Somewhere in years past, I remember hearing that everyone is supposed to get their heart really broken at least once. Well, that never did suit me. I have been very careful about relationships — I do not waste my time or affections unnecessarily and can say that no man has ever really broken my heart. But even as I write this, I am weeping because Columbia broke my heart yesterday, and my heart broke for Baxter, because I wasn’t strong enough to save him.
It all started exactly two weeks ago. A badly wounded pit bull wandered up to my house. When I say my house, I mean that I live in rental housing near the college I just graduated from, and they do not allow anything but non-poisonous and non-carnivorous fish. It makes me laugh that they specify, but knowing college students and 20-somethings, it is probably necessary!
Anyway, ever since my family who lives back in Georgia moved to a country town several years ago, we have been rescuing dogs. We’ve always been animal people, and we originated from the north, where animal people are abound and apparently run things. I’ve lived in the south for over half my life now, and I love many things about it — it is home, and I am mostly a southerner. I’m an old-fashioned, conservative Christian and love chivalry and hospitality. Please let that sentiment be the context for this article.
Living in the country, my family learned that people in the south often do not get their dogs spayed, neutered, etc. and then let them roam. And when dogs then get pregnant, many do not want to deal with puppies, so they drive to the middle of nowhere for the pregnant dog to die or somehow manage to survive with newborn puppies. We took to helping some of these needy mothers and babies, and met a few others like us along the way.
So when a badly wounded pit bull wandered up to my rental house, and I could tell in moments that he was sweet, I decided to rescue him. In six long, emotional roller coaster days, I nursed this poor boy back to health, and we fell in love with each other. He worshiped me, and I doted on him with all the nurturing that a big softie like me had unknowingly stored up for a very long time. All of the things I had learned as a psych major about self-care flew out the window. My trust-in-God spirit was assaulted by constant maternal worry that I would have judged someone else for having. I worked at my job helping elderly people all day, but early morning and night were consumed by helping Baxter. Even my weekend was consumed, and my mother drove up from Georgia to help me (with a rescue of her own at home) so I wouldn’t fall apart.
I found out that Baxter was simply a sweetheart. He was a lot like a calm golden retriever. He loved strangers, crowds and every shape and size of people, even children. He let me put ointment in his wounds without ever trying to bite me. He snuggled me and kissed my face. We took him to the vet, and they treated his wounds and gave him a painful shot to numb and drain an infected abscess, but as long as they were petting him, he wagged his tail and let them do their job. I could reach my hand in his food dish while he was eating. We even did a few simple temperament tests on him, and he passed with flying colors — this dog had no human aggression whatsoever.
Within days, he adored me, and by the end of the week he was crying like a big baby every time I left him. Since I wasn’t supposed to have him there at all, I kept him chained outside to an old barn building that provided shelter. I treated him for fleas and ticks and bathed him. I spent hundreds and hundreds of dollars on him between food, toys, collar/leash, vet bills, etc. and, against my protests, my parents chipped in too.
But Baxter had been in a fight.
We believe he may have been an ill-cared-for family dog that was dumped, or that he was used as a bait dog in a dogfight. Since I live in a safe bubble within a pretty bad area, it’s a likely scenario. When I had taken him to the vet, one of the assistants told us that if we took him to the pound, they would kill him in 72 hours because of his breed and injuries. I was already an emotional train wreck, because my mother thought his infected abscess was cancer, and I thought the trip to the vet might have been one way. When I learned that he would be fine with an antibiotics regimen, along with ear medicine and pain/anti-inflammatory medicine, not to mention a rabies shot, I was jubilant. That day especially (and all week), I made him promises to protect him no matter what. He did not understand my words, but he trusted me completely.
That week, I called just about everyone in South Carolina, with some help from my mother. Every rescue and every pit bull rescue we could find. We posted him on a rescue website and Facebook. Every place I could even get through to was completely full. The best they could do was help me foster, but I was not allowed to. I seriously considered moving, but with my recently graduated status, alumni housing is the only really safe housing I can afford, and my parents started to panic that I would get myself killed. It wasn’t until I realized that Baxter was exhibiting loving, protective alpha behavior toward me that I started to worry. In a hail Mary, a family I know thought about adopting him, but first they brought out their little dogs at a distance to meet him. My sweet boy turned into a ferocious killer for a minute until the dogs were back out of sight. Apparently that’s completely normal for his breed. And I knew I was out of options, because I am a petite woman who is just not an alpha, and I could never have controlled him even if I moved.
My mother had spoken with a member of the humane society and gotten a very different account of the pound, so I called them. The humane society representative spun a very different tale than the vet had. He said there was a lot of pressure on the pound to become no kill, and they did a great job adopting out animals and working with all the rescues. I realized that rescues were much more likely to take him from the pound. I was told that unless he was basically dying or couldn’t be rehabilitated at all, he would be fine. In addition, I knew I could keep lobbying for him from the outside. From what I had heard and the counsel I received from friends and family, it seemed like a pretty decent option, and I was totally out of options.
So I took a half-day off of work and a friend came with me to take Baxter to the pound. My neighbors had already tried calling animal control before, and I worked with them to give us time. But eventually, Baxter and I both would have been evicted. One way or another, he was going to the pound. I called ahead and was told to bring some documentation of where I live, and when I explained I had some work insurance documents with my name and address, they said that would be fine. Since I am subleasing until September, it was about the best I could find on short notice.
When we finally got to the pound, full of emotions, with vet records, medicine, food, toys, bedding and my documents, I was in for a surprise. The lady asked if I had a SC license, lease papers or water or electric bill. I had not been informed I needed those on the phone, but offered what I had brought and tried to tell our story. She just kept asking for paperwork I did not have. She would not hear me out. She did not care. She was downright cold. She seemed to think we were losers trying to abandon our dog. She sent us away.
My half-day turned into a full day off of work, and I waited for hours to try and get my lease papers signed. But our rental manager explained that since they wouldn’t be in effect until September, the unhappy intake lady probably wouldn’t accept them anyway. My friend and the rental manager called several people at animal control, and we asked everyone we could think of who might have had lease papers in the county to go with us.
What was I supposed to do? The rental manager now knew the situation and told me I couldn't keep Baxter in the yard. Was I supposed to take him off his chain? He would stay there anyway, it was home to him now. I couldn't take off any more work to take him in, and the pound is closed on Sundays, even if I found someone with proof of residency in the county. Was I supposed to drive to the middle of nowhere and dump a now-healthy pit bull?
Finally, animal control called us back and said we could bring Baxter in with the same papers we brought him with in the first place. Yet if I had just called them from my house to pick him up, with or without investing anything, they would have eventually driven out 30 minutes to take him.
We were treated with more decency the second time we brought Baxter in, but it was clear they still didn’t care much about any of us. I tried as hard as I could to let them know what a sweet personality he had and that he had no human aggression whatsoever. But the lady more or less told me that nothing I said mattered much; they would do their own assessment. He was scared, and I worried that they wouldn’t see his true self in that environment, but knew he was good to humans. They told me that since I had had him a week (which was not true, it was six days at most) that I was somehow legally his owner abandoning my dog, which frustrated me a bit, but I went along with it all.
They warned me that the shelter was not fully no kill, and there were no guarantees, but it sounded like a disclaimer. I’m not sure they ever believed that I wasn’t just a loser abandoning my dog. I guess they hadn’t seen a good samaritan care in a while. I felt like I was abandoning my child, not at kindergarten but at prison, and they wouldn't even let him keep his few toys or towels for comfort. Though I silently wept as they led him away, I still had high hopes. My biggest concern was his emotional transition. I was still going to fight for him, and I had done all I could — more really.
After a call that provided no information the next morning, I decided to let it rest a bit and take care of myself. I had not been such an emotional wreck since high school, if ever. So I prayed daily for his comfort, and finally took care of myself.
In the process of talking with a rescue organization that didn’t shut the door in our faces, they asked me to check on Baxter’s status. It had been almost a week since I dropped him off, and they wanted to know for sure that he was still alive before doing anything. I assured them that things should be fine, the pound here was supposed to be good (despite how they had treated me). So I called to check on him.
The lady on the phone couldn’t quite muster a compassionate voice when she informed me that “unfortunately” he had been “euthanized.” I was shocked, horrified and grieved. I tried to protest, I tried to say that he was good with humans, he could have been rehabilitated, but she just said he was assessed by both the so and so and the such and such. I had told both the humane society and the intake people that he had some animal aggression, but was otherwise great, and none of them had told me that he would be put down. But over the phone, in the precious little I learned, it seems that is probably why he was killed.
When I found out, I was sitting in my office at work with my boss, since I had called twice during lunch with no answer and needed to get through to them during office hours. I had to hold it together for hours and hours until I could even get home to weep on the floor. They had killed Baxter, but I never would have gotten a phone call telling me it had happened.
Despite how they treated me, despite the tragedy of it all, despite the fact that Baxter deserved a second chance, it may be that they had little choice. The animal-control employees may have been heartless, but I doubt they were sadistic. Long ago, evil men who wanted to profit off of animal bloodshed bred pit bulls. They needed dogs that would be loyal enough to undeserving humans that they would kill each other. On top of that, Baxter was abused and fought, and that added to his dooming resume, but he still had no malice for the humans who had sealed his fate. He only loved us.
Talking with my mother, I learned that in the north, they don’t have the animal overpopulation we have. In the south, even puppies are being put down, and many dogs are homeless and suffering. People don’t care for or fix the dogs they have, nor do they restrain them. On top of that, many well-meaning but ignorant families breed their dogs for the “experience,” and breeders add even more to overpopulation for the profit of it. I have seen firsthand from my mother, her friends and the many rescue organizations I encountered that everyone who does have a heart to help gets overwhelmed to the point of being sincerely unhealthy. And for me, no matter how much will there was to save Baxter, there was simply no way. We have a problem. My heart is broken, but thousands upon thousands of innocent dogs are suffering and dying because we are bad shepherds.
If creature suffering is not enough of an incentive, maybe the gospel is. Do we even realize what we are doing to our witness? Northerners, who tend to be much more liberal and secular on average than southerners, are profoundly better shepherds than we are. It is a cultural value there to be kind and compassionate to animals, and to care for them quite well. That is in line with the scriptures, with King David’s example, and with the metaphor of God as a shepherd. When northerners see the way southerners treat animals, they are shocked and horrified. They see the hardness of our hearts, our shirking of human responsibility and they are disgusted. Honestly, if I were not already in love with Christ and a deeply committed follower of His, I would be thoroughly turned off to Christianity on this point alone. Animal lovers do not see that God is a good shepherd by looking at the Bible belt.
Our system is broken, and it needs to be restored from the roots up. When I was at the pound, I felt like Hannah when Eli the priest thought she was drunk for truly praying. They seemed to think I was a dishonest abandoner because I was a good samaritan who cared enough to weep. God is a good shepherd, so people who are made in His image, and given dominion should be too. God knit each creature together in their mother’s womb as He did us, and God’s eye is on every sparrow.
No, animals are not made in God’s image as we are, but they are made by God, and they matter to God. How we treat them is a subtle test. Non-Christians should not be putting us to shame; we should be setting the example. We live in a broken world, and innocent animals suffer because we brought sin into it, as well as for our more personal failings towards them. This is our fault. My friends and fellow southerners, for the sake of poor dear creatures like Baxter, for the sake of God’s creation, for the sake of the gospel and for the glory of God’s Name, we have got to do better.
For the record, I don't regret trying to help him. Even though I couldn't save him, I'm pretty sure that our time together was the happiest of his life, and it has touched mine forever. Every one of God's creatures should be loved at least once in a lifetime.
