The Nature of the Beast (Anger, Guilt and Forgiveness)

My mornings generally began when I felt two blasts of air pouring from my dogs' noses as they watched my eyes twitch open. Gus, five, a 65-pound shepherd/Lab, and Annie, three and a half, a 90-pound Dane/Lab, knew to wait for an invitation to join the cats - Marley, 10, a large, tough tabby and Ziggy, nine, a sleek, black and white scaredy cat - already ensconced on my bed. The dogs would carefully land between the cats, who just snuggled in deeper.

Early one morning last November, I left my house, which is set in the middle of a vast expanse of Maryland farmland. When I returned home around midday, I discovered that Gus and Annie were gone. I looked quickly through the house, then immediately concluded that the invisible fencing had failed. I drove for hours searching for the dogs, returning home periodically, hoping to see their wagging tails. At some point I noted that Marley, who usually appeared when he heard my car, wasn't around either. Finally, after sunset, I gave up the search, utterly defeated.

I was sitting in the living room when I thought I heard a muffled noise coming from the second floor. Following the sound, I ran into the bedroom with the walk-in cedar closet. Relief poured through me as I realized that Gus and Annie hadn't escaped - they'd locked themselves in the closet. I always left the doors open because the cats loved to sleep on the shelves, but I'd never seen the dogs even enter the closet before. I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, and the dogs came barreling out. My joy came to a shattering end. There was Marley, lying dead just inside the closet door. I'd been so worried about the dogs that this disaster was the last thing I'd anticipated. The dogs must have accidentally crushed him. Although I knew they didn't do it intentionally, I screamed at them to get away from me. At that moment, I had to get out of the house. My neighbor came and took me to her home, while her husband removed Marley's body from the closet.

It was horrible at home later that evening. I had adored Marley. He was like a dog in cat's clothing. He followed me everywhere, insisting on going for walks with the dogs and pushing his face into mine if he wasn't getting enough attention. Marley was my soul mate, and I missed him terribly. Still, I managed to find some solace in my three remaining pets.

Then, a week later, I came home and found Ziggy dead. He was lying on the floor of the sunroom near his favorite chair. Next to his body was Annie's collar. One part of me figured there had been a struggle, and Ziggy was the loser. Another part of me prayed that he'd eaten some kind of poison. I called my veterinarian and brought Ziggy in for a necropsy. The next day she called with the results. It was the answer I never wanted to hear - Ziggy's neck had been snapped, and some of Annie's hair was under his claws. Suddenly I was sure that Annie had also killed Marley.

The fact that I'd lost both of my cats was horrible, but knowing that Annie had killed them made it unbearable. I'd gotten Marley, Ziggy and Gus when they were all very young, but Annie was a year and a half when I rescued her from a no-kill shelter where she'd spent nearly half her life in a cage. Before I took her, I walked her past numerous cats sitting around the shelter, and she ignored them. The next day I took Gus to meet her. A friend walked Annie, and we all met up outside the shelter. Annie and Gus sniffed each other and began walking in unison as if they were lifelong friends. At home they played nonstop. The cats didn't even hiss at Annie, and she never looked at them threateningly. I couldn't believe the ease with which she fit into the family. Ziggy would even walk through her long legs, and she would gently lick his back.

These recollections added to my shock, which soon gave way to anger and feelings of betrayal. I hated Annie now. I introduced her to one guest as the "cat killer." I couldn't and didn't want to imagine the terror that Annie, Gus and Marley must have felt when they were confined for hours in a small, pitch-dark space. I was desperate for answers and understanding, because in my heart I knew that I shouldn't blame Annie. I contacted Pamela Reid, Ph.D, vice president of the ASPCA Center for Behavioral Therapy, hoping she could give me information that would help me forgive the dog.

"Annie has no concept of what she did," Reid told me. "She did what a dog is capable of doing. Given that she got along well with the cats prior to the closet experience, we can hypothesize that the overcrowding in the closest triggered a predatory response in her. Stress often provokes aggression in animals, and they tend to pick on the weakest.

"You can't get into the head of an animal," Reid continued. "All you can do is concentrate on the behavior. You didn't see a change in your dog's behavior following Marley's death, but something happened that triggered the same reaction, and she saw the other cat as prey. If you know what triggers an animal's behavior, then you can work to modify it."

Once again I got news that I didn't want to hear. Since I will never know what triggered Annie, this meant that I could never again have cats while I had her. But I loved having both. I was never a "cat" person or a "dog" person. I loved my guys equally and for their very differences. Yet I couldn't just write off Annie. She was good-natured, desperate to please, loved people and was Gus's best friend. And she adored me. I felt trapped. I was overcome with guilt when I thought about getting rid of her. Dr. Reid confirmed that Annie hadn't killed the cats out of meanness. It wasn't premeditated murder - she wasn't a human being. She explained that applying human emotions to the situation just muddied the waters.

Annie had had a tough life herself. And she was my responsibility. I couldn't just dump her as her previous owners had. My emotions had moved from anger to guilt. For weeks I cried daily for my cats, my dogs and for myself.

At this point I began thinking about a cat I'd had euthanized when I was 19 because he attacked people and was becoming more and more dangerous and harder to control. No one had offered me any alternatives, but for decades I've lived with the feeling that somehow, someway, I should have come up with a different solution. Today things are very different. There are psychologists, animal behaviorists, sensitivity-trained veterinarians, and pet loss groups, all offering help. Again, I picked up the phone. This time I contacted Dr. Stephanie LaFarge, a psychologist and the senior director of Counseling Services at the ASPCA. I explained my confusion about what I was feeling.

"Each loss evokes a previous loss and brings up something that might remain unresolved," LaFarge responded. "That's why it's so important to talk to people in terms of making this decision. You, as the person with the loss, may not be able to discern the right thing to do with your dog. You can't see that having an unmanageable, unadoptable cat who couldn't live in society isn't the same as the situation you're in now. If I had a dog who meant I couldn't have cats, and I wanted cats, and that dog was adoptable, I'd fault myself for not finding a new home for the dog where she would be loved. We know dogs can go from household to household and do really well. Annie is not in the right home if you want to be a cat owner."

Now I had permission to find Annie another home. It wouldn't be a decision that came from anger. It wouldn't be because she killed Marley and Ziggy, though I think that's sufficient reason to give her away. For the first time since I found Marley dead, the knots in my stomach began to dissolve.

"Once you realized that giving Annie away wouldn't make you a bad person, you could get beyond your guilt," said Laurel Langoni, the director of Colorado State University's Argus Institute for Families and Veterinary Medicine, which sponsors sensitivity training for veterinarians and pet-loss support groups. I'd interviewed Langoni for another article I'd written, and I wanted her insights. "You made a commitment to Annie when you adopted her," Langoni said, "but the situation changed. Animals are supposed to enrich your life and the life of your family. If instead they create a problem in your life, then you need to reevaluate and correct that situation. Dealing with Annie and the loss of your cats are two separate issues. You've been dealing with so much that you haven't been able to give your cats the grieving time they deserve. You're finally free to grieve for them."

As I wrote the last paragraph, tears fell down my cheeks. I miss Marley and Ziggy so much, and I know I'll miss Annie if I give her away. With my husband dead and my son grown, Marley, Ziggy, Gus and Annie had become my family. It was a devastating lesson to learn that a beloved pet is first and foremost an animal. Yet it is for that reason that I'm able to forgive Annie - and, ironically, also give her away, because now I know she could thrive in another home.

During this turmoil, an opportunity arose to vacation in Mexico, and I grabbed it. I would deal with finding a great home for Annie when I returned. When I picked the dogs up at the kennel a week later, they were ecstatic to see me. I, in turn, was delighted to see both of them. I decided to try to keep Annie.

Six months later, however, I realize that I'll never look at Annie the same way again. Still, I want her to be happy and loved. If I could find her the perfect home, I'd give her up now. Yet if I can't, I'll keep her. Having pets is one of life's most pleasurable experiences; it's also a tremendous commitment and responsibility.

Gail Buchalter is a freelance journalist based in Rhodesdale, Maryland.