10/31/2026
STORY TIME SATURDAYS, and it's not a story I'm proud to share. I'm sad, emotionally overwhelmed, and ashamed.
I'm guilty of poor communication. When I'm uncomfortable, I will absolutely shut down, take a step back, breathe, and give myself time to think and pray. Because the alternative is a deep dark hole.
Sometimes, it's my own fears and insecurities. I can admit that. Some of my reactions are rooted in deep scars, and I own that.
But sometimes, my hesitation comes from negative experiences that have happened more than once. Experiences I've communicated my concerns about, only to be reassured that things would never turn out that way. And then, six months later, sometimes less, I'm facing the exact situation I was afraid of.
The most recent example is Joker.
And I'm going to be honest: I am no longer willing to take that particular risk with dogs who have behavioral histories.
From this point forward, I will not place dogs with histories of fear reactivity, anxiety, fight-or-flight responses, or similar behavioral challenges with adopters who work in the veterinary medicine field.
Would I consider a veterinary behavior specialist? Possibly. But even then, I would proceed cautiously.
Let me explain why.
Joker's adoption should have been easy.
He was adopted with an extensive dictionary-sized amount of information prepared by his foster family and me. We shared his documented history from day one in my care, every transition, every experience, and the situational circumstances that helped us understand him.
We didn't hide his challenges. We didn't sugarcoat his needs. We shared the information because we wanted his adoption to succeed.
Joker needed space, patience, time, structure, and walks that allowed him to process the world around him.
I'm not talking about walking him for miles or running him into exhaustion. I'm talking about taking him outside, allowing him to observe his surroundings, experience his environment, and process what he sees and hears. Sunbathing, observing his surroundings, experiencing, and processing what was supposedly his forever happiness.
That's how Joker functions. That's what helps him settle, regulate himself, and understand that he's safe.
Instead, he was medicated to the point that he could barely walk. Pacing, unable to settle, rest, fighting against it. And I guess that led to adding more and more meds and higher doses. He was so sedated that he struggled to stay awake, walk, eat, drink or do anything but stay drugged.
The medication regimen reported to me was:
• Trazodone, 100 mg, two times daily.
• Gabapentin, 100 mg, two times daily.
• Prozac, 40 mg, once daily.
The notes read: adding another or two medications and upping the current dose to his current cocktail of tranquillizer medication.
Joker is a max 45-pound dog who typically stays around this but never less than 43 pounds, NEVER! When he came back to us, he weighed just UNDER 38 pounds.
He's a muscular dog. Imagine what it was like to see him return with visible muscle wasting, dry skin, dry, brittle coat. Visibly dehydrated.
Imagine spending FIVE YEARS helping a dog overcome his fears and succeed only to see him come back in that condition.
For five years, we worked at his pace. On his terms, within his limits, and according to his ability to process the world around him. It was never easy but clearly possible.
Five years of patience. Five years of dedication. Five years of learning what worked for him. And not once did we have a failure like this.
Then he was placed in a home where the very things we explained he needed were not consistently provided. EVER!!
HIS NAILS ALONE SHARED THE TRUTH. IT TOOK 5 YEARS FOR HIM TO TRUST US TO CLIP HIS NAILS WITH 0 FEAR, DISCOMFORT, OR REACTION. HE LITERALLY ALLOWED IT TO HAPPEN WHILE HE RESTED.
This just improved in the last year while in his foster home too. Before this, it took 4 of us. One keeping him calm, distracting him, another holding a pillow over my head just in case, me trimming nails, and Hugo freaking out 20 feet away with quick stop just in case.
From this to one person trimming his nails while he watched us do it.
THAT'S NOT THE CASE RIGHT NOW, AND HIS NAILS ARE SO LONG. He's back to fearing this too.
I understand that working an eight-hour shift can be exhausting. I understand that people have responsibilities, obligations, and lives outside their pets. But here's the thing: If you tell a rescue you can meet a dog's needs, you have to be honest with yourself about whether you're actually willing and able to do it.
A dog doesn't stop having needs because you're tired after work. I'm always tired, especially after 16-hour shifts on the 7th day in a row. But I still show up to honor my obligations.
And a dog with a behavioral history doesn't become an easier dog simply because we medicate him until he can no longer function normally.
Medication absolutely has a place in veterinary care. For some dogs, appropriately prescribed medication can be an important part of managing anxiety and supporting behavioral treatment.
But medication cannot replace the daily work of helping a dog feel safe, building trust, providing appropriate enrichment, maintaining structure, and respecting that dog's individual needs.
Medication may be part of the plan. It cannot be the entire plan. Especially if it was never part of his rehabilitation training in the five years under our care. That's proof enough that he can succeed and learn and be great and okay without it.
I became especially concerned when, after repeatedly reaching out, I finally received a response that revealed that less than a week after Joker's adoption, he was already being brought to social gatherings with friends, where he was displaying fear reactivity.
We had spent five years working to help Joker navigate the world at his own pace. To learn to trust humans, but not some humans, but ALL HUMANS. This boy loves people so much.
Why was he rushed into situations before he had the opportunity to settle into his new home?
Why wasn't the information we provided being followed, used, practised?
Why were we treating his fear as something to suppress instead of recognizing it as communication?
These are the questions I keep coming back to.
And yes, this was an adopter who worked as a veterinary technician in a veterinary clinic.
In my 15 years of running a rescue, I have now encountered five separate situations involving veterinary clinic professionals where I believe behavioral challenges were approached in ways that ultimately harmed the dogs who succeeded in our care.
Five separate experiences. Let this set in.
I also earned a degree in veterinary technology, and I stand by my concerns based on what I have personally experienced. I earned my RVT degree and chose not to work in this field for many valid reasons.
Let me be clear, though: I am not talking about veterinary behavioral medicine. Those are two different things.
I have tremendous respect for veterinary professionals who take the time to understand the underlying causes of behavioral challenges and work collaboratively with families, trainers, and rescues to help dogs succeed. Unfortunately, those are far too few and in between and have become scarce.
My concern is with what happens when medication becomes the first or easiest answer, while the behavioral guidance, patience, and daily management a dog needs are neglected.
I believe complex behavioral cases deserve careful assessment and appropriate veterinary guidance. I would much rather see a veterinarian collaborate with a qualified veterinary behavior specialist when a case exceeds their expertise than see a dog become so heavily sedated that his quality of life suffers.
And I am tired of being told that my concerns are unfounded when I have lived through these situations repeatedly.
If you want a dog who exists solely on your schedule, interacts only when you feel like interacting, and requires nothing from you beyond food and a roof over its head, please reconsider adopting a behaviorally challenged dog or any dog.
Get yourself a Chia Pet, a pet rock, or an independent cat.
I'm being blunt because these dogs deserve honesty. They deserve people who understand that adopting a dog is not about finding an animal who fits perfectly into your existing life without requiring anything to change.
Sometimes, loving a dog means changing your routine. Sometimes, it means taking that evening walk even when you're tired. Sometimes, it means declining an invitation because your dog isn't ready for that environment. Sometimes, it means allowing progress to happen slowly, even when you wish it would happen faster.
And sometimes, it means recognizing that the dog you wanted isn't the dog you are prepared to care for.
There is no shame in acknowledging that. The shame comes when a dog's well-being suffers because we refuse to acknowledge our limitations.
And Joker?
Joker is back to himself. He's happy, healthy, social, and meeting people freely. He's enjoying the attention, keeping an eye on his neighborhood, sunbathing, and taking his daily evening walks with his foster family in his happy, social neighborhood.
He's doing what he knows how to do when his needs are respected. And I am grateful to have him back. But this experience has changed me. It's confirmed and validated my concerns.
I'm on guard now. When inquiries come in, instead of confidently moving forward and trusting what people tell me, I hesitate. I question things. I second-guess myself.
I'm still upset, and I'm struggling to believe people when they tell me they're willing to do what these dogs need.
That is the part people don't always see.
They see a rescue dog. They see an adoption announcement. They see a happy ending. They want dogs placed left and right no matter the outcome. What they don't see is the years of work that came before that moment.
They don't see the hours spent building trust, managing triggers, learning body language, celebrating tiny victories, and helping a dog discover that the world isn't such a frightening place.
They don't see the money, the physical exhaustion, the emotional investment, or the sleepless nights.
I dedicate my time, energy, money, sweat, and blood to helping these dogs reach a point where they can become part of a community and live in a home that is right for them.
I don't expect perfection from adopters. I expect honesty, commitment, communication, and a willingness to respect the dog in front of them.
Because here's the reality: We, as humans, create the environments our dogs live in. We control their routines, their exposure to the world, their opportunities to decompress, and the support they receive.
Dogs do not get to choose the people who adopt them. They don't get to explain their fears in words. They can't tell us that they're overwhelmed, that they need a break, or that something isn't working for them.
They depend on us to listen. And when someone, especially someone with professional experience, makes choices that I believe compromise one of my dogs' well-being, I have to look at my own role in that outcome.
I am responsible for making the placement decision. I am responsible for trusting that the information we provided would be respected. I am responsible for the safety of my dog for the rest of its life. And I am responsible for learning from what happened and changing how I approach future placements.
That doesn't mean I caused every decision that followed the adoption. It means I have a responsibility to use what I've learned to protect the dogs who come after Joker.
I cannot control what happens once a dog leaves our care. This is why placements are important. But I can change the safeguards I put in place before that happens.
So, yes, I am more cautious now.
Yes, I am struggling with trust. Even more.
And yes, I will be changing how I approach placements for dogs with behavioral histories.
Because I would rather have someone upset with me for declining an adoption than have another dog return to us in a condition that breaks my heart, adds to my everyday guilt, and feeds my fears and distrust.
Joker deserved better.
And every dog who comes through our doors deserves the chance to be understood, respected, and loved for who they are, not for whom someone wishes they would be.
We don't find homes. We find families.
And a family isn't just a place where a dog lives in their home. It's a place where a dog is allowed to feel safe enough to become who they were always capable of being.
