I was about eight-years-old when, after years of pestering them, my parents finally relented and bought me my first dog. A mutt of unidentified origins (though his color and feathered tail indicated a smattering of Golden Retriever), I imaginatively named him Sandy.
Like me, Sandy’s favorite place to go was our cottage on Gull River, near Norland, Ontario, where we could both run and play and swim to our heart’s content. I can remember paddling my rowboat up and down the river, Sandy sitting beside me, and thinking how lucky I was to have a best friend.
For the most part, Sandy was a good dog and a great companion, but every now and again he’d jump the fence in our backyard and disappear for a day or two. Today, I realize this behavior could have easily been corrected by having him neutered, but for whatever reason, my parents chose to leave him intact. That decision eventually caused Sandy is his life.
I remember the day an irate man came to our door. He told us that he was a breeder of purebred dogs, and the latest litter had a distinctly “Sandy” look to them. While that explained where Sandy had been, and what he’d been up to, the breeder made it very clear that our mongrel dog had cost him a lot of money, and he was furious about it.
Maybe things would have turned out differently if my mom had given the breeder some money, but my father had recently died and we didn’t have a bean, let alone a pot to cook it in. As for taking the breeder’s name, address, and telephone number, it simply didn’t occur to us, probably because we were both too intimidated to think clearly.
We kept Sandy tied up after that, even in the backyard, but one day Sandy broke his chain and jumped the fence again. Days went by and no Sandy. My mom and I scoured the neighborhood looking for him, put up posters, advertised in the local paper. Nothing. And then one day, while I was studying for exams, there was a scratching sound at the front door. When I opened it, I saw Sandy, badly beaten and lying in a pool of blood.
I called my mom and she left work and came home right away. We took Sandy to the vet, who said Sandy had been whipped with a chain and beaten with something, most likely hockey stick. The vet told us that Sandy was lucky to be alive, having more than forty lacerations over his body and face, and his paws were worn raw, as if he’d walked for many miles to find his way back to us. I’ll never know where or how my mom came up with the money, but Sandy was stitched up, and the vet reported the incident to the Humane Society, not that anything came of that.
It took several weeks, but Sandy eventually healed, his fur growing in around the multiple wounds. He became the ultimate house pet, showing no signs of wanting to bolt, regardless of the season. He used to like to sit on the front porch with me and watch the people and cars go by.
I’ll never forget the day it happened. I popped into the house to get something, just for a minute, leaving Sandy on the porch, chained, but unattended. I heard him bark, a frantic bark…he never barked… By the time I got to the front door, Sandy was gone, a dark car pulling out of our driveway. I didn’t get a make or model. I didn’t get a license plate.
We never saw Sandy again, and I knew, no matter how long or how hard we looked, that this time Sandy was never coming home. He was seven-years-old.
I was fifteen the last time I petted Sandy, and to this day I can’t bring myself to imagine what happened to him. In fact, I debated writing such a sad story for my first post, but if Sandy’s story convinces even one dog owner about the importance of spaying and neutering, it will be worth it.
Find out more about Judy on her website, One Writer’s Journey.