In the entirely too recent past, I had the occasion to spend some time with a certain four-legged family member which-- fortunately for both of us-- does not share my customary domicile. The daemon dawg is a mottled terrier who has perfected terrorist acts to the utmost. Said dawg did succeed in biting me once, for which I immediately beat her. She did not bite me ever again. She bit husband once and since he did not respond with flogging, she lived to bite him again. In the recent past, I witnessed her constant yapping AND growling at her human companion.
The daemon dawg is not my personal nickname for the beastie. Rather, those who are her human neighbors came up with the moniker. It does indeed fit. At the risk of raising the ire of a certain organization which believes that wolves at wildlife tourism attractions should have dog houses, I shall state unequivocally that the daemon dog needs the yanking of both vocal cords and fangs.
I myself am keeper of dogs, cats, fish, and frogs. Lover of canines that I am, I do not tolerate such behavior from any of my charges. If an animal becomes unmanageable for any reason, that animal needs to be corrected and trained with vigor. Neither vigor nor love is capable of fixing those genetic flaws which do display themselves from time to time in the canine population. I had loved such a dog once.
Herbie was part catahoula and part aussie shepard. He was highly intelligent, nailed obedience lessons with a quickness, and loved me. He had a fatal flaw. He was a fear biter. Once I realized the nature of his malady, Herbie had to go. I arranged for Herbie to be put to death after he bit a terrified four year old in the back of his knees, drawing blood. Herbie saw the four year old as a flash. Because he did not expect the four year old to be "there," he attacked. After it was over, Herbie returned to his usual self as if nothing happened.
The local animal shelter told me that the law of the land provided that Herbie could bite two more times drawing blood before I would be forced to put him down. I waited the necessary ten days of obligatory confinement and then Herbie was relieved permanently of his fear.
I mourned Herbie. The mourning was mixed with a curious relief-- relief that I was able to give Herbie the gift of death. Fear-biting is not something that could be trained out of a dog. Nor is it the result of environment. It just is. Herbie had it. I did the best I could for him. I did go on to give other dogs a good home and a good life.
In peace,
sapphoq
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