Bitten

 It started with a stray dog who greeted us at the entrance to a park. We named her Cole because like coal, she was dark and dusty. She was a feral puppy, wary but friendly. She took food when offered, walked within arms length of us but wouldn’t let us touch her.

We spent days trying to get her in order to bring her to the St. Croix Animal Welfare Center. We thought by trapping her, we would be helping her by bringing her some safety, security, treatment for her mange, have her fixed so she couldn't reproduce, and of course, to find her a forever home.

After being spayed, treated for her skin condition and given a check up by the SCAWC Vet, Cole got away. Peter had managed to trap her, bring her to the Animal Welfare Center only to have her slip out of the leash while she was being walked. Someone at the shelter said it was unlikely she’d survive. Had she stayed in the park where people fed her, she had a chance. Our intervention was detrimental. We didn't help her, we hurt her. I was heartbroken.

Still living in NY but coming to visit Peter here on St. Croix each month, I volunteered at the shelter for something to do. I had spent a few days there helping to walk the dogs, learning more about what they did, and as it turned out, to adopt. We had two dogs in NY and I wanted a medium-sized dog to compliment them. 

But when I was told that this 12-year-old short-legged, corgi mix would unlikely be adopted since he was old, had heartworm, and had been there over a month already, that’s who Peter chose for us. I agreed. 

Since I would be retuning to our home in New York and bringing him with me, we thought a perfect name would be Hamilton. After all, like this spunky dog, Alexander Hamilton was also sent to NY from St. Croix for a better life.

Then, a few weeks later, on one of my return trips to St. Croix, we volunteered to foster a short-legged pit mix.

We were told she was found wandering around after the hurricanes. She was adopted but then surrendered after the family decided to leave the island and their new pet. Dorothy would be her name because we thought it fitting that she was separated from her home after a huge storm, surrendered, but we wanted to assure her that there was no place like home.  

As it turns out, she was afraid of strangers, more accurately, afraid of men. But with Peter, she just let him scoop her up and place her in the back seat of the car. She took to me right away. I was a little worried that because I was going back and forth, she would be hurt by my absence. But she loved Peter as well and allowed him to fall in love with her.

Because she “looked” like me - short, short-legged, stocky, and "acted" like me - vulnerable, feisty, angry at times, but wanting to trust someone, love someone; I identified with her. I loved that I had thrust her upon Peter and he, never wanting a pitbull, not wanting another dog, busy, oh so busy at work; embraced her; loved her unconditionally. There was hope for him afterall. 

Peter and I call her the "Best Dog Ever," not because she's obedient because she's not; but because she does what we want her to do. Her demeanor, (for the most part), her habits, her learned traits are things we love in a dog; in her! She rarely barks (unlike our two dogs in NY who are a public nuisance). She is protective of us and so she stays close to us at all times. She is pretty mellow when we take her to a beach or for a walk, she doesn't wander away or for the most part, chase cars, people, other dogs. She isn't fixated on food and never begs. She is content lying near us as we watch TV and from the beginning had to be invited to get on the bed or the sofa. Ideal. 

But then last year, we got Tico, or should I say, he claimed us?

We found him wandering our neighborhood for a month or so. Just showed up one day. Must have
been dumped. Not wanting to live outdoors any longer, he would come right up to people, try to get in our cars, followed joggers and befriended other dogs. His markings reminded us of wild dogs in Africa. For that reason, we took a special interest in him. 

Peter borrowed a large dog trap and no sooner  had we set it, then Tico walked right in and laid right down. He was ready. 

Just less than a week, we thought we'd found him a new home. But he didn’t like her. She didn’t know how to deal with him. And so after only a few days, she brought him to a kennel, boarded him there until we returned to St. Croix to collect him. We tried to find him a suitable home, for nearly 9 months. Dorothy, surprisingly accepted him from the second she met him. There was no need for introductions. They were great together. There was no problem.

But there were signs of trouble. Outdoors, Tico was wild and free. Sure, we could walk him on a leash and he did walk along with us. But untethered, he was a wild dog for sure. We learned that when he was off-leash, he would just roam. Sure, he would circle back and check in on us. But trying to get him into the car after being on the beach was a huge pain in the ass. On several occasions we would get into our truck and drive away. That was the only way he'd come to us. And together, he and Dorothy's pack mentality caused much alarm.

There were incidents of him nipping a fisherman, “biting” our neighbor’s leg, him attacking a small dog. Did Dorothy contribute to his attacks, yes. They both attacked poor Hamilton. Tried to tear him apart, when we tried to introduce the two of them to Hammy when Mac and Hamster moved back to St. Croix last September. And then there were times when Peter feared he’d attack children innocently walking down our road.

For a time, we ignored the signs. We didn’t want it to be true. If we just kept him on a leash. If we watched him to learn his cues, we could prevent his aggression. Because in the house with us, he was a tame as any dog we knew. He cuddled with the stuffed animal chew toys he shared with Dorothy. He’d lick our faces in the morning once we started to stir, and retreat under the bed once we turned out the lights. He rarely barked. He was house broken. He showed no signs of food aggression although he would warn the puppies we were fostering that he was not happy having them nip at him or share his meal. When we brought 7 day old puppies home, he made one of them cry out because he had nibbled on her through the cage. That scared me.

One day while Macallan was home, she heard a horrible commotion coming from inside the house. Tico was attacking Dorothy. Sure, we’d get home on occasion and see some scratches, tiny bites on her underbelly, scrapes on her muzzle. We didn't think much of it. After all, several times a day, We had witnessed them "play" fighting where she, not he, really chomped down on him. With his thick black fur, I doubt he even felt it. But Dorothy had finer fur, pink skin, sensitive spots that pitbulls are known to have. To me, she was a delicate flower…I was over-protective, and rightfully so.

So, Macallan heard Tico’s growls, heard Dorothy’s cries. She ran inside and pulled Tico off of Dorothy. Dorothy was bleeding. Bite marks on her side, under her front leg. Not bad enough to warrant stitches, but we were all concerned.

Later that night, Peter said, they both seemed fine together. So, what was this all about? Had it happened before? What would have happened had Macallan not been home?

Peter called me. I was in NY. He was in St. Croix. He had the same tone in his voice I had heard when he called about Clark, our first rescue. Then, it was because Clark had had a severe seizure and was unresponsive. The Vet said Clark would have limited cognitive ability, but then, he was a dog…maybe we wouldn't notice. "What should I do?” Peter asked me since Clark was mostly my dog. I had not been home all day. I was in the ER with my 80+ year old mother. She should have been in surgery to have her appendix removed, but instead, they made us wait for hours and that's where I was when I got the call.


I told Peter to go ahead. Clark was at least 12 years old. We'd had him only a year, but I hoped, it was the best year of his life. Clark was an abused dog, uncared for, skinny, with rotten teeth and several lipomas, who was dumped by his owners in the middle of the woods, left to die. This seizure was just one of the many things we'd brought him to the Vets for. He would have poor quality of life. I said, "Give him a big kiss and huge hug from me," I told Peter.  "and tell him I love him and I'll miss him but it's time for him to rest." 

This time, with Tico, Peter was not asking me. This would be the third time we brought Tico to the shelter. The first time when we trapped him and they warned us that he would most likely be euthanized. The second time was when we had exhausted our efforts to find him another home and knew Westley, our coonhound in NY, would be moving to STX soon. We were hoping the shelter could put him up for adoption. Why not? He was loveable, he was handsome, he was certainly cool. But the shelter called us and said, they were afraid to handle him, that he was a bite risk, so we went and got him. This time, Peter felt after he attacked Dorothy, we had no choice. There was no where we could keep him if he was a threat to her. As it was, we had to keep Hamilton in our daughter's apartment downstairs and coordinate when the dogs would be let out so as not to endanger Hamilton again. And we couldn’t just re-release him to live on his own knowing he’d attacked others; dog and people alike. Peter already had an issue with Tico and a family with young children. It was a godsend Tico was on a leash. The reaction Tico had to the young children walking down our road was chilling. If he were free, he would most certainly have attacked them.

We couldn’t, in good conscience, allow him to do that. Peter hung up and I cried.

An hour or so later, I called Peter back. I had a thought, “But what if…” and Peter said, “There is no 'What if'” “OK, but what if…” And he stopped me right there. It was too late. The deed was done. 

For days, I toyed with one idea after another.

Why?

I know it was too late for Tico, but just the other day, I again broached the subject with Peter. He looked at me as if to say, 'I’ll say this one last time, he’s gone.' 

And that’s what struck me. Why? Why is it we had to make THAT decision. Was there really no alternative?

Why?

And why, Tico? 

Here I am, living with this man for 35 years in this lifetime and many other lifetimes before this. And I keep giving him a chance. Like Tico, he chose me or maybe vice versa. We chose each other. Why do I keep coming back? Why keep giving him chances? Why? 

Because I believe he has it in him to love. He has it in him to love me. We didn’t know that about Tico. Like so many that we include in our lives, we don’t really know what motivates them. What are you comfortable with? What can you handle? 

I guess, I decided long ago that I could handle what Peter has to give me. That in the end, the bites, the threats, the fear he instills is worth it.

He’s worth it.

For me, living with him, loving him, hoping he’ll one day love me, it’s all worth it.