Putting Down Your Dog

 

South Dakota Governor Kristi Noem’s confession that she shot and killed her chicken- eating 14 month old “puppy” was not well-received.  In fact, she’s no longer a likely candidate for Trump’s VP running mate.  I suppose it would have been better if she had sent her dog to a sanctuary city where there were no chickens or the chickens were protected from dogs who liked to chase and eat them.  As a last resort I reckon she could have subbed out the canine capital punishment to a vet who would have done the deed with drugs and new age meditation music playing in the background. I don’t have a problem with what Governor Noem did.  But I grew up in a time and a place when people were actively and directly involved in the life and death of animals, including pets.  And it wasn’t easy, especially for kids. 

 

When I was 12 years old I had to shoot my dog.  I had taken in a stray.  He was probably less than 2 years old.  A mixed breed that appeared to have some Brittany Spaniel in him.  I named him Rebel and I loved that dog.  In those days dogs stayed outside.  We did not have “inside dogs”.  We might let a cat in now and then, but no dogs.  Rebel eventually got sick.  I’m not sure what all was wrong with him, but he had the mange along with constant diarrhea and he had quit eating.  My dad made it clear: my dog, my problem..

 

I was a big kid and already had a 16 gauge shotgun.  I remember it well.  At close range I shot Rebel in the head.  It was a mess.  He never knew what hit him.  I buried him out in the woods and never went back to his grave.  I cried and it haunted me for a long time.  But I accepted that it had to be done and I was the one to do it.  I chose not to tell people about it.  Even back then some folks would have thought it was a bit much for a 12 year old to handle.

 

These days we take our old dogs to the vet.  We stay in the room and hold them while they drift away.  The vet takes the body and in a week or two we get the ashes.  It’s a whole lot easier on us than shooting and burying the dog.  And I’d like to think it’s easier on the dog.  No final memories of us looking at each over a gun barrel.  But the dog is still dead.  I go home and cry.   The loss of a dog still haunts me.  But this way I don’t have blood on my hands and people won’t hate me.