Ninja's Story

Separation Anxiety, Choosing a Dog Over a Marriage, Growing Pains, and Choosing Goodbye for a Canine Good Citizen

This is the story of just one of many dogs to capture my heart over the years, but Ninja is more than just any dog ... he is one of mine. From the moment I saw his big blocky head in the poorly-angled MySpace photos in July 2008, I felt instantly drawn to the heartworm positive, underweight pit bull that a fledgling rescuer was in need of a new home for. Ninja's first known origins were as a stray, and the kind girl who had taken him in had too many family challenges to be able to adequately care for him. Just a year and a half before, I had adopted my first pit bull Daisy, and in the back of my mind I knew it was a matter of time before I found her a best doggie friend she could wrestle with. My roommate at the time went with me to meet his caregiver in a mall parking lot and pick up "Nash". When his short stubby legs trotted across the parking lot and he nestled against my shins, I knew that this dog was definitely not a foster. On the ride home, Nash rode in the floorboard at my friend's feet like a doggie magnet that could only exist while touching a human.

The next day he came with me to work at the the spay-neuter vet clinic to confirm his heartworm positive status and to be neutered. Already the night before he had insistingly "claimed" the right to many items both inside and outside the house, much to my husband's dismay. He was long overdue for his neuter! I had had the dog less than 24 hours, yet he curled up cozily in my passenger seat on the way to my job, making it quite clear that he planned to be my copilot for a long time to come.

Nash soon became Ninja, for the quirky way that he kicked his feet when rolling on his back or getting comfortable on the sofa. At that time, I knew nothing of proper dog introductions and had never seen true dog aggression, and Daisy, Ninja, our 2 chihuahuas, and 4 cats(!) were already coexisting quite peacefully. Sure, Ninja harassed the cats at first but soon learned that cats didn't take kindly to being chased. I didn't know that things would ever be any different, or that all pets couldn't be friends. The harmony of this foursome reinforced my misconceptions. And for a few years, it really didn't seem to matter much at all.

Best friends, Ninja and Daisy

The real turmoil began when Ninja had recovered from heartworm treatment and my husband, our roommate, and I began to see just how much Ninja's magnetism toward people could be a bit of a problem. He could push open a crate door with the force of his blocky head alone, and if anything plastic or electronic was near the floor, he would chew, swallow, and destroy those items in a frenzy of separation anxiety. Already my pit bull Daisy couldn't be crated b/c of how ill she became when enclosed in a crate -- but she didn't destroy things when allowed to roam free, except for the occasional fluffy blanket. We became more diligent about picking up chewable items; we were lucky he never chose furniture, doors, or walls for his destruction. I even took him to the vet where he was prescribed an anxiety medication for dogs called Reconcile. And while that seemed to curve his overall anxiousness in our presence and during shorter absences, there were still missteps. On January 20, 2009; everything changed, for all of us.

I remember the date because that was the night I left my first husband. We had come home from a night out to a home littered with white plastic pieces. The horror of the realization that it was our Nintendo Wii remotes started a monstrous argument. In no uncertain terms, my husband told me that it was him or Ninja. I had already tried to leave my husband at least twice over the past 6 years of our crumbling marriage, and for me, this was an opportunity to finally follow my heart. I remember some of what I said that night. "Ninja does this because of how much he wants to be near me. He can't help it. We're leaving." Ninja hopped in my car with me as we drove to hang out with a friend until late, when I came home and slept on the couch. The next day, my husband and I made real plans to separate.

Without being able to afford our house on my own, and a small zoo of pets to think about (my husband would take none of them), my only offer of a place to live was with my dad, who was also recently seperated from my mom. But it was on the condition I found a new home for my 4 rescued cats. As it was, my dad, who was not the biggest pet fanatic, was letting me bring 4 dogs into his neat, spotless, and pet-free home. I felt backed into a corner. Tearily, I took my four cats to the no-kill adoption facility affiliated with the vet clinic I worked at. They were all adopted quickly by 4 separate families. It was one bittersweet relief in a very tumultuous time in my life.

Ninja's destruction of course continued in his new environment and even progressed into house soiling. My dad was livid and told me he should be taken to the shelter. Again, I was in the same "me-or-the-dog" situation that got me here in the first place. I came up a temporary solution for Ninja to come to work with me during the day and to ride with me in the car during any errands or outings at night. It was a mild NC winter so it was perfectly safe and reasonable to do this. It actually worked very well and by the time the spring and summer came, I was living in my own place again, now with my boyfriend who became the co-founder of our rescue we began in August 2009. We had happily combined my 4 dog family with his one elderly dog Vanilla and things were really good for us two understanding and patient dog lovers.

Left to right: Spiderman, foster dog Izzy, Nabisco, Daisy,  & Ninja

In about June of that year, right before the rescue was officially established, we adopted a dog named Spiderman with a broken leg, and raised money for his rehabilitation. As Spiderman healed, we realized we just couldn't let this dog go either (I know, I know: suckers!). But something else curious happened, and as Spiderman started using his leg again, we found ourselves in the middle of huge, one-sided dog fights, as Ninja viciously attacked Spiderman for no apparent reason at all. Spiderman's only defense was his own strong and vivacious body, and he escaped with merely a few scratches and punctures when we pried the jaws of life (or death?) from him. We knew it wouldn't be easily, but we openly discussed what long-term life life with Spiderman and Ninja would mean: Crate-and-Rotate, a term we became familiar with as we began helping others with their dog-aggression problems within a household. "C/R" had just become a reality for us.

As we progressed into fostering, we soon learned Ninja wasn't safe with most dogs we brought home, probably none of them. He only refrained from attacking the 3 that had lived with me when he came home - Daisy and our two chihuahuas. He had even had a few incidents with Vanilla, our elderly shepherd, but I think b/c of her very calm and meek nature he eventually lost interest and learned to live with her. Yet, our guard was always up. I was very disheartened the day I saw him attempt to grab a small puppy. Puppies were usually the "safety net" for temperamental dogs. Not for Ninja. Ninja's behavior was a big part of the reason we realized we couldn't do the rescuing all on our own. We could only C/R so many dogs. Ninja and Spiderman both needed their split time with our family, and fostering multiple dogs was not an option for us.

One big help was that my work had given me an industrial-strength, commercial-size dog crate that allowed us to finally crate Ninja safely and successfully. This allowed us to live pretty worry-free for the length of the time we had the rescue and were living with our multi-dog family. Vanilla eventually passed away, and it wasn't too long before another dog entered our heart by the name of Greyson, a tiny shy pit bull. We never intentionally allowed Greyson and Ninja access to each other, but twice there were "accidents". Grey was not as strong or large as Spidey, and the injuries he sustained were much more severe. He had deep punctures and tears that became infected and took months to heal. Our "guard" became a steel wall and we worked even harder to keep everyone safe from Ninja.

Ninja wearing his CGC bandana at an agility fundraiser for Carolina Care Bullies, in Charlotte, NC

This is not to say that Ninja was not a good dog, b/c aside from his aggression and anxiety, he had accomplished quite a lot. Although he had failed his first Canine Good Citizen certification attempt, once on medication, he retook the class and test with my partner Terry and passed! He could easily walk by and be in a room with other dogs with no strong reaction. The problem was interacting and being off-leash in an uncontrolled environment with them. Terry and Ninja started taking agility classes and Ninja loved the running, climbing, and all the treats that came with it. At home, Ninja was a couch potato, and generally very quiet compared to everyone else. He still had his anxious quirks of pogo-stick-jumping, mid-air jaw snapping, and magnet-like behavior to people, but it was usually just part of our day-to-day routine.

Ninja and I, before the NC Pride festival parade in September 2009. We asked all the other dogs to please give Ninja space (see DINOS for more info on "Dogs In Need of Space"). Thanks to our understanding colleagues, Ninja was able to walk in the parade to be a good ambassador for the breed that day. 

When Terry and I eventually broke up early this year; my life took me down to Florida with Ninja, Daisy, Spiderman, and one of the chihuahuas, Nabisco. With our two very different living situations and Terry's physical limitations, this is how we decided to best split the dogs. It worked out greatly for Greyson, who now gets to roam free 24/7 with Terry and his chihuahua cohort, Bluto. The challenge was bringing Ninja and the crew into a new environment with dogs already present. My new boyfriend and now husband and I discussed our strategies for integrating the dogs successfully. My husband already knew all of my dogs, as I had known him since well before I ever adopted Ninja. He was a close friend that often pet-sat all of the dogs. He knew many of Ninja's quirks and challenges, had seen his dog aggression before, and had heard all the stories of the incidents he missed. We were ready. Or so we thought.

After one "That-Was-Totally-Our-Fault" altercation that occurred between Ninja and my husband's schnauzer, Hooch; the next fight came as a complete surprise and was nearly fatal, despite 3 people being in the room trying unsuccessfully, for several minutes, to pry the 45-lb pit bull off of the 20 lb, 12-year-old helpless schnauzer. All of my training and experience of breaking up dog fights over the 4 years I had rescued pit bulls, though handy, did not do much for the tenacious and powerful Ninja. Lifting up his back legs no longer made him flinch; but that with a wooden spoon used as a break stick and my husband hanging on to Hooch for dear life at that exact moment did eventually cause a break in the fight. The results were beyond anything I had ever seen.

Hooch, post-surgery

Now we knew that there was no other alternative to keeping Ninja not only separate from Spiderman, but Hooch as well. But then in August, my husband and I found out we were pregnant. And this changed everything. How were going to keep 3 dogs totally separate from one another, and from a child? Was it plausible? Is it wise to try? But that wasn't the half of it.

Since Ninja's attack on Hooch, Ninja's behavior declined dramatically. Always a tail-chaser when stressed, now he would stand in a quiet room, during no obvious stressors at all, and chase his tail. He had progressed from obsessive water drinking to water gorging, and shoot threatening looks to Daisy or Nabisco when they too, wanted some water. He becomes nervous during bathroom breaks over high grass, chirping birds, trucks off in the distance, or perhaps nothing at all. He stands and stares idly as us or at the wall on a calm night watching television. We doubled his anxiety medication, but with no helpful results. Ninja has become the worst version of himself, and it terrifies us not knowing what we might see next.

And it's not as if Ninja had never fought with his best friend Daisy. At least 3 times over the years they had got in a real fight, and only Daisy's unwillingness to back down seemed to frighten Ninja enough so we could break them up. Once Terry had gotten severely bitten on his hand, while shielding Greyson from Ninja. I once received punctures on my legs through my jeans from early attacks on Spiderman from Ninja. Currently, my husband and I are in constant walking-on-eggshells mode, as we pick up all water bowls, food sources, toys, bones, and try to limit attention to prevent jealousy.

As my pregnancy progresses and the future became more of a reality, we know that completely controlling every situation involving a child would be impossible. But there is a lot of emotion involved, and I have a lot of history with my dog. I began re-reading my pet bereavement book, particularly the part about when the right time is to say goodbye. We went to our vet to get an unbiased opinion and to discuss Ninja's history. And the information in front of me was telling me from all angles, that it is time to let go. The vet said a few things that shook me to the core. "This is a dog that should never under any circumstances, be trusted with a child ... I do not believe in euthanizing healthy dogs. But Ninja is not a healthy dog; he is very psychologically unstable. And you already know that."  It was unnerving, especially because she didn't even know every last detail; every dog fight or human injury that "accidentally" had came with him over the years. She was quite surprised that we had lived the "eggshell" lifestyle for as long as we have. It's just a testament to my attachment to my dog. And his reciprocal attachment to me is part of what frightens us. How will Ninja feel when our world no longer revolves around him?

Ninja and I at Oak Island, December 31, 2012

Maybe for some, particularly those that aren't parents, and/or are especially dedicated to animals, especially rescued animals, think that it's okay to take it one day at a time and "see what happens". Perhaps we should let Ninja live out the rest of his life, keeping in mind that he's already at least 7 years old now, and the average lifespan of a bully breed is about 12 years. All the while, those managing him daily know, that he is a real threat to our other dogs, and to our first and only child. Sure, he has never willingly directed aggression toward a human, but his behavior surprises us every day, as he hangs on to the last threads of the dog we once knew. It's not the good days and the good qualities that worry us; it's all the bad days, the accidents, and the uncertainties of what we can't control. Would these naysayers feel the same if their other pets lives hung in the balance, or they feared for the safety of their child? How many dogs have perhaps passed through their home temporarily that just wasn't a good fit, for one of these such reasons? And what if that dog wasn't stable, or placeable in another home? During my time leading a pit bull rescue, I said goodbye to many dogs who were not able to be rehomed, and some of them did not have the laundry list of anxieties and difficult histories that my own dog Ninja has. I can't let the fact that I deeply love my dog cloud my judgement. It is because I love him that it's my responsibility to end his suffering; and it's the love for the rest of my family that makes it my responsibility to keep everyone safe.

I'm not sure how to end Ninja's story, except to say that it needed to be told. This blog is for my Ninja, the dog whose best interest has always been at the forefront of my heart, above my relationships, sometimes above even the safety of my other dogs. I love you, and as our family spends the next few weeks saying goodbye to you, I hope you feel and understand the love we have for you. As I write this and tears run down my face; Ninja knows. He gets up from his spot on the doggie bed and clings to my side, his dark chocolate eyes baring into my soul. He cocks his head to the side as if to say, "What is it mommy?" It is a fair glimpse into the close relationship we have always had, one that I will never forget, and always cherish.

Why I Quit Animal Rescue

I am 6 months into my animal rescue sabbatical. I've always been drawn to the world of animals, and I know that the animal rescue world needs me. But I can not on good conscious ever return, at least not anytime soon. Not until I see that world remember its humanity. Because truly, before we can assist another species in achieving the dignity they deserve, we must first learn to treat each other with compassion and kindness. Right now, what I see falls glaringly short. It's a shame, because the innocent suffer as a result of our human selfishness. Not just the dogs, the cats, or whatever species you choose to alleviate suffering. But humans are suffering, whether emotionally or physically. And the animal rescue community couldn't care less.

Four years ago, to the day in fact -- entirely coincidental that I should be up in the middle of the night contemplating this blog post on the very anniversary of my former rescue's incorporation -- I began a passionate journey to do something that I saw a desperate need for. That need was a strong group of people who cared about pit bull-type dogs. After the support behind mine and my partner's "independent" rescue of our dog, Spiderman, I saw a group of people who only needed a name. We could do so much good in the world, or in North Carolina at the very least, if we all worked toward the same goal. The idea, at first, was not even mine. As a joke, our friends began to press, "What will be the name of your rescue?" This very question kept me up night after night, ringing in my head. Pit bull rescue had stopped being a choice, and instead, had become a calling. There was hardly anyone that wasn't willing to stand behind our endeavors. There were so many dogs to be saved.

The first few months were almost too easy and too successful. We recruited foster home after foster home, and after careful screening, placed dog after dog into seemingly amazing homes. This was my life's work, I thought. I never had felt so complete, so needed, so appreciated, and so much a part of the greater good.

I'm not sure the exact moment it began to crumble, or more accurately, when I began to crumble. I know it wasn't really a defining moment, but instead a compounding of disappointment and heartache that drove out every ounce of passion I had in me. I woke up in the morning, and almost physically instead of metaphorically, I didn't recognize myself. I just wanted to sleep, and never wake up. I wanted to cry until my eyes were dry. I was always hungry, but nothing had taste, and nothing sounded good. I didn't want to get dressed, or see people, or, quite frankly, try at at anything. I know for at least two years of my life I didn't cook a single meal. It was a costly habit that I couldn't break b/c I just couldn't garner the motivation to make any effort to take care of myself. I showered and bathed knowing it was a societal expectation and I really didn't want to be the smelly pit bull rescue lady. I after all, had some dignity.

I always knew the dogs needed me, but the phrase "going through the motions" settled into my psyche like a headache I couldn't rid myself of. I packed up the monthly heartworm and flea & tick medications; not really remembering why I once found this monotonous task so empowering. I drug myself to another shelter for another temperament test and became fleetingly excited as I saved another dog's life, but the high was so short lived, I was barely back in the confines of my own home before I was ready to crawl into my cave and shut out the world.

By January of this year, I felt so miserable on a day-to-day basis, that I convinced myself that if I just quit my job and delved into putting all of myself into the rescue, as a full-time paid non-profit employee, I could help a lot more animals. It was totally irrational and ill-advised; but consider I was suffering from severe depression, and my brain was fried from 3 1/2 years of over-caring. The freedom of being my own boss picked up my spirits for a few days or so, but that too, was short-lived. The drawback of not only suffering from depression but bipolar disorder as well, is that we often make hasty decisions in manic moments, only later to come crashing down when the results don't meet our expectations. At this time I was on so many medications for anxiety, depression, and insomnia, that my bipolar tendencies did not always come to light. However muted, there they were, the highs and lows; the vicious cycle that as an animal rescuer, I was apt never to recover from. I was 29 years old and felt 50. My hair had almost completely washed out to gray from the roots to halfway back on the crown of my head. My body ached, I was always tired. I wasn't living anymore. I was killing myself.


Meanwhile, it was a curious thing of the relationships that were around me. Once I had ran out of fingers and toes, I stopped counting all the "friends" who had hurt me when my executive decisions didn't match their vision. People didn't simply turn away, or go quietly into other endeavors. They left kicking and screaming and dragging my name in the dirt. Their backlash consistently hurt the reputation of the rescue my partner and I had built, and over time it became more and more difficult to find donors and foster homes because of other people's claims it "should be about the dogs"-- a phrase, I by, the way, hate with a passion. The very people that toss this phrase around as an antidote to explain their cruel behavior against another human being, are the very ones who have made it nearly impossible to continue rescuing. There is no one left to take in returned dogs, let alone bring in new ones, when other rescuers have driven all the foster homes and financial resources away with rumors and scandals.

Maybe I could have persevered if these were simple disagreements; to agree to disagree, if you will. Sure, it was dizzying, to be at one moment giving a dog "too many chances"; but in the next breath "giving up too easily", on for example, a dog with a bite history. But it wasn't even about the "business" of rescue anymore. I was being attacked personally. My very character was called into question. I have tried to kick out the residents renting free space in my head, so I have forgot a few of the choice adjectives that have described me, but I can't help but remember a few. I was described as a "dictator posing as a democracy"; my mental illness was "a convenient excuse"; and during my short few months being unemployed Oct 2011 - February 2012 (when the spay/neuter clinic I worked for was closed) I was told to "quit being lazy and just get a job". Long scathing emails, texts, and Facebook messages on what a horrible human being I am, were more commonplace on a week-to-week basis, than not. And for someone suffering from severe depression, this drove me further into the abyss of hopelessness.

I wasn't the only one suffering. Though not my place to air other people's private struggles, I will say briefly that if I was suffering from severe depression, my partner was suffering from incapacitating depression, and honestly, still is. Where I was one to want to get up and achieve something from time to time, he was apt to be too tired and too much in pain to do the things that needed done. And when I say achieve something, I mean, perhaps, just folding the laundry, or going to the store (not that I really was wanting to leave the house much in those days). I had no one around me that offered any kind of hope for the future. I was aging rapidly, and my partner, who was already much older than me, had aged 30 years in just 3. I could no longer love someone who didn't love himself. I honestly, I didn't love myself very much either. With my passion completely dried up, I was a struggling shell of an animal rescuer at best. After the past few years of revolving door foster homes and severed business ties, the rescue itself wasn't fairing much better. After all, other people had all along thought they could do it better. After being part of placing over 250 dogs in 3 years, I was ready to make my exit. Or, as many see it, The Great Escape. The dog intake was at a minimum, and there were people in place who loved these dogs. I couldn't keep "going through the motions" just because the dogs needed me anymore. I needed me, and I had lost that.


When I let my colleagues know of my intentions, I had an eerie feeling that I could not be swept under the rug fast enough. Without my consent, people started trying to push my partner out of his rightful position as the surviving director. Depressed or not, the rescue had been his vision as it was mine. It was his livelihood, and to take the rescue from him would be to take everything he had. He had known every dog that had passed through the metaphorical doors of the rescue, and I wanted him to be the soul decision maker for their futures, shall they ever come back to the rescue again. And most of all, he told me that is what he wanted. I love him, and I love what we had built, and every bone in my body was telling me that he was the rightful predecessor to my Presidency. I did what I thought was best at the time.

Unfortunately, when the revolving doors turned again in opposition, it cost the rescue nearly everything. Rumors and half-truths swirled, and after 6 months my absence, there was no one left to sustain the dogs. Those that remained placed as many as they could, but when dogs were returned as the rescue was closing, where were they to put them? I have been snidely asked what my plan was for any returning dogs, when there was no longer a rescue for them to turn to. The answer is simple; I never fathomed that the rescue would one day not exist, not for a moment. I thought I had found my calling. The unwavering support at the beginning was misleading, and I thought we could only build onto our support system. Why would anyone want to quit supporting a rescue that saves lives? These are questions I never even asked, because they seemed ridiculous. I was passionately optimistic. And that's what made our rescue successful. The more you would tell me that I couldn't do something, the more I would try to prove you wrong. When that optimism was crushed, the rescue had run its course. I was no longer doing right by the dogs.


Fleeing to Florida was not a convenient escape, but it was the path I was meant to take. That's why it was carved out so perfectly. My best friend of many years had relocated here 3 years before, and I missed him more than I cared to admit. And breaking away from a rescue was a bit like leaving the mafia; its the kind of thing that follows you. Many late nights of baring my soul to the one person that truly cared about me and not their own agenda, developed into much more than a friendship. Suddenly, in one fell swoop, it became clear what I had to do. There was only one person that could change my life, and that was ME. I needed sunshine, I needed a career change, I needed love, I needed my passion back. My heart led me to pit bull rescue, and in February 2013, my path had changed, and my heart led me to Florida. Never had the puzzle pieces of life fit so perfectly together. I was smiling, I was happy, and I was being exactly who I wanted to be. As per my passionate nature, I fell head-over-heels in love before I even set foot on Florida soil, and yes, just 4 months later, Michael Tubbs and I were married. We were even expecting a baby! Sadly, a week after the big announcement, we lost the baby due to miscarriage. It's not the kind of thing we shared publicly, and because it wasn't publicized, there were quite a few people interested in my surprise pregnancy who thought they would use it as a cruel jab to hurt me. I received a text from a rescue volunteer who had left the rescue nearly 2 years ago and she said something to the effect of "Congratulations on your baby ... dogs are dying because of you ... I don't know how you sleep at night." Ouch. It was at that moment I once again saw perfect clarity of why I left animal rescue.

This brings me full circle to why I started this blog, and that is to emphasize the importance of human compassion. It's our human interactions that drive us and empower us, and if you are consistently trying to hurt others, there will be no one left to achieve great things. Animal rescue or not, our actions toward others say a lot about ourselves. Don't point the finger and seek to hurt those that are part of the solution, because soon, they may no longer be, and you will have no one to blame but the person staring back at you in the mirror. Be a reflection of exactly what you wish to see in the world. Today, I am finally doing just that.