[Paddyjack]

Radio station Q107-FM/Toronto disc jockey John Derringer read the essay

from a dog's point of view, "How Could You?" during morning drive-time April
11th 2002 and literally stopped traffic. Some drivers began crying so hard
they had to pull off the road and listeners flooded the station with e-mail
messages and phone calls. Some reported that their coworkers were still
crying when they got to work.

HOW COULD YOU? By Jim Willis 2001

When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh.
You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple
of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad,"
you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" but then you'd
relent, and roll me over for a bellyrub.

My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were
terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of
nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and
I believed that life could not be any more perfect.

We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice
cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said),
and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of
the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and
more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently,comforted
you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad
decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in
love. She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" -- still I welcomed her into
our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because
you were happy.

Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was
fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them,
too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of
my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to
love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and
pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated
my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and
their touch -- because your touch was now so infrequent -- and I would have
defended them with my life if need be. I would sneak into their beds and
listen to their worries and secret dreams, and together we waited for the
sound of your car in the driveway.

There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you
produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me.
These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had
gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every
expenditure on my behalf.

Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they
will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the
right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only
family. I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal
shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled
out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They
shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing
a middle-aged dog, even one with "papers."

You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No,
Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what
lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and
responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a good-bye pat
on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and
leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.

After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your
upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home.
They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules
allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first,
whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you
that you had changed your mind -- that this was all a bad dream... or I
hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me.

When realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of
happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and
waited I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I
padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet
room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to
worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was
also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love h ad run out of days. As is my
nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs
heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood. She
gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek.
I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago.
She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting
and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked
into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said "I'm so sorry." She
hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a
better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to
fend for myself -- a place of love and light so very different from this
earthly place. And with my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her
with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not directed at her. It
was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait
for you forever.

May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.

The End

A note from the author:

If "How Could You?" brought tears to your eyes as you read it, as it did
to mine as I wrote it, it is because it is the composite story of the
millions of formerly owned pets who die each year in American and Canadian
animal shelters. Anyone is welcome to distribute the essay for a
non-commercial purpose, as long as it is properly attributed with the
copyright notice.
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PJ --- ancient IDIOT with a rusty CROWBAR....
but still SWINGING!




Rock2..... JUST SAY NO!!!!!

[Stevo]

Wow that is sad...
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Song of the Week

[Kahlan Amnell]

poor puppy
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http://ctprofiles.net/799963

[[NoClan]Lunt]

It shall make someone in a chinese restaurant very happy....the glass is always half full......
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DON'T HUNT WHAT YOU CAN'T KILL......

[Mike]

that made me feel more like " that guy is an arsehole" then feeling sad for the dog
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R.I.P. Blue

[powdermilkman]

that really hurts being a dog a lover that i am. I could never put a dog to sleep...i almost had to with one of my dogs (giant standard poodle named chloe) because she had a stroke of some sort but she died as peacefully as she could in her sleep. I would not move to a place that would not let me take my dog and if i did (which i wouldn't) i would personally see to it that the dog went to a family that wanted her/him. ERR this guy if it was a true story shouldn't have kids or a dog not a very good person at all.

I think someone once said "you have to have permits and paperwork for everything in the world except to own a dog or have children" strange how the world works huh.

Powder

[KopiKat]

A sad story indeed, however one has to remember what life really is: life is a structural arangement of atoms that happens to self replicate. It is merely something that happens to exist because something before it replicated. We're all chemicals, and so are our emotions. When something dies, its not a sad occasion, its just the atoms in it starting their journey to a new place, to serve a new purpose, wether it be food for a plant, or oil for our cars, and the emotions we feel are just reactions in our body which govern a certain corporeal response.

Life is just a container for our soul. What happens to our physical form does not matter, living organisms are just a fleshy vector for experiences which will shape the soul. If you remember that what ever happens to your body has no recourse if your soul remains pure, then death will hold no lament. Jesus Christ understood this, that is why he told his apostles not to lament his death.

If still you cannot bring yourself to stay dry eyed about death, then heed this bit of advice that I recieved from a personal mentor of mine: If you believe that the person(or dog) who has passed on loved you, would they want you to be sad? If they loved you, they would be happy if you were. And if you loved them, wouldn't you want them to be happy in the end as well?

-KK
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[Speaker's Xeno]

man that hit me really hard. i had a dog back when i was growing up and we had to get rid of it because it would attack me(being around a toddlers age you can see why its not goot) but i did love that dog and i wish we didnt have to get rid of it
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