Annabelle's Story

I always knew that when it comes to people and things that I love, I would always make the choice that is best for them, no matter how painful it is for me. Because at the end of the day, the person or thing you love is what matters most.

I always knew that concept. And have always given advice to others to take their own pain out of an equation when thinking about what matters for their family, friends, kids, and even pets. Sure, the person we love doesn't want us to be in pain - but when we have to make a decision between their welfare or not, our sadness doesn't matter. Not when it comes to their safety or health.

But, at the age of twenty-four, I had never had to make that choice personally. That was until I had to make a choice that would take away a family member from our house forever. I made a choice to give up Annabelle.

Annabelle was a rescue we picked up about 15 years ago. Mum and I had been out and

in the little town that we lived in at the time, Coarsegold Ca. We already had two cats and another dog Rocky (who is and always has been quite spoiled and loved) so when we saw the poster with a picture of black Labrador mixed puppies we were hesitant.

But something pulled us, and we drove for 45 minutes on back mountain roads completely lost while our GPS signal cut in and out and kept saying "Oops, my bad. You were supposed to turn right back there. Onto the cliff drop off." We found the address advertising the "free puppies need homes" and it was a scary place. A run-down house with heaps of junk scattered about. The people met us outside and said they were round back.

Mum had said something similar to "I'll wait here. If they try to kill or rape you scream so I know to drive away." It's always a joke between us - a little jest we make to make us laugh out loud when we're in an uncomfortable situation.

I went around back to this big chain-link kennel cage where a big lobby dog with hanging teets slinked away from me like I was going to hurt her. In the kennel were four or five lab puppies. It reeked of filth, urine. The girl that showed me around back told me that her dad was going to keep them and had been trying to 'train' them but he'd left so they were giving them away.

I didn't think anything of it at the time. The pups all seem normal. Scrambling, excited and when I entered the kennel I looked down at them as they all climbed over each other to get to me to say hello. I've always had a thing for runts of the litter. And the smallest pup there was getting walked on and knocked over and she slunk away to the back to be sad.

So I went over to her and petted her, talking in a soft voice. I could see how sad she was, how miserable. But when I touched her soft puppy head and said hello, those sad brown eyes looked up at me with surprise, and she gave a little wag of her tail, before cuddling up to me.

I had to have her.

Mum fell in love with her instantly too. So we put her in the car, said thank you to the strange mountain people who lived in a very scary place, and went on our way. We had also decided to tell our family at the time that we picked her up off the Highway - because we knew we would be in T-R-O-U-B-L-E for bringing another pet home.

On the way home, she sat in my lap, looking around. She was the calmest puppy I had ever seen. She wasn't frantically wagging her tail or romping about the car sniffing things in curiosity. Mum was petting her, both of us talking to her. We were talking names, and I was telling her that she'd been the runt - and Mum gave me her approval of the choice. Runts are good.

We made it to our driveway which was actually a very steep climb up a tall mountain..and the little brat peed on me. Full on, let loose of the bladder pee. Right there. In my lap. She was scared though, and even though I was soaked - and very grossed out - it was a bonding experience. My mother almost peed herself laughing. Funny enough, it was the moment I fell in love with her. Looking at her scared beautiful eyes, listening to mom laugh hysterically, I couldn't help but laugh too, and rub her ears, telling her it was okay. When I reassured her, I felt her little body relax for the first time since I grabbed her. She buried her nose in my neck and snuggled in.

As expected our men gave us grief about bringing her home (not for long, she had them hooked and in love by midnight). And she began to explore the house while I went and showered and changed thanks to my new obviously-not-potty-trained-at-all puppy.

It took us hours to settle on a name. Mom wanted something to do with Bell, and I was stuck on Anna or Ana. So finally we settled for a combination of the names with Annabelle. It was perfect. And we were both immensely pleased with it. Took Annie forever to learn her name though.

There were some issues. One day, she scared herself and began to scream while she was outside for no particular reason. And she was the hardest dog to potty train ever! But we didn't give up.

And it turns out that she had some issues. Sometimes while she slept, she would pee on herself. A visit to the vet told us that incontinence in a dog this young could mean she has health issues ... or she was kicked. Hard. It disturbed me, and after talking to Mum about it and telling her how the girl had said that her dad or uncle or someone was keeping them and training them before he left, we came to the conclusion that maybe Annabelle was abused. It would make sense. The attitude of the mother dog when I walked in, Annie being the runt of the litter. It made us sad, but it gave us a new respect for our little girl. Of everyone, Mum and I were the ones Annie was attached to the most. She was our little baby girl. I was Mommy, and Mum was their Grandma. They knew who was talking about when we said "Go get Grandma." Or "Go tell Mommy about it." My fiancée at the time, Kam was even known as "Daddy."

Our favorite thing would be to watch Kam wrestle or pick on them, blow in their nose or mouth. Then I would say "Is Daddy being mean to you?" and that was the secret password to the "breaking." Being Broken in our house means when one of the animals is being spastic or hyper. Running around and sliding and chasing nothing in particular, barking and rolling on the ground, crouching low and wagging their tail furiously waiting for one of us to move, just so they can run off and come back at top speeds. That's what being Broken means. And we were very very good at breaking our dogs so they could zoom back and forth happily.

So we got her a doggy diaper (which she hated! She was so embarrassed every time we put it on her), and I began to buy expensive and special food for both of the dogs. No fillers, or corn, or grains, no salt, or beetroot. And eventually went from commonly peeing the bed like a baby to rarely - and only in times where she wasn't feeling good.

The thing about Annabelle was she didn't know how to play. She had no idea what a ball or a rope toy was for. And she just had no idea what we were doing when we would playfully box her muzzle to try and get her to wrestle with us. When Rocky or the cats tried to play with her, she'd have a "What are you doing, you Weirdo?" expression on her face.

We literally had to teach her to play. We succeeded in the end. She knew how to play by the time she was 3, and grew progressively better at it over time. It was like she was aging in reverse or something.

We also found as she grew older that if Rocky yelped or got hurt, she would attack him! The first two years, nothing like this happened - once Rocky beat her up because we fed them in the same room... Turns out he's food aggressive (to this day, he gets fed in a room by himself so there are no oopsies. Mostly because our cats are pigs and try to steal his food from him) and he was used to being the only puppy so he'd pick little fights at first out of jealousy. It was literally like introducing a one-year-old to a newborn baby sister.

During those spats, Rocky would come out on top, but no one would get hurt. He wouldn't actually put his teeth into Annabelle and we'd pull them apart and I would do the "I'm the Alpha" pin-down routine. She'd be scared and sit in my lap or at my feet for a while until Rocky would come with his tail between his legs and lick her. Then they would go play and that would be the end of it.

One day, Rocky hurt himself and yelped, and Annabelle lost it. She attacked him, viciously. When we finally got them apart and calm. Rocky had puncture wounds on his shoulders, and Annabelle went limp in our arms, her eyes glassy like she had just fainted. It was scary. Rocky is an American Staffordshire Terrier, and things happened so fast we thought maybe he had caused the fight. Don't get me wrong, I think the stereotypes about Staffies and Pits are all misconceptions born from ignorance. But you have to know the breed to be able to handle them. And sometimes they can be a bit aggressive. But my Mum and her partner saw it happen, and it was Annie who had attacked him.

Weird. And scary. Then a few months later. It happened again. And then again a few months later after that. These attacks were always without warning. If Rocky nipped at a cat for clawing him, or if another dog was visiting. Annabelle always went after Rocky. She'd never hurt another animal. Despite these fights which were concerning, they seemed to love each other very much.

She would apologize, and act ashamed. After the fights she would get so depressed she wouldn't eat for a few days. She'd barely move unless I picked her up and made her walk. And Rocky... well. He's a gentle soul. He would always forgive her and snuggle up to her a few days after, licks her and try to cheer her up. He was the only thing that could get her to perk up after one of their spats. Together Rocky and Annabelle raised a kitten we had brought home, and then when she got knocked up (she escaped. Twice this happened before we could get the little hooker fixed!) Annabelle and Rocky were the most loving Grandparents to these kittens that would ever see. An American-Staffordshire Terrier and a Labby, helping their kitty (It wasn't our cat. Was theirs! To this day, Rocky is the only one Crystal will willingly cuddle up to) raise her babies.

I remember once, I caught Annabelle picking the kittens up from their box in the living room, and taking them one by one to my bed so she could take a nap with them. It was so cute, seeing a little kitten in her mouth as she happily walked through the house to get to my room. I couldn't even tell her no or put them back.

The fights were rare. Until we moved to Texas. The move was stressful. In the car, they were curled up and clinging to each other. They had no idea what was going on or where Mommy was taking them. When we got to our new house, they were stressed. They were on edge and aggressive and sure enough, a fight happened. So my partner and I went down and bought them muzzles. We put them on them and kept them on them for a few weeks until we settled in, had the house set up, and things arranged in a way that they were familiar with. For several years, things went on like this. Sometimes nobody got hurt... sometimes Rocky and Mommy and Grandma would all come out with wounds.

But fights were getting more frequent. And we were becoming more distrustful of having them in the same room together alone for fear of one of Annebelle's "episodes." Rocky was becoming a pink, brown, and white ball of anxiety. And he would cringe if she came near him without her muzzle. When I went to Australia to be with my partner for a year is when it hit its worst.

I will forever feel guilty about being that kind of stress for Annabelle. When I finally made plans to come for a visit in order to arrange for their transportation to Australia to be with my husband and me, I was devastated to learn that about a week before my flight Annabelle and Rocky got into another fight.

This time it was bad. My mum had gotten used to taking them in the car with her everywhere. They loved going "Bye-Bye" and they would sit in the back seat, happy as daisies. Even if they didn't get to go out of the car, even if it was just a five-minute ride.

Unfortunately that fateful day a truck had pulled up next to the car with a Dog in the back. The dog barked at them, not aggresively. Just saying hello.

Bryan held onto Rocky's leg and they rushed him to an Emergency Vet and he went into surgery. She'd torn the main artery in his leg, and he would have bled out in minutes if it weren't for the quick action of everyone who'd been involved.

I came home, and she was constantly muzzled. We'd made the active decision to only move Rocky to Australia. And my husband talked to several dog behavior specialists. Everything we had done to try and break Annabelle of this had failed. And the attacks were only getting worse.

It turns out that Temperament issues which are what Annie had couldn't be fixed like Environmental issues. The behaviorist said that they usually form when they are young, set into the brain by an event, or repeat actions of their surroundings. They also said that when dogs fight, going for the neck is normal, but when they start going for the legs, they are aiming for the kill.

Annabelle had attacked Rocky a week after his surgery. Mom had tried one more time to have the muzzle off so they could be together and Rocky hurt his wounded leg or something, and Annabelle went off. Luckily, Rocky had a huge cone of shame on his head and it kept her from getting to him. No one got hurt.

Unfortunately for us, the Behaviourist specialist also said it could get worse. Aggression might be shown towards other animals or even people. They said that sometimes dogs just get broken, and they deteriorate over time. There's nothing to be done to help them.

It was heartbreaking news. My husband and I had cried on the phone, knowing that our Annie could get worse as she gets older. But we hoped taking Rocky out of the picture would be less of a stressor, maybe it wouldn't get worse. It wasn't set in stone.

The final straw was one night, about three weeks after I was home, there was another episode. But this time, Annabelle had started out going after Natasha, one of the cats. And when Natasha ran behind the couch, she went after Rocky. Annabelle had her muzzle on, thank heaven. But she was going after his legs, and all Rocky could do until we pulled her away and pinned her down until she snapped out of it.

That muzzled saved us another vet bill. And thank goodness.

First off, you all need to know. Annabelle was not vicious. She loved people. She was a kind, loving dog. She just had moments where her mind would break, and she would lose herself to whatever was in her brain that made her forget for a moment where and who she was. I personally think it was pain and fear. If she'd been kicked hard enough when she was little to cause permanent damage to her kidneys and bladder like the Vet said.. what else had she experienced?

Annabelle loved the cats. As mentioned earlier, she and Rocky practically raised two litters of kittens together. Cleaning them, loving them, protecting them, soothing them when they were scared. All but nursing. And Natasha and Annabelle had been good friends since they were both really young when we brought Annie home. In fact, the fourth picture in this blog is Natasha (Nana) and Annabelle snuggling together - giving me an annoyed look because I've taken pictures of them together a billion times already.

You can see in the pictures, Annie playing with Rocky, snuggling the cats. Smiling and panting. She wasn't a bad dog. And she wasn't normally vicious, or an animal we kept separate. They all slept in the same beds together, played together. So that night, I held her in my lap as she went limp with guilt and shame, and cried.

Mum and I made the decision that in the morning, we would say goodbye. Three attacks in a month. It was the worst it'd been. She went after a cat. And she did it with the muzzle on. She was at her worst. And we came to the conclusion that she couldn't live like this. If she was going after cats it meant we wouldn't be able to trust her after Rocky was in Australia still with the muzzle off.

And how long till she accidentally hurt one of us? I couldn't give her away to someone. What if they have kids? Or they get another dog? Or cats? I know my Annie, and I know for a fact she wouldn't have been able to live with herself if she accidentally killed another animal. Because she loved everyone from the moment she saw them.

She'd gone from a curiously calm and withdrawn puppy to a happy tail-wagging social butterfly. But she had problems. And I could not live if she had to be muzzled 24/7 (she hated it. She was constantly depressed with it on), or in a kennel outside. She was way too smart about escaping anyway. I did not want her to go, I didn't want to give her up. She was my baby and had been for seven years. She was my cuddle buddy, my friend, my baby. I was the one she went to when she was scared or upset. And she helped me through a lot - she was always there when I needed her.

Seven years of memories, and most of them were of her making me laugh, smile. Of me loving her literally like my child. It felt like I was betraying her, and giving up on her. But at the end of the day, despite my arguments to myself as to why we shouldn't... it came down to it what was best for her. Painless. To go while she still knows she's a good girl, and that we love her.

So we fed her yummy treats. I slept with her one more time. We all said goodbye. We had her say goodbye to Rocky. Rocky, was confused, but when I made them get close to each other, he began to lick her ear that morning. And it made me cry hard. But I was so grateful. He licked her ear and loved on her, telling her he wasn't mad at her before she left. It was like he understood that she needed to know that day.

And he was never mad at her. Just a little terrified. Rightly so. And so, Mum and I, much the same way we brought her into the family took her away. We stayed with her and held her while she went to sleep at the vet's, told her that she was a good girl and that we love her. Cried over her for about twenty minutes after she was gone.

It's been about 7 years now after her passing We got her cremated and to this day she sits on my shelf in my house. The pain isn't there anymore, but the love still is.

I still miss her at night when I know she's supposed to be climbing into bed with either me or my Mum. I miss rubbing her velvet-soft ears on my cheek as I cuddle her. I miss her pacing around in the morning, clicking her nails on the wood saying in her doggy way: "Mommy, I really have to go potty, get out of bed now please!" Her loud and almost manly bark at the cats when she got excited. Her big brown eyes just stared intently at you when you had something yummy in your hands, or when she just wanted you to pet her.

It's been hard, getting used to life without her. But I know what I did was best. And the next time that I tell somebody: "I know it's super hard, but you have to do what is better for them," about anything. I will actually understand and not just through empathy. Letting her go was the hardest and most painful decision I've ever had to make up to date. Sometimes when I am missing her the guilt and second-guessing my decision brings me down even further. But in the end... she's not in pain anymore.

I have two dogs now, and have since then lost another good special rescue. All of my animals are rescue, and I will never regret living a life where I activley rescue and rehome animals.

Sometimes acts of love or mercy are the most painful acts you'll ever commit. But, upon reflection, I'm realizing that the reason why we find the strength to carry out those acts and make those decisions comes from that love.

Sometimes letting go is the best thing you could ever do for them. It may not feel like it. And it may hurt like hell to do it. But in the end, if they are safer, or better for it - it's the right thing to do. And you will find a way to bear it because you love them.

I love you, Annabelle. And I always will. In my heart you stay, and I hope I get to see you beyond the rainbow bridge.