Beware of Dog

Sometimes things get broken, including your heart.

By Herbert Hadad

I was still a little boy when my even littler brother, Alvin, brought to our second-floor apartment in a Dorchester triple-decker a tiny puppy he had found, or that had found him.

He cradled the puppy at his cheek, his face radiant as he approached Mother at the stove. “Ma, can I keep him? Can I keep him, please?” She had no experience with animals, and she probably feared the additional problems a puppy would bring to her household.

The puppy was gone that day, even before he had a name. Though I felt sorry for Alvin, I didn’t understand for decades the implications of his loss. Is it possible my brother never again experienced a love as pure and complete as he did that brief afternoon?

When I became a parent, I remembered my brother and vowed not to deprive my children. Instead, I looked forward to the day they would ask for a dog.

That day came when Sara Jameel, Charles Aram, and Edward Salim were, respectively, eight, ten, and eleven. My wife, Evelyn, had started law school, a longtime dream, while I worked as a freelance writer from our modest home, surrounded by exurban woods, the Rockefeller family estate, and fifty miles of trails.

Evelyn expressed reservations about getting a puppy, but they were swept away by the rest of the family’s enthusiasm. At the local animal shelter, we all scampered up and down the aisles of cages, as if we were visiting an old-fashioned candy store. After a while, there was no contention over the choice—two alert brown eyes and a cute snoot attached to a small ball of golden hide.

“Oh, you’ve chosen well,” said the shelter manager. “Mix of yellow Labrador and German shepherd. A wonderful dog for a family with young children.” As we drove him home, we vied to get close to our prize to give him a nuzzle.

We had wondered about the cats, but Megan and Tracy barely tolerated each other, and we accurately predicted that, except for an occasional curious glance, they would avoid the puppy altogether. The children named the dog Rex. “I like the name,” I said. “It’ll encourage him in regal bearing and deeds.”

Rex immediately became the object of a carefree and boundless love. We took turns visiting his quarters in the kitchen, closed off from the rest of the house by a childproof fence. He seemed happy and began to grow. We were certain that with our affection he would become a regular member of the family.

The church down the road held its annual rummage sale, and I made a great find, a sturdy doghouse donated by the Rockefeller family. “It was one of two that housed German shepherds that protected Nelson Rockefeller when he was vice president,” a sale volunteer told me. “You can have it for twenty dollars.” I only had ten. I borrowed five from the children, another five from my wife, and a workman kindly delivered the doghouse to us.

Rex quickly grew into a sleek, strong pup, but he was reluctant to enter his new home. We consulted two writing friends known for their love of dogs, Mary Cheever, and her son, Ben. “Rex is afraid of the shepherds, or at least their scent,” said Mary. We scrubbed the house. Rex crept in, turned around, and settled on his front paws as though he were gazing from his new front porch.

But we were also beginning to notice the troubling habits of our handsome dog. He was becoming too strong for comfortable walks and fought us for supremacy. Indoors, he would sit only momentarily, then leap over furniture and around lamps, causing us to limit his time inside. And, although we fed Rex attentively, he began to eat outside his diet.

By now a muscular, streamlined 75-pound young adult, he was eating wooden tool handles, clay pots, and—most troubling—my car. He once leaped on the roof, leaving a dent, chewed up the antenna, and started in on the windshield wipers. I was worried and more than a little angry, but tried to keep a sense of humor. “We named him Rex, children, but we spelled it wrong. His real name is W-R-E-C-K-S.”

We consulted the Cheevers again and signed up for the Port Chester Obedience and Training Club. While Evelyn studied the law, every Thursday night the rest of us went to teach Rex to sit, stay, come, and fetch.

I resented other dog owners’ demonstrations of how well their Cuddles and McGregors behaved. One night, the chief trainer led Rex to the middle of the floor to put him through his paces and whispered, loud enough to carry, “Oh, what a dumb dog.” I despised her for it, even as I suspected she was right.

As Rex became increasingly hard to live with, we, in our confusion, began to withdraw affection and interest, except for our son Charles, who became more dedicated and patient than ever.

He took Rex to his bed, if only for the short spells the dog would relax. He would put his face against Rex’s. I worried Rex might bite and not let go. It never happened. Clearly, like his Uncle Alvin, Charles had discovered love, and loved deeply.

But Rex not only continued his destruction of objects, he began to go after living things. He was becoming a wild animal, not a tame pet. One afternoon, I discovered he had shaken baby robins out of their nest and held a trembling chick in his mouth. Ignoring my shouts to drop the bird, he crushed it.

Off the leash, he caught and killed chipmunks, squirrels, and other small animals. “Evelyn,” I said, privately, “how long before he goes after a child, maybe one of our own?” Feeling the same kind of growing desperation, she found a target for her anguish: me. “You’re the one who wouldn’t deny the children their dog. Now the children, except for Charles, don’t even want to walk him. I feel like I have a new baby in the house, and it’s one I never wanted,” she lamented.

A few days later, just before dusk, Charles rushed into the house. “Come quick!” he yelled. “It’s Rex.” Hearing the screams of two little girls who live near us, I raced with Charles down into the woods and found the girls watching Rex destroy a woodchuck he had frightened out of its burrow. I pulled him off the woodchuck. The screams stayed in our memory.

A short time after that, one brisk weekend morning, Evelyn rose early to take Rex for a long walk on the Rockefeller estate. She returned ashen and in tears. “He pulled away from me and plunged into a meadow. He found a fawn asleep. He killed it.”

Christmas was coming, and we had decided to surprise the children with a new car, replacing the dilapidated station wagon they were ashamed to be seen in. I knew Rex would soon go to work on the new car. It wasn’t noble, but this was the goad I needed to confront the Rex problem head-on.

We consulted the animal shelter, which agreed to take Rex back. We ordered the new red Honda Accord. On Christmas Eve, we put Rex on his leash, hustled him into the old station wagon, and drove to the shelter. The people at the shelter took him out and put him in a large cage.

We explained why we could no longer keep him. “He’ll be happier on a farm, where he can run to his heart’s content,” the shelter worker said. The last time I saw Rex, he was wailing and throwing himself against the bars of the cage, knowing we’d never be back.

Mary Cheever, a kind and candid woman, heard the news of Rex’s departure. “What took you so long?” she said. “He was just not going to join your household.” We felt a little better.

Ben Cheever allowed us to hide the new Honda in the woods by his house. Christmas morning, Evelyn and I awakened at four and walked through a star-filled night to Ben’s house, where we retrieved the car, put a red ribbon on its antenna, and parked it in our driveway for the children to discover.

It was a good Christmas, but in the weeks that followed Charles seemed to suffer—brooding and losing weight—even as he excelled in school. The shelter had said they’d notify us if Rex wasn’t placed with another family within a month. The children kept urging us to make the call to be sure, but it was a call we were afraid to make.

Time passed, and talk of the dog faded. Charles was salutatorian of his eighth-grade class. We gave the Rockefeller doghouse to the workman who had delivered it. In a way, though, I felt as if I had entered the doghouse for life. I was seized by a haunting sorrow that I had failed both the dog and my family.

I also began to have a dream, both asleep and awake, which lingers, ten years later. I am on my deathbed, and my family hovers and grieves over me. I struggle to sit up and utter my final words, which finally come. “Charles,” I say, “I’m sorry about Rex.”

Herbert Hadad, a Northeastern graduate, is an award-winning writer who lives outside New York City.