I remember

I remember Bruce. He was such a sweet dog until things suddenly reached the point where he was driving us crazy. One of the phases of pregnancy was: getting very worried and concerned - I knew it was up to me to work things out so that the dogs could all stay with us. If I was able to train them, exercise them, take care of them so that they were all peaceful, calm, quiet, cooperative, so that they didn't make the house a muddy sandy mess, didn't steal food off the counter top and out of the shelves, didn't bark endlessly in the house, didn't bark endlessly in the back yard -- it was all up to me to make sure this didn't happen. And once it became clear that I was going to fail, suddenly there was a shift in me. Bruce, emotionally, was the first to go. Sally I had a harder time parting from. But when Bruce destroyed the slow-cooker, ate the can of sardines and the can of soup, and ruined the couch, and jumped on everyone who came in the front door, and scratched the newly-painted doors and scraped mud on the newly-painted walls, then Bruce had to go. And he went to Buddy Dog, but not before a grand extended family brawl.