Worst Decision of My Life

Worst Decision of My Life

 

My family will never see this post, as they don't bother with this little blog. Those few of you who might stumble upon it, and might chance to read past this sentence, might also shudder with disgust directed toward the author. 

Be that as it may.

Several months ago, when I was kicking myself for the bad decision discussed farther on down below, I came across the following YouTube video and its description:

"Why You SHOULD NOT Get A SPRINGER SPANIEL. The Springer Spaniel is a very popular breed. However there are reasons why this puppy may not be the right dog for you and your family. Today I break down the reasons you should not get a Springer Spaniel."

(click here for the video)

I watched the video and felt compelled to comment... 

Wonderful video and advice. I grew up on a large farm with three Springers through the years. My father, brother, and i were hunters then, and we had four run-off water ponds on the farm where we hunted during duck season. (Many wonderful stories of the retrieving savvy of these dogs). As a farmer, my father was in the open 10 hours a day, seven days a week, and the dogs followed him everywhere... alongside the tractor or helping him irrigate (of course!). I loved those dogs. 

Fast forward to almost 60 years later... my father and his sisters sold the farm almost 50 years ago. I live in town at the end of a cul-de-sac with a fairly large wedge-shaped yard. We've had two dogs through the 30 years we've lived here, the last one being a Spaniel mix rescue dog who lived 15 wonderful years with us. This past year I made the decision we needed another dog... and I wanted the dog of my youth: a Springer Spaniel. I talked my wife into getting a purebred puppy from a breeder. 

My bad. 

While she has the wonderful qualities of Springers (the intelligence, the faithfulness, the love, etc), she wants and needs more space. As commented on in the video, a Springer with a yard can work, but we must must MUST get her out three times a day, and finding a good place where she can run is hard to find here. I have a friend with some open acreage thirty miles away, but I can't impose on him as much as she needs (which is multiple times daily). Without proper exercise, she is bored and becomes destructive. She will walk with a transitional leash, but pulls very hard on any other lead. She wants to be working the trail and brush ahead, as is in her DNA. I feel that I have done the dog a disservice by bringing her here, and I am living with a lot of guilt for how our lifestyle doesn't suit her needs. I am trying to contact hunting friends in order to find her a good home. We have fallen in love with her, and it will be hard for my wife and me to part with this beautiful soul, but I can honestly say that this was one of the worst decisions of my life (and, yeah, I've made a few in 66 years).

That comment was made ten months ago, and I'm another year older. What I said in those lines pretty much sums up my feelings today, as I sit down after the dog's third walk of the day; over seven miles worth of running and walking that my wife and I have shared with her since 6 a.m.

The day started out badly, shortly after our turn-around in our three-mile out-and-back run. She picked up an empty potato chip bag, and without breaking stride I gave her the command to "drop it," more than once. And here's where I screwed up – aside from not having cemented in the proper response from her for that command.

I stopped running and tried to forcibly extricate said plastic bag from her mouth. Bad move. She snapped at my intruding digits, which I was way too slow to move out of the way. She's fast; I'm old.

The resulting wound, punctures along the creases of the fingernails of the middle and index finger of my left hand, started shooting out blood in the manner of Quentin Tarentino's Django Unchained (do bodies after they're dead and used as shields against bullets really explode with blood with the same force as tight water balloons?).

Needless to say, the remainder of the run turned into a very uncomfortable walk home, as the air was filled with expletives directed toward the dog, and I tried to get the blood to coagulate and not drip all over my sweats and running shoes.

_____________

I am wrestling even more with this bad decision made during the height of the COVID lockdown. I realize many dogs that were adopted in those days have been given up to rescue shelters, and I am determined that this dog will not suffer that fate. (My wife will also see that that never happens.) And I guess I will stay in better shape than if I had no dog.

But I fear I am not the proper owner for this particular animal. If this dog lives 14 years, I will be 80 when she passes on to that never-ending pasture in the sky. My best retirement years will be in the rear view mirror.

Yes. Worst decision of my life.