Don't Look if You're Squeamish

We interrupt your usual irreverent blogging to bring you something serious. I need advice, y'all, and it's about something I can't find the humor in no matter how hard I try. I'm hoping you can help me make a very important decision.

First of all, let me introduce you to Andy.

He's our Lab/Chow mix, quiet and (generally) well-behaved. He's ten years old, and we've had him since he was a tiny puppy. During the years we struggled with infertility, we thought Andy might be the closest we'd come to having a baby, so we treated him like our child - and loved him as much. He has moved with us from Missouri to Texas to Germany to Nevada to Iowa (because of Curtis's Air Force career - we're not, like, nomadic or running from the law). He's been an integral part of our family since our family was established.

And this is Cameron, our second son, newly two years old. This picture was taken just a few days ago.

And here's what Cameron looked like this morning ...

... thanks to Andy.

We were sitting in the living room yesterday: Cameron, Colin, Coby, and me. Curtis had just left for work. I was at one end of the couch, holding the baby; Cameron was at the other end, standing in an empty laundry basket. I didn't even register Andy sleeping beside the basket, stretched out on his side. It didn't even dawn on me that the unthinkable could happen. But I guess that's the thing about "the unthinkable" ... you don't think about it.

I was watching Cameron play when he tipped the basket over. My eyes saw every movement, from the way he pitched forward and landed on Andy to the lightening-fast snap of the dog's jaws. And it literally seemed to be going in slow-motion to me. I saw, as if watching a movie, Andy clamp down on my baby's face. His jaw opened and closed two, three, then four times, as if he were chewing - but it was in a matter of just a couple seconds. My stomach felt sick as I leapt toward them, tumbling the baby from my lap to the floor in the process (oops, sorry Coby!). All I could think about was Cameron's face. His eyes. His sight. He was bleeding everywhere.

By luck or miracle or both, Andy's teeth had missed Cammie's eye, nose, and lips, instead puncturing several places in his cheek and opening up an angry gash across his lower face. It took a plastic surgeon and 40 stitches - both internal and external - to fix. He's one of the most tenacious little dudes I've ever seen, though (the first words out of his mouth after Andy bit him were, "I'm okaaaay!"), so he's running around as crazy as usual.

Since it was a dog bite, the Animal Control people said we have to quarantine Andy in our house for ten days. After that, it's up to us to do with him as we please. And there's where I need your advice.

I want to keep Andy. I want to keep him and pretend that this never happened - but it's hard to pretend that, looking into Cameron's poor swollen, bruised, stitched-up little face. The reality is, it could have been a life-changing attack. One more inch and he could have been blinded. And this isn't the first time Andy has bitten one of the kids: he bit Colin on the arm when he was about a year old, but he hasn't had any more incidents like that in nearly four years. Until yesterday.

The thing is, though, both times Andy has bitten have been in response to being somehow surprised by the kids. It's not like he aggressively sought them out, chased them down, and used them as his personal chew toy; he was startled. It was reflexive.

On the other hand, Andy's only getting older and less tolerant. And our boys are only getting busier. They understand not to bother Andy, but you see how well that works out! Plus, we've still got Coby to go through, who is yet-untrained in the art of avoiding the grumpy old dog.

I highly doubt we could give him away. People don't usually adopt older dogs, and they especially don't adopt dogs that bite kids - so he's immediately got two strikes against him. And for that reason, I refuse to let him go to a shelter. He'll die there, just as surely as if we put him to sleep ourselves - only there, he'd wonder why we left and didn't come back for him.

And there's our other option. Having him put to sleep. But I can't even type the words without the threat of tears tightening in my throat. I love this dog. He was my first baby. If he were sick, unable to get around, or pursuing people in order to bite them, then yeah - I would grudgingly be able to do it. But Andy's still got a lot of life in him. He still loves to play. Though I wouldn't say he's in his prime, he's far from feeble and decrepit. How can I just say, "Okay, you have to die?" How can I look at him, live with him, care for him as usual throughout this ten-day quarantine, knowing that the end of it will be the end of him?  

What do we do? What would you do? Please, y'all, leave me some advice and if you know of anyone else who could add their valuable two cents, steer 'em my way.