Impeachment

Recently, at long last, there has been talk of impeaching George Bush.   By a strange coincidence, I have reluctantly concluded that it is also time to impeach my Tibetan Terrier, Henry.

Since Henry's arrival in my household during the run-up to the Iraq war, I have been his biggest apologist.   When he was still in his infancy, I explained the strange hissy-fit he had nine days after a rabies shot, which in retrospect was probably some kind of vaccine-related seizure, by saying that he was just tired.   Later, when there were other instances of irrational and/or aggressive displays, I excused them by saying that Henry was having a bad day, or that someone had startled him (even when they hadn't), or that Mercury was in retrograde.   Like one of Bush's few remaining supporters, I justified, explained, excused, or ignored Henry's strange, aberrant behaviors, no matter how bizarre or unfortunate they were.

Let me make one thing clear: unlike our president, Henry is a wonderful fellow, notwithstanding his peculiarities, and my best friend.   I am not the kind of person to throw out a dog like a used tissue.   But the other day, I finally had to admit defeat.   For over three years, I have struggled to cure Henry of his problems, but I have finally been forced to concede that this is a battle I just can't win.

What were Henry's issues?   At first, he just had a lot of phobias.   He was afraid of brooms and dust-pans (no problem!   We just quit cleaning); guitars (slightly more of a concern); loud noises; soft noises; other dogs; and men.

It was this last item on the list that would prove to be the dealbreaker: over time, Henry developed first a fear of and then a tremendous antipathy toward my husband.   Was he a misanthrope?   Was he, as my Republican friend Terri suggested, a Republican?   Mostly, it seemed that he was jealous.   If, God forbid, my husband and I attempted to kiss, Henry would spring up and attempt to come between us.   This developed into a full-scale obsession: when my husband began to move through the house in the throes of trying to leave for work, Henry would sense an imminent departure and begin whimpering and then howling, convinced that a kiss was about to take place.

Someone in one of the Obedience classes Henry flunked out of told me about Nancy, a fantastic dog behavior therapist who lived only a brief hour's drive away.   We went to see her, and for six months, we diligently worked the program she set up for us.   She said that not only was Henry aggressive and a potential bite risk, but that he was one of the craziest dogs she had ever worked with.   He was also absolutely adorable, she said.

With the program she designed, he got better, but just as I'd start relaxing and thinking he was over his angst, something would happen--he would snarl, lunge, and/or snap at someone, usually my husband.

I sent Nancy emails describing Henry's weird behaviors, couched in explanations and contextual analyses--Henry was upset because he hadn't eaten breakfast (he is a very picky eater), or because my husband had tried to kiss me goodbye again, or because it was a Tuesday.   Each time, she suggested something new we could try.   We tried: classical conditioning; operant conditioning; air conditioning; a halter; a drag line; neutering; exercise; natural foods; homeopathic remedies; a canine anti-anxiety drug; and finally, Prozac.   All of these methods helped somewhat, but none of them completely eliminated the aggressive displays (though the Prozac cured him of reading old journals and wondering where everything went wrong).

Two weeks ago, I made the fatal mistake of leaving town for the weekend to go to my nephew's bar mitzvah.   While I was busy doing the hora, Henry had another one of his episodes, during which he attempted to come between my husband and my son, who is living here now, and actually bit my son's shoe.   When I heard about this, I had that sinking feeling you get when you know everything is about to go to hell, but all I could say was, uh-oh.

Then, the following Friday, we reached the tipping point.   Once again, I was not around, and my husband and my son were home together.   This is how a dog's mind works, it would appear: Henry knows he doesn't like it when my husband and I are in a room together, because it means we might kiss; ergo, he doesn't like it when my husband is in a room with anyone.   When my son came into the kitchen, Henry sprang up and attempted to bite my husband.   I say "attempted" because his teeth did not actually connect with flesh; however, he ripped a big hole in my husband's shirt with his teeth.   People tell me that this, too, is called "biting," but I'm quite sure they are wrong.

But even I had to admit that Henry had crossed a line this time.   While it was possible to excuse or contextualize all his previous behaviors and to travel in the hopes that things would miraculously get better instead of constantly deteriorating, clearly, something had to be done.   My husband suggested his own withdrawal into separate, dogless quarters, but it was obvious that he assumed, correctly, that I would take the only remaining course of action.   Forced to acknowledge that my optimism had been misplaced and there was no other solution to the problem, I contacted Henry's breeder and began drawing up articles of impeachment.

Because Henry is, in a technical sense, a "biter," the Tibetan Terrier rescue organization can't, for reasons of liability, work on placing him.   So if you know anyone who wants an adorable, quirky, and beautiful but eccentric and occasionally hostile canine companion, please let me know.   The right person for Henry would be a single woman who has vowed never to marry, who can walk for half an hour a day without crossing the path of another dog, who doesn't mind a lot of brushing and combing, and who wouldn't mind if I called her every so often, crying.

I can only hope that George W. Bush will be looking for a new home soon, too.

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