We had never left our 11-month-old chocolate Labrador for more than a couple of hours.  But this past summer, my husband and I spent a weekend in the Berkshires visiting our 10 and 12-year-old children at sleep away camp, and we had no choice but to leave Tobey behind.

Our options were limited.  We could pay someone to housesit and watch Tobey or board him for the weekend. “I would never leave my dog in a kennel,” was the hostile consensus among fellow dog owners.  Yet, our very close friends were putting their 2 Golden Retrievers and Newfoundland puppy at a local kennel at the same time Tobey would be there and they had all played together many times before. 

“Everything is a la carte,” the kennel soon informed us.  “If you would like us to bathe and groom him before you pick him up - that will be an extra $50.”

“And, walks  - those are not included, we charge per walk.”

It did not take us long to go through the checklist of extras. “Sure.  That too,”  I heard myself saying yet again and again.   How could I deny my puppy what all the other dogs might be getting?  After all, I am leaving him for the first time and I can’t even explain to him what is happening. Although it was a pricier alternative, once the kennel assured us that our puppy would be in the same “playgroup” as our friends’ dogs, our decision was made. 

My husband dropped Tobey off and I made myself busy doing last minute preparations for the weekend ahead. 

“How did it go?”  I asked when he returned.  He shook his head and responded, “that was traumatic.” 

“For you or for Tobey?” 

“Both,” he responded as he looked into Tobey’s now empty crate. 

We went on with our weekend, visited with our children and, for the first time in months, we were dog free.  We embraced our temporary liberation yet we were also distracted, wondering whether Tobey was surviving without us. “He’s just a dog” was our line of the weekend but then one of us would add, “so, you think he’s ok?” 

When my husband called the kennel to check in and identified himself as “Tobey’s father” rather than “Tobey’s owner” I knew the weekend was over.  It was time to go home and get our dog.

As soon as we walked into the kennel, my nostrils flared, alert to the overpowering animal odors abound.  Like air fresheners hidden under toilets, there were lit scented candles conspicuously placed on high ledges.  I almost gagged at the horrible mixture of aromas in the small welcome area but instead stayed focused on the task at hand – retrieving our puppy.  “Go ahead, you can go get him now,” we were told.

We were beyond excited and, like the feeling of seeing our children in that first moment on visiting day after not seeing them for 3 weeks, we expected our dog to run to us, to greet us with a similar uninhibited and emotional excitement.

We walked up a couple of steps and a down a long runway type of hallway, flanked by the doggie swimming pool on one side and the indoor play area on the other.  Then, we heard the familiar jingling of his dog tags. We took a few more paces forward and saw him down a couple of steps on the far side of the corridor.  He wouldn’t budge.  “C’mon Tobey we’re here, c’mon boy.”  Nothing.  “Can he do stairs?”  The brunette woman wearing the hot pink shirt asked.  Why isn’t he coming?  He hears our voice.  He knows how to do steps.  We walked closer and he had a wild look in his eyes, a cross between fear, confusion and panic.  My husband went down the steps and lifted our 65-pound dog into his arms.  Tobey’s eyes remained wide open, not his normal distinctive almond shaped eyes and even while my husband cradled him, Tobey squirmed in his arms. All the while, my husband talked to him and tried to reassure him that we were there to take him home.  

Tobey was not himself for days. This was not the playful energetic chocolate Labrador we dropped off.  This dog moped around, slept on and off for most of the day and would not even look at us when we tried to lure him with our melodious “want a treat?”  Finally, by the fifth day, he would take a treat.  We came to understand that our dog was not depressed. We decided he was just mad at us for leaving him. 

Looking back, the first weekend away without Tobey felt much like the first time we left our two children, when they were 5 months and almost 3 years old, with their grandparents, so my husband and I could spend a week alone in Antigua.  We returned rejuvenated, excited to reconnect with the kids.  Emily, our oldest, was beyond excited to see us.  She ran into our arms upon our return. Daniel, however, acted as if he had no idea who we were, like we were strangers.  He would not make eye contact and acted sad and distant.  Our son, we concluded, did not forget who we were.  Rather, all we could assume was that he must have been mad at us for leaving him and, like Tobey, it took him several days to return to his loving, warm and cuddly self. 

Is it really worth leaving our dog behind only to be faced with his inevitable grudge and aloofness upon our return?  After our almost one week standoff this past summer, we decided no way, no how would we ever leave Tobey behind again.  On the other hand, I wonder if we could try a house sitter next time.  Maybe, just maybe, we would go away and return home only to receive a warm welcome from our well-adjusted, happy puppy.  I’m still debating whether we should take our chances.  He is just a dog.   Right?