Requiescat in Pace, Lennox Barnes (2005-2012)

by Roslyn Blyn-LaDrew

Many of you may have read by now of the sad fate of Lennox, a Labrador-bull dog mix, who had the misfortune to look like a pit bull “type.” Pit bulls have been banned in the United Kingdom, and dogs that look like them are equally suspect.

Ironically, they were formerly known as “nanny” dogs for their good temperament and were owned, fictionally, by such threatening characters [not!] as Buster Brown and the Little Rascals (Our Gang).

Lennox was the beloved pet of the Barnes family in Belfast, especially close to their daughter Brooke, who was 11 when her dog was seized. In May 2010, with no record of bad behavior whatsoever, Lennox was impounded, because of his appearance.

For these past two years his family and many sympathizers have lobbied on his behalf, including celebrities of the canine world, such as Victoria Stilwell (Animal Planet’s “It’s Me or the Dog”), who offered him a home in the United States.  Articles have appeared in countless publications and over 210,000 signatures were collected in petitions.  One article alone reported that over a million online candles were lit for him; no doubt there were more.

The family was not allowed to see him during his long confinement, nor were they allowed to be with him during his final moments.  The latest Twitter feed, as I write this, is that the Belfast City Council, who condemned Lennox to death, refuse to return Lennox’s collar to the Barnes’ daughter.  She wanted it as a keepsake.

The family were responsible dog owners, caring for Lennox with all the proper procedures, such as being microchipped, neutered, licensed, etc. He got along well with the other dog in the household. Apparently the dog was originally seized based on a warrant for a different dog!

But the dog wardens eyeballed Lennox, measured him (one article on the subject is called “Death by Tape Measure”) and took him away from his home. One thing that has always struck me as odd about this is any dog that is truly aggressive would be hard to measure by tape, probably hard to get near.

Am I missing something here?  You walk up to a dog that has never seen you, measure it, and then say how dangerous it is. I, errmm, don’t think we could do that with people.

The people responsible for the original seizing refused to acknowledge the mistake or back down and the Belfast City Council has steadily condemned Lennox since then, eventually leading up to his death warrant. And all of this was because of    Lennox’s appearance, since under Breed-Specific Legislation, it’s enough that a dog looks like a “dangerous breed.” 
Opponents of the legislation push for attention to the “deed,” not the “breed.”

But however unjustly, the deed, rightly called murder by many, has been done. The details are available on many websites, the official one being http://savelennox.co.uk/

In the remainder of this article, I will describe my own agonizing experience having to have an aging, desperately ill dog euthanized.  From this, perhaps readers can imagine the even more agonizing experience the Barnes family has had in Belfast.

My family’s tragic farewell to our beloved pet actually took place under just about the best possible conditions, all things considered (and that consideration and decision was, for us, heart-rending but inevitable, still painful to think about).

Having a dog euthanized is one of the most traumatic decisions a person may have to make in a lifetime.  But if you see the pet suffering beyond reason, you know that it is probably time. Our dog was desperately ill, but Lennox, in contrast, was perfectly healthy, happy, and loved when he was taken away.

It’s bad enough that so many healthy but homeless dogs in overcrowded shelters are euthanized (and that we as humans let that situation arise), but to actually take a healthy dog from his happy home, with the intent to kill him, is unconscionable.

My husband and I had a wonderful dog, Duffy, who became very ill almost overnight. He could not move, eat, or move his bowels.  His bones were described as “moth-eaten.” We had test after test done, but every result was negative.

Oddly, he had gotten a clean bill of health from a canine oncologist just a couple months before, when we had had him tested for what seemed to be an unrelated health problem, a swollen spot on his neck, which didn’t seem to bother him at all.  He had seemed to be fine through a few challenging weeks of my mother-in-law’s final illness and was a great comfort to us all.

In retrospect, I think the fast-moving cancer probably started around that time, and it either had not become painful yet or he withstood the pain, sensing our need of him. As pack animals, a dog’s instinct is not to show pain, for fear of being shunned by the other dogs.

We’ll never really know exactly what happened, but I believe he fell on the stairs one night when my husband and I were both out, working, and that catapulted him into a sharp decline.  I came home and found him immobile and whimpering with every touch.

He spent three miserable days in a very caring emergency animal hospital. They pretty much told us it was hopeless after 24 hours, but tried more tests and so on for the next few days, while we steeled ourselves to the decision that had to be made. On the morning of his euthanasia, we spent about three hours with him, myself, my husband, and my sister. She is the one who had originally found him, abandoned on the city streets, hungry and collarless, at age about 11 months. We sang to him (my husband, in happier times, had written numerous odes to Duffy), stroked him, and he lay perfectly still, on morphine. We rolled a tennis ball between his paws.  I checked him a final time for ticks, the bane of our existence in the very rural suburbs where we live.

The only flicker of movement was in his eyes when my sister called him by the name she had first given him, when she found him, which was “Squeaky,” because of a squeaky toy he played with.

Did he remember that long-unused name after 10 years?  Or was that eye movement my imagination? He wouldn’t have heard the name Squeaky for all that time. In fact, I don’t think it was a very dignified name for such a majestic dog. He was a mixed breed, perhaps some border collie, perhaps some German shepherd, maybe some Bernese mountain, and according to my husband, he epitomized Zen.

We had about 11 great years with Duffy and if the euthanasia had to be done, it was done with as much grace, dignity and compassion as one could ask for.  And it was one of the worst experiences of my life.

I say all this to present the picture that, bad as that scenario was, at least we were with Duffy for several hours before the euthanasia, and had visited him constantly while he was still in emergency care.

The hospital seemed to informally extend visiting hours for me, behind the scenes, so I would lie down next to him for hours. He was on enough painkillers that I could stroke him without it hurting him, but he couldn’t move. I tried to get him to eat plain yogurt from my fingers, but he gave it one tiny lick, and could do no more.

There was one faint wag of his tail on the first day, but no more as the hospitalization progressed. The only reason I mention all this now is to say that I absolutely cannot imagine having a pet forcibly taken from you, with constant threat of euthanasia, and constant condemnation as being a “bad” animal, which Lennox was not.

I further cannot imagine two years of separation, knowing that the animal is receiving poor care, locked in a cell most of the time, with sawdust (not approved by vets) on the floor, and often surrounded by his own waste. The few pictures released of Lennox during his confinement showed a serious skin condition, and we may never know what else was happening for him, healthwise. Apparently he remained well-behaved throughout it all.

By the way, our dog was named Duffy (from the Irish Ó Dubhthaigh) for his mostly black fur. I thought about writing a full obituary for him at the time, but it really was too painful.  If I tried, I just ended up in tears, unable to even see the letters on the page.  The same thing is happening now.

Writing this is also very painful, but I am determined to see this article through to the end, especially since a child has been left in agony because of senseless adult decisions.

I thought Belfast had seen enough of that. I visited Belfast during The Troubles, several times, and saw enough trauma to last me a lifetime. And of course, what I saw, as an American, was nothing compared to what the people who lived there endured.

I also had some wonderful times there and was warmly received by everyone I met, but I still remember plaster dust falling on my head during a movie because of a nearby bomb. We were evacuated, and that was just plaster, and the bomb was across the street. As we all know, it could have been much worse.

I also wonder if the death date of July 11 was intentionally planned.  As the day before July 12th in Northern Ireland, it is a time when tension may be high, as some prepare to celebrate and some prepare for the worst. Was the hope that Lennox’s fate would soon be forgotten, with the events of 12th unfolding and attention turning to that event?  I’m sure no one would ever admit to such deviousness, but could it really be coincidence?.

The Internet is flooded now with condolences and news articles.  It seems Lennox’s story will become even bigger in his death. Like millions of others, my heart goes out to the Barnes family and the multitudes of people who hoped for Lennox’s reprieve, if we can call it a reprieve — he did nothing, he just looked like something that someone didn’t like.

As for the Belfast City Council, who made the decision to impound and kill Lennox, I seem to recall a popular student assignment in high school or university literature classes. As they read The Inferno, they imagine people that they would like to put in Dante’s minutely described Seven Levels of Hell.  I guess you, as readers, get the idea.

Lennox, on the other hand, has crossed what we call the Rainbow Bridge as we try to comfort ourselves on the loss of our pets. But his crossing has come way too early, totally unnecessarily, and in a manner that totally lets down our faith in humanity. And worse, our children’s faith and confidence in adult decision-making.  At this point, I can only say Requiescat in Pace, Lennox, and please don’t think too poorly of all mankind.  We’re not all like that.