This is where I will say a few words about a dog that wasn't mine. His name was chewy, and he was a cockapoo. He belonged to my father-in-law, and when he died the dog was meant to go to the shelter. The problem was, this dog was my father's whole world, and they would have likely put him down. He was meant to be 20-25 pounds, but he was 50. He was in terrible health, could hardly get up when he sat down, snarled and bit. But in the memory of my father-in-law, I took him in and tried to rehabilitate him.


The first few nights he was so upset going through separation anxiety that I slept near him on the floor. For the first three nights, he was gasping and having trouble breathing, and his nose would bleed a lot. I thought he might die. I worked really hard to get him right. I groomed him myself. He trusted me more than others, and would snarl but wouldn't bite me. I got him down to 24 pounds. I tried everything to get him to turn around, but his biting got worse. He bit my sister, bit my kid, and was starting to follow them around being scary and threatening. I made the really really hard decision to put him down. I sobbed.


These are pictures of him before and after. The last one was the day I took him to the dog park when it was empty. He had never been, and it made him really really happy. I am glad he had that moment right before the end. I'd like to think my father-in-law would have loved to see it.







RIP Chewy.