Bathsheba

I have to give The Husband's dog away, and it's killing me.

His beautiful red Siberian Husky. The dog that replaced his beloved Oso, filling the empty dog-space inside his heart. And now she has to go.

You see, when you live on a farm and have livestock, there are certain hard and fast rules for the pets that are in your life. One of those rules that can never be broken is that if a dog or cat kills one of the livestock, it must be put down or given away. Immediately. Once they get that taste for blood, it never goes away. And you can't have a killer on the farm.

Sheba broke this cardinal rule. She scratched and clawed her way through the wire bottom of the bunny hutch to get at the three rabbits inside, pulled them out and killed them.

There was an incident earlier in the year with one of the newborn lambs. She tried to pull one out through the gate and punctured its leg with her teeth. But because she didn't kill it, we gave her a pass when perhaps we shouldn't have. But The Husband couldn't give up his dog, and I didn't want to have to make him. Besides, she's one of the best watchdogs we've ever had. Nothing gets by her.

Sheba had a hard life. Before she came to us nearly a year ago, she was found by some friends of ours on a long, winding stretch of road in the mountains. She was underweight, obviously foraging for herself, but ever so happy to see humans. It appeared that she was either abandoned or had jumped out of the back of somebody's truck and nobody had returned for her. And that struck our friends as odd since she was obviously a purebred and only a year or so old.

They took her home and made her part of their family. But because their property wasn't fenced in beyond a three-strand cowboy fence, Sheba easily escaped - and frequently. So they asked if we were interested in her because we are completely fenced in. I knew that The Husband would immediately fall in love with this dog, so I dragged him up to our friend's place to see her. And that's exactly what happened.

Sheba, like all Siberian Huskies, is a talker. But her talking is special. Instead of being high-pitched like most of her kin, instead she has a lower, more pleasing alto voice. Every time we come home, she lets us know that she is happy to see us, her humans, yet again.

The Husband taught her tricks - such as choosing which hand a treat is in, and setting a treat on her nose and making her wait to move so it can fall off and she could gobble it up. She is his truck dog, jumping into the open door, sitting in the back seat and hanging her head over his shoulder.

We all love plunging our hands into her plush coat and giving her a heavy rub-down, snuggling up to her. She knows when to lick at you, and when to back off, giving you just the right amount of space, especially for those of us who aren't dog people but who secretly love her anyway.

But now all that has come to an end, as she sits chained in one area of our yard. No longer can she prowl the yard, keeping it safe from intruders from the outside, or gambol in play with our other two dogs. The Husband can't bear to go over to her and pet her, because each time he does it breaks his heart and he comes away crying. Every time she talks to us it is as if there is a dagger in our heart. It's as if she knows that she is no longer a member of the family, that she is cut off and is no longer ours.

So please, whoever you are that answers my advertisement in the paper, please take care of our precious dog. We love her so much and only want her to be loved. If we didn't have to send her away, we wouldn't.

Maybe it would have been better if we had shot her where she stood when we discovered what had happened. Perhaps it would be better than this daily torment for both us and her. But in the end, we knew we couldn't end the life of our beloved dog, not when she has so much more that she can give. She just has to give it to someone else now.

We love you, Sheba. We will never forget you.