Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Me and Mr. Jones
We got Lincoln Jones at noon on Saturday. On Monday Nick took him back to the rescue place.
At 120 pounds, Lincoln's weight is not far off mine, but he's all muscle. Nick weighs closer to 300 pounds than he would like to, and Lincoln was able to pull him on the leash.
On Sunday evening he had a huge freakout and scared Nick, who said that was it, he had to go.
Lincoln heard the elevator, and started barking and running around. Jordan and I were just about to walk out the door to pick up his poop, as Nick had forgotten to bring a bag on their walk. Apparently right after we left, he bounded across the living room vaulted onto a chest in front of one of our three large windows, and flung himself repeatedly against the window.
Thank God he didn't go through the glass, but Nick was worried he would, and grabbed his harness to pull him back. Lincoln opened his mouth as if to bite, but stopped himself. He's not a biter. He's a very sweet guy. He was just in a panic.
I feel like, fuck. Why didn't Nick take a fucking bag with him when he walked him in the first place? Why did I leave when he was already worked up? Why why why why? It's all moot, but why?
Obviously, I wasn't there. I don't know how bad it was, except for Nick's description. But when we got back, Nick was clearly shaken.
Lincoln is so big - almost too big for Nick, who is one of the biggest humans I know.
He said that was it, he had to go. He had anticipated a number of things, but nothing like running frantically around the living room and leaping repeatedly at the window in utter hysteria. Such a big dog, so out of control. And we have two small children.
Nick called the trainer we'd met with Saturday, and the head of the rescue operation. He said he was bringing Lincoln back first thing in the morning.
I spent Sunday night crying, drinking gin on our front stoop and maligning Nick to the neighbors.
It was Father's Day, which isn't my best holiday. And then he took my dog away.
On Monday morning, Nick took him back to the rescue organization.
I spent the last two days devastated. I couldn't talk to Nick until last night. Not in a punishing way, I just...didn't feel like talking to him.
When we fight, we fight angry and fast, and we get over it. That I'm used to. This wasn't a fight. This was absence of desire, absence of interest, absence of will.
He took my dog back. I felt betrayed. I felt bulldozed into agreeing. Or rather, I said I didn't agree, but I couldn't keep the dog without him. You cannot have a dog, particularly a dog the size of a horse, that one person is not willing to keep.
And he felt confident in moving forward with his decision - more confident than I felt in trying to stop him.
Lincoln is an awesome dog - and I choose that word deliberately. I wanted so badly for him to be ours. He's sweet and lovely and just a really, really nice guy. With some abandonment issues and some anxiety. (But fuck, who doesn't have those?)
I hope someone wonderful, kind, loving, and strong adopts him. I thought that was us.
You can say any of the following:
That we were crazy to want such a big dog when we had such little kids. That we didn't know what we were getting ourselves into. That we made a commitment and we broke it. That we were unfair, that we didn't give him enough of a chance. That I should've refused to let him go, and fought with Nick to keep him. That we did the right thing, that we have to put our kids first. That if he wasn't going to work out, it was better that it happened quickly, rather than in a few months when he had settled in.
I think all of these things are true. I feel terrible about the entire situation on so many levels.
I was so excited about Lincoln, and told the entire world that we were getting him. So people have been asking, in person and in email, how it's going.
So here you have it: it's not. I had a dog for a day and a half and now I don't. And I don't think we will get another one.
I still get all teary when I talk about him. I've got a lot to work through.
So I think this is all I have to say.