My Children’s Resilience – Put to the Test

By Catherine Canzani

This past summer I had to face a difficult decision as a parent. I knew that this decision would become one of those defining moments in my children’s lives. It would test their mettle, their inner strength and their resilience, and it would test it to the max.

I had to decide to have our much-loved, teddy bear of a dog put down. As he passed his one-year birthday, he suddenly became aggressive with children—not mine: he loved them dearly and they could do no wrong in his big droopy eyes. He decided that any other children were not to be tolerated. The first time it happened, my son had invited a friend over and the two of them went into the house. The dog, Riley, backed my son’s friend up against a wall, showing his teeth and growling. My son had to pull dog treats out of the cupboard to tempt Riley away. We were shocked, but we managed to explain it away and figured that an adult should have gone into the house with the boys to make proper introductions.

At that point, I noticed a shift in our thinking. Every time a child would come over, we would watch the dog carefully, looking for signals that it might happen again. It did – a growl at a child visitor, playing nicely then becoming aggressive, barking at children who walked by. My husband and I started having hush-hush conversations about having the dog put down or giving him away to someone without children, but we both felt that we just couldn’t. Our dog was a member of our family.

The breaking point came when my youngest daughter, Olivia, left the door open for a moment too long and Riley zipped past her and was gone in a flash. I chased after him, calling, but he was determined to have a taste of freedom. He crossed a road, and I saw a neighbour’s daughter in her yard. She stood to block his escape. I gasped as I saw the fur rise on his back. In the next second he was snarling and made a jump at the girl. I screamed his name and yelled “No!” and he stopped in mid-stride, but in that split second my decision was made and there was no turning back.

The next day, I thought my heart would break. I said good-bye to our dog with a mix of sadness, guilt, and a knot of dread, knowing that I would have to tell the children. It was 5:00 pm and I stood alone in the schoolyard, waiting for my children to return from a field trip. I pictured them on the bus, laughing, happy, glad about their special day. If only I could prevent the sadness, which I knew they would have to face in a few minutes. I played with the idea of telling them that the dog had simply gotten sick and had to be put down, but deep inside I realized that I had to tell them the truth. I needed them to trust me and to know that what I had done was terribly difficult but I couldn’t risk a child or anyone else being harmed because of our dog.

When I got home, my husband and I called a family meeting. We sat together on the patio and told the kids we had something very difficult to tell them. We cried as we told them what had happened. As expected, a horrified shriek from my daughters followed our announcement, coupled with stony silence from our son. We hugged and held each other and the tears and heartache lasted long into the night.

My daughter, Laura, still talks about Riley all the time. He pops up in her pictures, surrounded by rainbows and flowers; in her stories, where he pulls off naughty capers with his dog-girlfriend Velvet; and in her memories, where he is still a big lovable teddy bear. Now and then she still gets teary, but she tells me, “Mommy, I understand why you had to do it, but I miss him so much. One day I’ll see him again in heaven, and I’ll give him a big hug.” I smile at my daughter, proud of her for her inner strength, hope and resilience.