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When I was sixteen, my family’s dog, Rocky–a seven-year-old, sweet, chubby Doberman Pinscher–got very ill one afternoon. When I arrived home from school, he was lethargic. Within an hour, he got much worse and was unable to walk, his breath shallow. I took him to the vet and watched as he became weaker and started to show signs of jaundice.
Within hours, my family and I learned that Rocky’s liver was failing. He was going downhill quickly. We raced him to a larger facility in an attempt to rush him into emergency surgery. He didn’t make it there, though; he died in my dad’s arms.
The vets confirmed that Rocky had been poisoned. The rat poison, tucked into treats, had been fed to him the day before. There were no poisons of the kind at our home. And though we have a hunch, we’ll never know for sure who did it to him or why.
I don’t have to tell you this–I know many of you are dog lovers and parents, like Jen and myself–but I would not wish this kind of tragedy on my worst enemy, not even on the most disgraceful DISGRASIAN. Having an animal member of your family taken away from you feels like having your heart ripped out of your chest–the worst part perhaps being that the cruelty isn’t even acted out on you, but rather on something so innocent and undeserving, so unable to plea for help or understand why something bad is happening to them. The pain is indescribable.
When Jen and I read on Angry Asian Man that a Houston man, Qian Feng, had been arrested for plaguing his neighborhood with strychnine-laced cheese balls intended to kill local pet dogs, both of our stomachs tied up in knots. He was caught on video after a woman whose dogs almost died from the cheeseballs installed security cameras, capturing his second attack–I applaud her for taking the legit and legal route to justice, which is hard during such emotional matters.