She was a young college student when she adopted a lively terrier mix, just eight weeks old and bursting with energy. Together, they attended countless group training classes, dreaming of one day becoming a therapy dog team. He went to daycare every week, charming everyone with his playful spirit and falling asleep in the staff’s arms. At home, he was the perfect companion – until he was left alone.
He suffered from debilitating separation anxiety. It didn’t matter whether he was crated, confined to a single room, or allowed to roam freely around their apartment. The duration made no difference either—whether she was gone for six hours or just six seconds, his distress was the same. Long morning walks failed to calm him, and treat-filled toys sat untouched. Every moment she was away, he spent barking and crying.
Seeking Help
While her neighbors were initially understanding, she could feel their patience beginning to wear thin. But more than anything, her heart ached for her dog. Desperate for answers, she turned to her obedience trainer, asking if there was any type of training that could help. She sought guidance from her vet, hoping for a solution. Both gave her the same devastating response: not only could nothing could be done, but they advised her to find him a new home with someone who could be there 24/7.
With a heavy heart, she made the agonizing decision to let him go.
Less than a week later, her phone rang—the new owners explained that the wife was allergic and they would need to return him. Heartbroken but determined to do right by him, she took him back, knowing she would have to find him another home and face the pain of saying goodbye all over again.
The first goodbye had already been devastating; the thought of doing it a second time felt unbearable. But she was told there was no other option, so she let him go for the second time.
That young college student was me, and that little terrier mix was Jeter.
At the time, I believed I was doing what was best for him because it was what I had been told—by multiple professionals, no less. I felt like I had failed him.
Learning the Hard Truth
A few years later, I completed my studies to become a dog trainer through the Animal Behavior College and began an in-person mentorship with a trainer who owned a training and daycare facility. Until then, I hadn’t even realized such specialized training facilities existed outside the major chain stores. They focused on helping dogs with fear, aggression, and—separation anxiety.
Separation anxiety!
When I discovered there was training specifically designed to help dogs who couldn’t be left alone, it felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me. The memory of Jeter and the decisions I had made came rushing back, hitting me with a wave of heartbreak and regret.
I did the best I could with the information I had at the time. I followed the advice of professionals to rehome him, believing I was doing what was in Jeter’s best interest.
But the truth is, I never forgave myself, and I never forgot.
When the Past Came Calling
Fast forward about seven years. In that time, I became a Certified Dog Behavior Consultant, got married, adopted a shepherd mix named Cooper, and even opened my own training and daycare facility. It was nearing the end of the day when my phone buzzed with a call from a number I didn’t recognize. Spam calls weren’t as common back then, so I decided to answer.
On the other line was a representative from a pet microchip company. A dog was found wandering the streets in a town an hour away and when his microchipped was scanned at the vet’s office, my number came up along with Jeter’s name. His new owners never updated the records with their information.
To say I was shocked is an understatement. I don’t remember my exact words to the woman on the phone, but I managed to explain something along the lines of no longer being his owner—though I would come for him immediately. However, she informed me that because I had already stated that I wasn’t his current owner, they couldn’t release him to me. She asked for the new owner’s name and contact information… but I no longer had it. Years ago, before I met my mentor and began this new chapter of my life, I had received a few updates that Jeter was doing well in his new home. After that, in an effort to move on, I deleted the number.
In tears, I called my husband, Rich. The wound I had tried so hard to mend—a wound that would never truly heal—had been ripped open all over again, leaving me raw and overwhelmed.
The Text That Changed Everything
Four days later, while running errands, I received a text from a local but unfamiliar number. The message was from a vet tech named Michelle, who worked at the clinic where Jeter had been brought in as a stray. He was being held there, waiting for his owners to claim him—but no one came. Per county regulations, he was scheduled to be transferred to the shelter the next day and put up for adoption.
Michelle included a picture of him—a scared dog, huddled in the back of a crate—and explained that he wouldn’t do well in a shelter environment. She reached out to ask the question I never expected to hear: Did I want him back?
Without hesitation, I told her I would be there in just over an hour and called Rich on the way to let him know. This time, I wasn’t worried about Jeter’s separation anxiety. After all, I now knew not only that he could be helped, but also exactly how to help him. I had already done it with Cooper, who once broke a window trying to follow me as I left the house, and with many of my clients’ dogs.
The Dog I Got Back
Jeter wasn’t the same dog I had let go all those years ago.
While he still struggled with separation anxiety, he had developed additional challenges—barking at people and dogs, lunging at passing vehicles, occasionally snapping when touched, and even growling at Rich when they first met. But together, we overcame every obstacle.
Rich became Jeter’s second favorite person, greeted with kisses instead of growls. Jeter’s trust expanded to include family members and even his physical therapist. He no longer required a muzzle during vet visits.
On walks, passing vehicles brought tail wags and he calmly strolled past people and barking dogs. Nail trims became part of his cooperative care routine and he napped in the car.
And perhaps most remarkable of all, he learned to relax when left home alone—a task I had once been told was impossible.
Living With the Past
Jeter spent the next seven years of his life with us, finally back where he belonged.
I tried to make up for the lost time, but the truth is, we’ll never get those years back.
I tried to forgive the professionals who advised me to rehome Jeter, but I’m still not sure I have.
I tried to forgive myself, but that hasn’t happened yet.
I tried to convince myself that I shouldn’t feel ashamed, but I still do.
Why I’m Finally Telling Jeter’s Story
I kept Jeter’s story a secret for years. Only a handful of people knew it until now, and sharing it puts me in an incredibly vulnerable position. By opening up, I know I risk judgment and criticism from keyboard warriors, other dog trainers, rescues, vets, breeders, and pet owners – but I believe this story is too important not to share.
I hope my story helps others learn from my mistakes. I want dog owners to know that it’s okay to question professionals and to seek multiple opinions from truly qualified resources. The dog training industry is unregulated, and too often, owners are left without the support they need. In my case, I should have been referred to both a Certified Dog Behavior Consultant and a Veterinary Behaviorist—experts who specialize in helping dogs with issues like separation anxiety.
I didn’t know then that such professionals existed, and I wish someone had guided me in the right direction. My hope in sharing this is that others will feel empowered to advocate for their dogs and seek out the help they need, even when it feels like there are no options left.
But I wasn’t. Instead, I was told to rehome him.
Our Third and Final Goodbye
Just a few days ago, I had to say goodbye to Jeter for the third and final time. At 15 years old, his health and quality of life had declined to the point where euthanasia was the kindest choice I could make for him. It was a heartbreaking decision, but this time, I knew it was the right one.
As I recount Jeter’s story, there are so many people I want to thank:
- Michelle, for reaching out and giving me another chance with Jeter.
- The incredible staff at his three veterinary hospitals, who cared for him with such compassion and dedication.
- Dr. Edwards, for coming to our home and allowing Jeter to pass peacefully, surrounded by love.
- And my husband, Rich, for welcoming Jeter into our home without hesitation and loving him.
Jeter taught me more than I ever thought possible—not just about training, but about resilience, forgiveness, and unconditional love.
Until we meet again, Jeter.
