When I was younger, my family had a springer spaniel named Oscar.
He was a beautiful dog. Gorgeous temperament, wavy ears, brown splotches, the classic puppy-dog eyes. Granted, it’s pretty difficult to find a an ugly springer.
He looked something akin to this.
He was lovely. And then he got older.
Suddenly, our beautiful family pet was unpredictable. Bordering psychotic. He would randomly attack dogs, children, adults. Eventually, our vet diagnosed him with springer rage.
He had to be muzzled most of the time. I remember taking him to an abandoned soccer field countless times with Mum and he’d run for hours. Back and forth, on and on and on. It was hypnotising.
Over the years, he progressively got worse. First it was manageable. Then Mum and Dad started to panic. They didn’t know what to do with him – they loved him so much. He was their first dog together, the dog they got to mark my first birthday. They debated sending him to a farm, when he’d have limited contact with people. But even on a farm children visit. It culminated in weekly oestrogen injections at the vet.
He attacked my dad. My mum. Countless people struck out at him because he’d nip them on the beach. Our friend’s child was the final nail in the coffin; he attacked her, bit her face and arm. Everyone heard a scream in the backyard, and rushed out to find her with blood all over her and Osc nearby with blood on his snout.
The vet asked Mum that week what it would take for them to realise Oscar wasn’t safe. His quality of life was negligible; he had to be kept chained and muzzled, separated from everyone and everything he could attack. He got limited interaction in the evening, and could run around the yard – muzzled – when it was confirmed that everyone was inside. Mum and Dad tried to give him all the attention they could, but with a dangerous dog, full-time jobs, and a young family, it was difficult. Whenever friends came over, the kids were given strict warnings about the dog. Even then, my parents would fret and worry until they left unscathed. And, as evidenced, it didn’t always work.
Oscar was put down that night. It broke my parents’ hearts to make that decision. To euthanise an otherwise-healthy dog that everyone should’ve adored instead of feared… it wasn’t fair. To anyone.
They – and by extension, I – learnt several lessons following him:
Oscar was… an experience. A heartbreaking dog with a sorry story, and no one came out unscathed.
My strongest memory is him darting back and forth, a white blur against the green of the soccer field. I hope he’s doing that now, wherever he is. In that moment, he was free. He was unshackled by his condition and the way we had to manage it.
He was happy.
via Daily Prompt: Agile
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