How to let go of a beloved pet

Buddy was my first dog. He was an underweight, unsure year-old beagle rescued by a local shelter from a hoarding situation. When I first laid eyes on him in his pen, I was a goner. He was a puny little thing that looked more like a rendering of a beagle than a dog, the legs drawn just a smidge too long. His ears felt like velvet. We took him home, named him Buddy, and stopped for a pup cup on the way. Buddy, who'd never lived indoors, had a bed, a bath or a consistent food source, now found himself in doggy heaven. It wasn't just a name. It was a family, toys, plush beds on every floor of the house, sweaters. He had a neighborhood where strangers knew his name: "Well, hey there, Buddy! Aren't you a handsome guy!" Of course no one knew his name, but you couldn't convince him of that. Buddy assumed everyone liked him. We always said this dog lived in the "'Buddy bubble," a life of strange charm. He was beloved because he believed he deserved to be — and isn't that really the way it should work, anyway? He was the best of the good boys. But listen, that didn't mean he couldn't be a terror too. Turns out, Buddy was half-cheetah, something we had no way of knowing when we got him, of course. We soon found out when he slipped his leash. Buddy sounded like a horse running by at full gallop, like he had extra gears. The neighbors got so used to going on "Buddy hunts" that no one ever complained, and some even expressed admiration for his speed. But come on. He was a pet, a spoiled house pet who would only eat expensive dog food and only slept on Ugg-brand blankets and pet beds. He wasn't hunting, doing anything useful. It was frustrating. It took years before we figured out how to coax Buddy out of the thickets around our neighborhood if he ever dashed out the door and caught a scent: pulling up on a golf cart and yelling "go for ride." Bougie all the way. Buddy loved the drive-thru. He knew to jump in the backseat on the driver's side and press the button to lower the window. "Wait patiently; a snack arrives. Sometimes a donut hole. Sometimes a nugget. They'll call you Buddy." We loved our Buddy. And then, a few years later, we had an incident. My daughter was eating a hot dog, and half of it was left on her plate. Buddy was eyeing up the food. She didn't notice his intense concentration and leaned over to hug him, just as he leaned in to snatch the food. Buddy snapped and bit her cheek. The bite didn't break the skin, but it left a welt and more importantly, big fear in our daughter. We had been noticing signs of food aggression in him, leftovers of his murky and survival-of-the-fittest past that sometimes never really get resolved in some dogs, no matter how comfy a life you give them. But this was one time too many, and our daughter was fearful of him now. It broke our hearts but we could not live with our own dog, beloved or not, With a history of biting or food aggression — no matter how lovable otherwise — we didn't know what would happen to Buddy. I was afraid no one would take him. We couldn't bear the thought of putting him down. I campaigned on his behalf, writing a letter to a rescue organization, explaining the incident and Buddy's history and asking for compassion. Through some remarkable animal lovers, Buddy found a new family that knew there was a good dog in there. What I just can't imagine is dragging Buddy out to a gravel pit and shooting him in front of people, then bragging about it as some kind of badge of toughness. I'll tell you what I think is tough: Not too long after Buddy left, we thought we'd try again. This time we found a little white terrier that had been rescued off the streets of Cleveland, abandoned, half-shaved, little body covered in razor burns. He was blind, deaf, incontinent and 11 years old. We named him Skipper. My daughter adored him. She changed his diapers, "walked" him through the neighborhood in a wagon. We didn't know he was sick. She held him while he died 50 days later, telling him what a good boy he was. That's toughness. She was 11. Contact Chronicle-Telegram columnist Rini Jeffers at rinijeffers@gmail.com.