Was this lady justified in putting her dog down?

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Months of failing to exhale helped me decide I should find Bonnie a new place to live. Maybe city life didn’t agree with her, I reasoned, and a quiet existence in the suburbs was what she needed. It was tough to picture her soulful eyes staring into the face of a new owner, but I knew that for my safety—and the safety of my neighbors—I couldn’t continue to manage her behavior. I never was able to anticipate what would set her off, and there was no way to control her environment on the streets of New York.

But I soon learned the shelter where Bonnie came from wouldn’t help me. A volunteer explained that Bonnie was too dangerous to adopt out again, and their affiliated sanctuaries—including several beagle-specific rescues—declined to take her. Another dog rescue organization in New York City told me that her bite history—seven bites at the time, though that number would grow—was too extensive for her to even qualify for a special rehabilitation program. Both conversations ended on the same topic: “behavioral euthanasia.”

I was dumbfounded to discover you could call a vet’s office and ask them to do that. Suddenly, in my new quest to help Bonnie get better, I’d become the decider of her fate.

Almost nobody willingly adopts a biting dog, and concealing a history of aggressive behavior is likely how I ended up with mine. I put up a post on a private rehoming site for her anyway, making sure to disclose her history and special needs. I explained she preferred women over men, couldn’t be around children, and needed to be muzzled on walks and around visitors. Perhaps a single female hermit in a rural area would be open to managing her behavior for the next decade or so?

I held out hope for a while but never received any adoption inquiries. And as her bite count continued to grow, so did my desire to stop living with a dangerous animal. I could feel my heart beating out of my chest every time we got ready to go outside, fearing the worst for our walk. I only left my apartment without her once per week so I could buy groceries; this way, she wouldn’t get so nervous being alone that she’d lash out when I returned. I tiptoed around my two-room home each day, hoping I wouldn’t cross any invisible boundaries.

Even if I did somehow find someone to take Bonnie, I wondered whether it would just exacerbate her already crippling anxieties. As the weeks went by and no new options appeared, I realized I had a choice: I could send her off with a stranger one day—someone she would certainly injure, and who would perhaps end up euthanizing her anyway—or I could allow her to leave this terrifying world peacefully with someone she loves.

Behavioral euthanasia is not a decision made out of convenience. Typically, it enters the conversation once the safety situation with a dog, cat, or other animal deteriorates beyond an acceptable level of risk, said Christopher Pachel, a veterinary behaviorist with Instinct Dog Behavior & Training. There isn’t a universal approach to every situation. Often, if the police aren’t involved, it’s up to a pet’s owner to decide what level of risk they can live with.

“If you’re the one who finds yourself in this situation where you’re actively considering it, choosing to rehome is hard. Choosing to push forward with treatment when you know it’s unsafe is hard. Choosing to make significant accommodations to make it safe, even though it’s not easy, that’s hard. Choosing to euthanize is hard,” Pachel told me. “There’s no easy way out from that difficult situation. But what we’re ultimately having to do is say, ‘Which of these ‘hards’ makes the most sense for me?’ ”

I desperately wished someone could come and assess my personal level of risk—something only I could do. It was an excruciatingly lonely decision to make, but when I turned things over in my head, I came up with this: In a comfortable and loving home, Bonnie was always on the defense, even in the calmest of situations. When it came down to it, her quality of life was poor. I couldn’t envision her feeling safe in any situation, no matter how rural the home, no matter how many triggers were eliminated. To prevent her from harming herself or anyone else again, I chose behavioral euthanasia.

On the phone, I wept quietly as I made Bonnie’s appointment, taking shallow breaths as the receptionist instructed me to make sure she was wearing her muzzle when we arrived.

Bonnie’s last day came sooner than expected. On a quiet Sunday morning while I pet her on the floor, she inexplicably snapped at my face, though her mouth clamped down hard around my boyfriend’s forearm instead of my cheek. When he jumped up, she held on, piercing deep wounds in his arm and a hole in his sweatshirt. She scampered away from us afterward, head down, trembling. I was so stricken with fear that I didn’t realize I was also trembling, forgetting to breathe. It was then I knew for certain that I could not continue living with Bonnie any longer.

I tossed her one of her favorite bones to calm her down. I called to reschedule her appointment to that afternoon, ordered an Uber, and put her muzzle on for the last time. Then I hugged her for a while, still too shaken to cry.

In the Uber, Bonnie, who preferred to sit in my lap during car rides, looked out the window sweetly unaware.

When we arrived, Bonnie started trembling again. We were shown to a small waiting area, and a staffer at the animal care center approached us to tell me she understood how hard this was, and that she supported my decision. I would have expressed more gratitude if I’d been able to do more than mumble.

I’d been warned that I wouldn’t be allowed in the room with Bonnie during the procedure because of COVID protocols. But instead of saying goodbye in the car like they’d asked, I explained Bonnie was petrified of the vet, and insisted I walk her into the exam room so her last moments wouldn’t involve resisting a stranger.

In a few minutes, I was led down a hallway. I coaxed Bonnie to follow. A staffer showed me to the room Bonnie needed to enter. I gave Bonnie one last pat, then handed her kelly-green leash to a tall man in scrubs and a mask. As he shut the door behind me, I heard Bonnie whine, a protest to being separated from me. I’m shattered when I think back to that moment, but at the time, everything was blank.

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