Six months into dog ownership, Harriet had ruined a couch, a chair, a throw rug and my marriage with her poop-eat-it-and-vomit-it-back-up routine. The house smelled of poop and my husband refused to let her out of the kennel if it was just the two of them at home. Harriet bit him again and Dave insisted that she be sent to a shelter. “Will you do that if we have a child who has problems?” I shouted. “Will you just send them away?” Wisely, Dave didn’t respond, but that night we slept in separate beds.
And there was no happy ending.
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