My dog saved me while I was postpartum—but I had to let him go

When I held my new baby in my arms, I didn’t feel like a mom. I felt like a child. Machines beeped and blinked around my hospital bed. My husband nodded off in a nearby chair. My feet were cold, my arms were tired and everything felt sore. I had never been hospitalized before. I felt small and helpless as a patient. I wanted the one thing that always brought me comfort. My living, breathing teddy bear. My dog.

Chai had been stabilizing my mental health from the moment we met. I named him after my favorite warm and spicy drink because, just like the tea, he was both comforting and complex. One moment he licked away my tears and calmed my fears, and the next, I was pulling him away from a passing dog with all my might.

I found him at a pet store I had no business visiting in the first place. He sat perfectly still, watching me while his puppy siblings bounced all around him. I thought I was taking home a calm dog but, at our first appointment, his vet warned me, “Terriers are terrorists.”

I didn’t care. He was just the thing I needed. I was a senior in college, facing the vast unknown that often stretches out before liberal arts majors. Where before I was guided by class rankings and AP scores and scholarships, now no one was telling me which hurdle to jump over next. Mostly, I opted to avoid jumping entirely. My bed was a safe place to do that and Chai fit right in the crook of my arm.

I was tall, dangerously thin and reserved. He was tiny, wild-eyed and ready to bark at any passing “danger,” including strollers, runners and cars.

When we did leave my apartment, we went for walks at nearby parks. On every trip, Chai would find a long stick at least three times his size, eye the  middle, plant his teeth around it and carry it without hesitation all the way home.

I admired his fierce spirit. I wanted some of that for myself.

I knew I needed help, so I started therapy and medication. I found routines and  kept busy with work. And when those medications and routines failed me, Chai was there.

After a horrible job interview, I slumped home, low on energy and cheer. It could have been enough to send me into a downward spiral but when I found my sweet Yorkie curled up inside one of my shoes, I couldn’t help but smile. He cut that spiral short and leveled it out for me.

He was with me for the high points, too, like when I rekindled a romance with an old boyfriend who became my husband.

Chai came along as my life changed and improved. But as my mental health stabilized, Chai’s only seemed to grow worse.

I tried the things that had worked for me. I was amazed by the options available to pets, and what I was willing to pay for them. I hired a dog behaviorist, his vet prescribed Prozac. Nothing really helped.

His aggressive barking gave way to biting, and it happened more than once. He tore through a coworker’s jeans, breaking the skin underneath. I sent a lengthy apology note, bought him new jeans and held my breath. Then Chai bit my husband when he came in through the back door. So we started making some noise outside the door, to avoid startling Chai before coming in the house.

When we decided to have kids, I was nervous about how Chai would respond. I pushed those fears aside though, because I needed his cuddles while my stomach grew rounder and rounder. I needed him when I got home from the hospital, too. There were so many unknowns to face during pregnancy and postpartum. Chai was a constant I could rely on, a comfort I could always turn to.

And then, he bit my baby boy in the face while we played on the floor.

A line had been crossed that we could never come back from. Really the line had been crossed well before that, but I was too immature and scared to see it. Now it was impossible to avoid.

I curled up in bed once more, this time with my baby in my arms instead of Chai, and I sobbed. His face was fine, but my heart was broken.

I called my mother.

“You two are so connected,” she said. “The kindest thing you can do for Chai is to be with him when he dies.”

I called the vet next. He talked to me about rehousing options, like shelters that specialized in Chai’s breed. I asked him what would happen if Chai bit someone there, and he gave me a knowing sigh. “I’ll tell you this,” he said, “if my dog bit my kid, he’d be down in a minute.”

So I cuddled with Chai once more, this time on the cold metal table at the vet’s office. I held him while they injected him with life-ending drugs. I carried him through his hardest final chapter, just like he carried me through my hardest chapters so many times before.

I have three sons now who run wild through my house. I know that they can do so safely because we don’t have an unstable dog living with us anymore. But I know, too, that they have a stable and happy mother in large part because of that fragile dog that saved her long ago.