make him happy was my main goal in life, and when I heard that proud-of-me tone in his voice, it was a thrill and a chill. I could be deliriously happy for days.

The boy kid was named Rand. He was great fun and played with me all the time, but he knew who my heart and loyalty really belonged to…his dad.  At about 6 months after my ear forms were removed, I remembered a conversation the boy had with the master’s wife, his mother.

They were talking about my name “Kipper” and he asked his mother where she’d gotten the name. To my shock and chagrin she said “Oh, I took it from a can of Kipper Snacks.  What did she think I was a fish? I was burned. I’m not a fish. I have papers to prove that I’m a full-fledged registered, good-looking if I do say so myself, Boxer. I have my pride, ya know! But it only got worse.

The wife tells the kid that Kipper was just my nick name.  Oh great, if my nick name is taken from a can of kippered herring, what name did this woman put on my official registration papers. I dreamed, of course, that if I could read, I would read on my papers: “King the Magnificent,” “Lord of the Manor and Grounds,” or “Glorious Idol of Dogdom.” My mind flew into ever more fanciful dreams of my glorious name.

Then I heard it. I was more than bummed. It was, well, embarrassing that a splendiferous specimen like me had the officially registered name of, I can hardly say it: “Jotta, Jotta, Jing, Jing.” Where in heaven’s name did this female person come up with that? I should have taken a dump on her kitchen floor! That would have taught her.  She told the kid that they used really strange names on the official registration papers so that was the name she gave me.

I’ll tell ya, I could hardly prance for nearly a week after that. But my master always loved me and was my real link with my inner perfection. I quickly suppressed my ignoble name deep into my brain and regained my princely place in the den.

When I was about a year old I began hearing a strange word these humans started calling me. They kept saying I was really smart. I didn’t know what smart meant, but the respect with which they used it meant something so I decided to accept it with honor.

I think I started hearing the “smart” word when I learned how to hold the screen door open, push on the inner door and come into the house all by myself.  I was supposed to be invited in, but because everybody loved me, I always got away with it.

As great as I was, I had this one tiny, little, trivial habit that was not welcomed by my master. Frankly, I didn’t think it was a flaw at all. It was just me and my natural “talent.”

I told you about my ability to get into the house. Well, when I did that I headed straight for my master’s chair, settled beside him and reveled in my closeness to the alpha dog.  But there was this “thing” I kept doing and my master would explode furiously because most of the time, I’d snuck in beside him usually without him knowing I was even around. He’d read the newspaper and watch TV and I would bask in his glory dreaming of coming to his aid in his time of need in an instant.

But, there was that one little flaw that kept interfering with our harmonious communion. The humans called it “cutting the cheese.” I had no idea what that meant, but with me, they called it “cutting the blue cheese.” My master would rail and scream.

“This creature is turning the air blue!!!”

Since most of the time he didn’t realize I had crawled flat on my belly to my position of honor right beside him under the arm of his chair, the only way he knew I was there was when the air turned that unmistakable shade.

He’d come unglued and I knew I had to get out of there before it all hit the fan, so to speak. I’d scramble like a scalded squirrel, legs flailing and sliding on the linoleum in every direction just to get out of there. Hey, it wasn’t my fault that I was blessed with a prodigious digestive tract.

Life in the master’s den was heaven. But one day I decided to head out to see what was “out there.”  Having lived in luxury for all my years on earth, I was not prepared for the outside world. Within a few blocks of the den, I got lost and was forced to eat anything I could find. Posters, rewards, searchers and animal lovers looked for me.  But I was gone a whole week before I was found. When I was found and brought home I was emaciated and sickly. Weeks of the best food and veterinary care, unfortunately, were not enough.

The report from the vet was grim. He said I’d eaten something that had hurt my heart. I was only seven.  Now, when I played with the boy, I’d jump up on his chest and then go completely stiff and collapse shaking onto the ground.  My master said it was cruel to allow me to continue in this pain, so with what the humans call prayers and tears I was taken to another place.
Of course, I never knew my end.  My master took me to the Humane Society.  The boy went with us.  I didn’t know what was happening, but then I was terribly sick.  The kindly man at the society told the boy that he knew a lot about dogs might be able to fix me.  My master knew the story was to give the boy a little hope that Kipper was with this kind man.  But the truth was, my heart could not be repaired.  The man’s story was simply a way to alleviate an excruciatingly painful experience for the boy.  My master knew the impossible truth. Later that day I went to sleep.
My master said he could never have another dog because none would ever match up to “Jotta, Jotta, Jing, Jing,” Also lovingly known as Kipper.

— Rand from Springville, UT