and How I Used to Feel Bad About Drugging My Dog, but Don't Any More

Her given name is Roxy, but we call her The Pig. She is my 10-year-old red-nosed pitbull. I've owned The Pig since she was 3 months old. My boyfriend came home from a secret trip to the animal shelter and presented this totally out-of-control, tiny, red, naughty female dog to me. It was her last day, he said, meaning her time to be adopted had run out and she would have been euthanized the next morning.

(Ten years later I have justified reasons for believing that my boyfriend lied about it being her last day.)

Here's a list of all the things that were wrong with this dog the second I saw her: she had skin allergies, a demodex (parasite) infection, smelly ears, wild eyes, severe dog aggression, unruly behavior including jumping, biting, chewing on walls, eating poop, rolling in poop, chasing cats, eating cat poop, pulling on leashes, choking herself on walks, stealing socks and shoes, barking, barking and barking.

I told him to take her back. Me, the vet tech, who pledged to help save dogs' lives every day, said take her back. He wouldn't, so I buckled down and accepted the challenge of raising this crazy dog using the best of my training and resources.

We named her Roxy, but quickly began to call her The Pig.

Her nickname fits for a number of reasons, including her prominent barrel chest, pink skin, big pig-like ears, snorts and snores and, of course, her penchant for eating--all endearing qualities to the unknowing person, but Roxy's behavioral problems began to stress our household. We tackled her dog aggression and hyperactivity immediately by enrolling in professional behavioral modification and obedience classes. Those classes and subsequent training lasted many years (and still continue in an at-home capacity today).

She's a smart dog, she took to obedience classes well, for she is quite happy to submit to people, and learned all her commands and hand signals. She's also very sweet. She loves me, follows me, sits and lays by me, kisses me and generally likes to be with me all the time. But she just wanted to beat up other dogs all the time. The dog aggression was unresolvable as was the obsessive-compulsive behavior: incessant licking of paws and feet (not just her own feet), pacing, whining, random pottying in her kennel or in the house, breaking out of her kennel, etc.   

After numerous health checks to ensure no underlying health issues were causing her bad behaviors, it was recommended that we try anti-anxiety medication for dogs.

I resisted. I was too proud to admit that I had failed at training my dog properly. I saw behavior modifying medication as a cop-out. But I gave in and tried it when she was about 3 years old.

To everyone's dismay, the "happy drugs" didn't faze Roxy AT ALL.

So we resolved ourselves to the fact that fate had given us this dog and that without such understanding and patient pet parents as us, this dog would clearly not be alive and relatively happy. We had ourselves a true special needs dog.

Years went by, and although its not easy living with a special needs dog, we managed fine. That was until my boyfriend and I broke up after almost five years, I left the dog with him, he overdosed on drugs, died and left Roxy alone. If you can imagine the trauma a special needs child might suffer from losing one parent who left and then one who died, you can assume that my special needs dog began to suffer in tremendous ways when she was suddenly surrounded by people who did not know how to communicate with her or handle her behavior. 

Although I knew that she was being well-cared for, I also knew in my gut that Roxy belonged with me. Everyone in ex-boyfriend's family agreed and after a few weeks I traveled 850 miles to pick her up and take her home with me. 

But just that short time of disruption in her life has, I believe, scarred her in ways I can't know, and even after so many years of stability, she continues to exhibit behavior that strains the household.

And we're not happy, none of us--not the family or the dog. 

She can't settle down. She paces up and down the hall. Up and down the stairs. Round and round the living room. After years of being perfectly happy to sleep in her kennel when we were away, one day she just flipped out and destroyed her kennel from the inside out breaking all of her teeth and tearing up her paws.

She spends every waking moment counter surfing and scavenging for any morsel accidentally dropped on the floor. She has become the ultimate beggar dog, hovering underfoot while trying to avoid eye contact lest she get banished from the room.

She is much more assertive about jumping on the counters and tables to steal food. She gets stepped on now more than ever, caught under foot traffic in and out of the kitchen.

Her cat-poop habit has grown exponentially and all that litter-covered cat poop can't be good for her. So we now use a series of baby gates to block access to the cat box. Sometimes I wake in the night to sounds of rummaging in the bathroom, only to find that The Pig is stalking the cat, who is pooping in the middle of the night. 
 
It has affected our relationship. I want to like my dog, but I'm finding it harder and harder.

Cat poop isn't even the full extent of the nastiness. When the baby was still in diapers, leaving a dirty diaper within reach led to disaster. The Pig never hesitated to eat used diapers, no matter their contents. Too gross for you? Try living with it. Try cleaning it up day after day. Try watching your dog poop out absorbent diaper gel.

Trash cans overturned, garbage bags ripped open, dog toys and child's toys ripped to shreds. Walking her has always been a problem only because we anticipate other people also wanting to walk their dogs at the same time, and the dog-dog interaction is so stressful. No dog parks, no trips to dog beach, and absolutely no off-leash play of any kind.

Pacing, staring, occasional random whining for no reason, and a general inability to relax ... I say ENOUGH ALREADY! I want The Pig on a happy pill. She needs some serotonin assistance; she needs a mind cloud of calm. And so do I. Luckily the veterinarian, based on her medical and behavioral history, agreed.

Oh how I cherish the little piece of paper with her prescription for Prozac. I almost didn't want the pharmacist at Target to keep the little paper after she filled the prescription ... I sort of wanted to scrapbook it away as a reminder of when all our lives changed for the better.

It's been three or four days and the Prozac might be working. It might be to soon to tell. But I think I see a more stable, calm look in her eyes. My husband thinks it's novel, that the dog is on Prozac. He makes fun of it and tells all his friends. They all laugh it off but they have no idea how important it is to me that this little white pill works.

My sanity is depending on it.