The Dog I Couldn't Keep

For my entire life, I dreamed of having two Labradors. Or three. Or four. I’d grown up with them and, to me, they are the complete package: funny, docile, loving, gentle, greedy, loyal. So when we finally moved into an apartment with a small garden in New York, nobody was going to convince me otherwise.

My parents thought it was a bad idea. Other people were hesitant. Even I had my doubts. New York City is hardly a dog’s playground and it breaks my heart daily to see dogs whose owners seem to think two laps around the block constitutes exercise.

I was determined not to be that owner. One hour in the morning, one hour in the evening, and at least half an hour at lunch was my minimum commitment. My office sits directly below our apartment, so it would be with me all day. After convincing my husband - and myself - we found the most perfect, squishy, roly-poly puppy and brought her home. It was even better than I imagined.

A few months later, we bought a house Upstate, complete with fields, woods and a creek. Suddenly, life felt pretty complete. Five years on, it is.

Life with Boots is easy. She slots into every part of it so naturally. I’ve never known a love quite like the one I have for that dog. But I’ve always wanted another. For years I’ve teased my husband, sent him endless Labrador memes, casually enquired about rescues and adoption centres. The dream of my little puddle of Labradors never really went away.

So when I came across a Labrador on the Hudson Paws Dog Rescue website a few weeks ago, I looked - and looked again. I tried to put him out of my mind. Then, last weekend, we happened to drive past the rescue and I spotted him playing in the yard. I made my husband turn the car around and we got out to say hello.

That weekend I begged and pleaded.

A few days later, knowing my husband was away for the weekend, I arranged for a 24-hour trial sleepover. As I write this, Apollo is asleep downstairs in my kitchen next to Boots for reassurance. He’s only been here five hours and I already know he’s not going to stay. Thirty minutes ago I was lying on the floor sobbing into his face while he rested his enormous jowls on my chest, absorbing every ounce of my sadness as I told him I wasn’t going to be his mum.

God, how I wish I could be. This boy, and so many others like him. Including the dog I met when I collected Apollo this afternoon - surrendered by his family after three years together because he had suddenly become “too much”.

I will never understand that.

Perhaps that’s because Boots and I built our life together. Every version of my life over the last five years has been shaped with her in mind - and vice versa. Every decision expanded around her because she was already at the centre of it. Had Boots turned out to be anxious or difficult, it wouldn’t have mattered. We would have adapted because we were building a life together.

Apollo is different. He isn’t arriving at the beginning of our story - or even his. We’re meeting halfway through both of our stories.

Tonight, I’m grieving for two reasons. Firstly, because I feel like I’m failing this dog. I am. Secondly, because I always thought that if the opportunity arose, I’d do the noble thing - open my home, make it work, figure it out. I thought that wanting to help would be enough. But it turns out it’s much easier to imagine being that person than it is to actually be them.

The reality is that I can’t give Apollo the life he needs - or perhaps more accurately, Apollo and I are meeting too late. Had he arrived five years ago, before building this life that now runs at pace, perhaps this would be a different story. But we’re not meeting at the beginning. We’re meeting in the middle.

Apollo is anxious. He’s pacing. He’s unsettled. All entirely understandable for a dog spending his first night in a stranger’s home. But watching him, I know something in my gut. He is not built for a life that moves weekly between a city apartment and a house in Hudson, punctuated by doggy camp whenever we travel. Boots thrives in that life because it’s all she’s ever known.

At seven years old, Apollo’s life has been different. All he’s known is people leaving. Being dropped off and not being picked back up again. And tomorrow, I am going to become another person who didn’t choose him. I hate myself for that.

As I lie here in bed, tears still streaming down my face, part of me wishes I’d never met him. That my dream had remained exactly that: a dream. Because dreams are often easier to stomach than reality.

I suspect I will carry guilt about Apollo for a very long time. I will wonder if I gave up too quickly. I will imagine alternate versions of this story where I kept him and somehow made it work.

Apollo, I’m so sorry.

And so, on the off chance that the right person happens to read this: if you’re Upstate and looking for a big, slightly goofy, desperately lovable Labrador (with what I suspect is a healthy helping of Great Dane), please consider him. He deserves a calm, structured, consistent life with someone who can show him that being loved doesn’t have to be temporary.

You’ll be rescuing a beautiful soul. Somewhere tonight, I’m hoping that what feels like the end of my dream is actually the beginning of his.