The Last Visit

A twinge of guilt gnaws at my heart in the soft spot reserved exclusively for my canine companions. The two boys are fastened into their crates for the night, banished from my room by their recent quibbling over which one of them should be pack leader. I miss the warmth of their bodies crushing the circulation out of my feet and the sound of their snoring reverberating throughout the silence of the snow-filled darkness.

Memories of another dog, who was shut away from me at night, cloud my thoughts in a fog of sorrow that has yet to lift its heaviness from my mind.

Abel was different from the other dogs I had loved in years past; he had been singled out to wear the mark of the beast. Stamped with a look that permanently haunted his striking gold eyes, his demeanor told a story of abuse for anyone who had the ability to read what was so indelibly written there for the remainder of his lifetime.

The Irish Water Spaniel came to me after having lived his first seven months in two different homes. I don't know who it was that hurt Abel, or what cruel or negligent actions they specifically chose to inflict upon him. All I had were suspicions and speculations, and time was better spent training instead of blaming. Despite my attempt at such a noble sentiment, I still spent lengthy hours wondering exactly what had happened to him and how to repair the damage done to this dog, if it could be undone at all.

There was never a moment, even in sleep, when Abel was not waiting for pain to reach out and strike him. In an effort to protect himself from this unreasonable terror, he would furtively survey whatever room he inhabited before settling into a corner or under the furniture where his back and head were not exposed.

Always apprehensive, he never ceased to watch or listen. Unusual or loud noises would cause him to jerk, his feet scrambling for safety before they had made contact with a more solid surface than air. Abel was ever vigilant for the hand that would pull his curly brown fur viciously out of his scalp, and as a result, he invariably cringed when someone reached out to pet him. If you patted his haunches, the muscles underneath your hand would flinch with each stroke.

In time, Abel came to trust that I would not hurt him intentionally, but he seemed to expect the worst, convinced that the possibility for misery lurked around every corner. Eventually he developed a ''neutral zone'' -- a fondness for having his chest scratched. A haphazard grin would appear on his face as he'd take his huge, webbed paw and gently push my hand to this favorite spot.

Regardless of his evident pleasure, Abel's wagging tail belied the truth of a soul scarred by a malignant, misguided and misunderstood love.

I can maybe understand the why of his abuse a tiny bit, maybe. Abel was a large, muscular dog standing 23 inches tall and weighing about 65 pounds (after I put lost weight back onto his once too-thin frame). He couldn't just walk where he was going, he had to run full-speed or jump to get there. In the process glassware broke, screen doors tore, clothing ripped, toes got bruised and faces became scratched, mine not the dog's. Living with Abel was a continual challenge. However, this, like any other reason his former owners may have offered in explanation, was insufficient cause to justify abuse and neglect.

At first he proved difficult to love with his ragged appearance, nervous drooling and his tendency to accidentally destroy everything he touched. Although not of his own making, even his fear, his status of being a victim without control over his circumstances, I am ashamed to admit, interfered with my capacity to like him in the early days of our relationship.

Yet befriend him I did and Abel began to live again, for me, not for himself. My gentle words and nurturing attentions towards him earned me a devotion of which I will forever feel undeserving.

This boundless loyalty would also prove to be his undoing, sealing the fate of an already uncertain future. His eagerness to please resulted in a dog that was easy to teach and quick to learn complex tricks. But no amount of obedience work could redirect Abel's all-consuming need to safeguard his salvation -- me and my well-being.

Abel protected me from strangers, unknown danger and even myself, if I were ill. Then he protected me from friends, the other dogs and my family members. He began biting at peoples' legs and my pets' throats. He would wake from a nap to chase invisible demons from my presence. He couldn't be trusted outside of his crate unless there was no one else present. Despite my best, educated efforts to love or train him, Abel's fear-aggressive temperament continued to deteriorate.

The breeders and behavioral experts who knew Abel's history suggested that my dog may not only have been a victim of abuse, but also of a rare, genetic disorder known as Idiopathic Rage Syndrome. Little is known about this condition except that there is no test to diagnose it, no treatment or cure.

Dogs suffering from this syndrome exhibit some symptoms similar to those experienced during an epileptic seizure. They stare into space, become glassy-eyed, seem unaware of their surroundings (e.g. don't respond to their name), act as if they have a headache, and sleep deeply following an episode.

Probably the most serious manifestation of IRS though is the uncontrollable rage. Dogs in the grip of a seizure will attack anything that moves within their field of vision, biting and clawing until the ''fit'' passes. Serious injury, even death, to those individuals or pets involved is quite often the disastrous result.
Abel matched the description completely.

As the months went by, the episodes of aggression became more frequent and predictable. You could observe his eyes glaze as he began to stare at some unseen threat that no one else could perceive. The attacks on others became more vicious with each new occurrence. Afterwards, Abel would ''return to normal'' only to find himself inexplicably confined in his crate. He would look at me with a distressed expression as if to ask, ''What happened? How did I get here? What have I done?'' I could not bear the look of confusion, magnified by the mark of his former abuse, that cried out from his heartbroken eyes.

I lacked the courage to end our mutual suffering. But the day inevitably came when Abel nearly killed another beloved family dog. I spent a week replaying ''what if'' and ''if only'' scenarios, questioning what I could have done differently to prevent this tragic outcome. I recalled trips to the veterinarian with Abel, visits just to get him out of the house, to socialize him, maybe to erase his bad memories, to make him happy.

Somehow I had failed, at something that was not my fault, probably, something that started before I was another factor in the baffling equation that was Abel. It was anguishing, it was personal. I was devastated that I could find no solution.

Finally I reached the agonizing decision to have him euthanized and made the appointment with the vet. When I hung up the phone, I huddled in my chair, crying.

Abel knew. He recognized that our relationship had changed irrevocably and spent that last week following me around the house, trying to restore my good humor with his clown-like antics. One thing remained as before -- Abel still just wanted to be my friend.

His last visit to the vet was on a sunny spring day, filled with a light breeze that carried the fragrances of blooming flowers and the melodic song of numerous birds. I was glad my dog was enjoying the cheerful sights and sounds, but to me it seemed inappropriate. How could life continue joyfully around us when Abel was leaving it forever? It should have been cold and silent, like the dark grief in my soul.

Before his appointed time arrived, my husband and I took Abel for a ride and a long walk. We bought him an ice cream treat; nutrition didn't matter now. As we were driving towards the clinic, a boy on bicycle rode past my side of the car and Abel lunged at the window, nearly breaking the sturdy glass. In his tormented, diseased mind he was only doing his job, defending us from the perils of an incomprehensible world. The incident was confirmation that the death I was about to impose on my dog was his best and only option for relief.

Abel left this life, outdoors, surrounded by beauty and held in the arms of the two people who loved him. I know that he was welcomed into a place where no animal is abused or sick, for as he slowly closed his eyes, relief, in the guise of perfect peace, settled across his features for the first time, eternally displacing his fearful stare.

A small reminder of Abel lives on in my ''pack'' today -- all of my dogs will push any hand that pets them onto their chests where they want to be scratched.

And, in my heart, Abel leaves a living a legacy. My goal is to inspire individuals to be ''good stewards'' -- to responsibly, intelligently and humanely live with and love the dog over whose life they have chosen to assume ownership.

As a newspaper columnist, my work provides me with the opportunity to reach thousands of people. Approximately one- third of my articles are devoted to educating the public to better respect and value the lives of their canine companions. I write about training, health-care, overpopulation, puppy-mill investigations, and how dogs enrich our lives through humorous or heartwarming true stories.

Additionally, Abel's death motivated me to become a volunteer worker for a national rescue and educational organization. I actively assist with the transporting, sterilization, vaccinating and placement of abandoned, neglected or abused Norwegian Elkhounds.

In return for the love that Abel gave to me, I will do this work in memory of him.

Thank you Abel for giving your life so that I might give other dogs a chance to live well and be happy.