A content warning is in effect for this blog post in regards to animal abuse.
I’ve been working on a personal essay about my relationship to my brother. Not a relationship with, as we no longer have one. And while there are many issues to address regarding my brother, one issue that always sticks out to me is his abuse of animals. Particularly, of his former dog, Chewie (Chewbacca).
Chewie with his precious Greenie at my sister’s house on one of our normal Friday night visits.
Chewie was originally purchased from a local pet store that doesn’t have a great reputation for healthy dogs. In fact, in my family, we prefer to get our dogs at the animal shelter, because they’re better-taken care of there.
Not my brother. Ray and his second wife purchased a little brown fluffball at this local pet store, probably dropping several hundred dollars for a Schnauzer/Shih Tzu mix.
That’s right. The platinum blonde dog you see above and below used to be dark brown and look like a little Wookie, hence the name. Apparently, he decided blondes have more fun and has never looked back.
Unfortunately for him, his adorable underbite and big, trusting eyes were not enough to spare him from my brother’s cruelty.
The extent of my cruelty: taking pictures of him when he just wants to sleep.
My brother has a history of abusing animals. Growing up, we had a black lab mix named Mouse. She was a black fluffball as a puppy, then her hair went sleek as she grew into a lanky gorgeous dog.
Mouse was the first dog that ever had to deal with my brother’s abuse. He would constantly be in her face, never knowing when enough was enough for her. In fact, the picture below is a perfect example of just how close he would be to her all the time, pulling on her feet, slamming her to the ground, and flipping her over on her back, like big dogs absolutely love.
(For anyone who doesn’t own a big dog, they absolutely do not love being forced on their backs.)
Mouse and I playing in the backyard. I’m holding a ball just next to the camera. Didn’t she have such pretty eyes?
All this abuse from my brother resulted in Mouse biting him in the face. And my parents were faced with the possibility of putting her to sleep because my brother did not listen to their endless warnings about leaving her alone.
Fortunately for Mouse, Ray moved out and she only had to endure him on his rare visits.
Several years later, after Ray had divorced and remarried, Chewie came into the picture.
We all were immediately nervous about him owning a dog, and we were even more surprised when he got Chewie certified as an Emotional Support Animal. The reason we were surprised is that Chewie did everything in his power to avoid my brother. He would hide under tables, run away into a corner, then cower like he was going to get hurt.
I was not the only one to witness my brother’s abuse. Ray would pick Chewie up with one hand, holding him by his front paws while Chewie yelped and cried, biting at Ray’s hand to try and stop him. And if Chewie bit too hard, Ray would yell at him in a big, scary voice.
Ray would sneak up on the sleeping dog and scream in his face to wake him up, then grab him and hold him to try and provide him comfort. He also used the screaming technique to wake up his third ex-wife’s six-month-old baby (A whole other story).
In 2018 and 2019 when my brother was going through his sentencing for statutory rape (Another completely different story), Ray and I talked about Chewie’s future if he were to go to prison. And Ray told me that, if he went to prison, he would let me have Chewie and would not ask for him back.
Chewie and Trent chilling on the grass at a local field where leashes aren’t required.
When Ray was first in jail after he was charged, Chewie stayed with us for about two weeks. During that time, it became obvious that he was suffering from PTSD. I dropped something on the floor across the room from him, and he skittered away into the bedroom, absolutely terrified.
A slamming door, loud footsteps from the apartment upstairs, or even unexpected noise from a cell phone all made him jump and pin his ears back to his head. I would interpret his reactions as, “Oh God, what’s going to happen to me now?” if he could talk. Trent and I both knew that he was not okay.
When my brother was released to await his sentencing, he said he was surprised I hadn’t brought Chewie with me. I said I didn’t want to mess with him any more than necessary, and I offered to watch him until the sentencing came around.
My brother snapped at me, telling me to stop keeping his dog from him and to ‘give him back his property.’ I got back in my car and drove away while he was in mid-sentence, not offering him a ride home. He called me later to apologize for being angry.
It was too painful for me to give Chewie back to him, knowing what kind of home he was going to. So I made Trent do it. It was selfish of me to do that to my husband, and he told me so, but he drove the hour to give him back ‘his property.’ (Insert vomit emoji here).
A few months later, the time came, and Ray was sentenced to either 12 of 14 years in prison (I can’t remember exactly), with two-and-a-half years fixed. My sister - whom he had discussed using as his power of attorney - and I went to his apartment and picked up Chewie, who was a neurotic and physical mess.
I don’t know about the history of his vet visits, but I do know they were rare. As we drove home, I noted that his toenails were so long they were curling under his little feet, and he had matted fur all over his body. He looked shabby, to say the least. And the poor guy was very nervous about what was happening, as Ray was the only stable thing in the seven years of his life.
Chewie and his new friend at my mother and father-in-law’s house on a Sunday visit. This is during the winter, when we let his hair grow a little longer.
When we arrived back in town, my husband and I immediately took action. My sister owns a dog grooming shop, and we got him groomed, which included trimming his nails and generally assessing his health.
My sister informed us that it was clear he wasn’t used to being groomed, and that any touch could possibly cause pain. He freaked out when my sister tried to trim his front toenails and wanted her nowhere near his face.
That was the start of Trent and I owning our first dog. And what a transforming effect it has had on all of us.
Chewie is whining in this picture after his recent visit to the vet, where they had to sedate him.
I was inspired to write this blog after we took Chewie to the vet to get his first-ever teeth cleaning. He had to have two teeth pulled, and was still delirious from the sedation when we picked him up. Trent held him the whole way home. And the whole time Trent held Chewie, our pupper looked at him with confusion about what was happening, but trust that he was in good hands.
Unfortunately, Trent had to go back to work. So, he handed Chewie to me. And we watched through our front window as Trent drove away. As soon as Trent was gone, Chewie wanted out of my arms and far away from me.
Maybe he just didn’t want someone messing with him. He went and laid down in one of his three beds (we just want him to be comfortable wherever we are). I tried to keep him company by laying down next to him, but he wasn’t having any of it. He moved away into the living room, dragging his feet as he did so.
It was then I realized that, no matter what I did or didn’t do, I reminded him of my brother. And since my brother abused him, he associates me with that abuse.
When we sleep, he’ll lay snuggled up against my legs. When Trent and I are sitting on the couch, he’ll jump up between us and lean against me. When we take him for walks, he listens to me and will even sometimes play with a stick. But I’m not Trent.
Now, before this turns into a pity party, I want to make it clear that I mostly feel bad because my presence reminds him he was abused by someone like me. The smaller part of me that is sad reasons that I have never hurt him, so he should know not to be afraid of me or dislike me. Picture me on the floor in front of him, crying, “Why don’t you like me?!” (Which I have never done).
Trent would argue that he loves me. And I think that he does. But he also loved my brother. Because my brother, while being his only source of strife and pain, was also his only source of comfort.
I wanted Chewie out of that abusive household, and I worked hard to get him away. Trent also wanted Chewie away from my brother. And Chewie is going to stay with us until he breathes his last breath. And we’re going to be with him for that, because we both love him.
Trent and I have multiple photos of Chewie waiting for one of us on the back of the couch.
Growing up, my parents always said that Mouse was Mom’s dog and Sadie, our little corgi mix (pictured below), was also a momma’s girl. When I first met Chewie, I felt like something clicked between us, and I knew that he was destined to be mine. We had similar personalities, and I knew I could take better care of him than my brother did.
But Chewie is not my dog. Chewie is Trent’s dog. And I have to learn to be okay with that.
I even told Chewie once, “I’m not Ray, you know.” And I could swear he understood what I was saying. But here I sit, typing away while Chewie lays on the back of the couch, waiting for Trent to get home. If I move into another room, he won’t follow me when Trent’s gone. I don’t know what he does when I’m gone. Maybe the same thing.
Chewie is the first pet I’ve ever had that I wanted to be mine. And he’s not. And I have to be okay with that. I would rather Chewie and Trent have this amazing bond and love and trust each other. Because that’s what matters most - Chewie’s happiness.
My family is a big animal family, and big on animal advocacy. Don’t be afraid to speak out against people you know who are abusing animals. I should have called animal control on my brother multiple times. Because at least it would have been documented. I know animal control couldn’t have done anything, though. On the surface, Chewie was a healthy weight and seemed fine. It wasn’t until we got him away from that situation that we realized just how much trauma he’d had to endure.
We can touch his front paws now. He’s comfortable with Trent holding him. He’s still very possessive about his toys and doesn’t really know how to play. He fetches, but always comes back, grumbling at us like, “Why did you throw it over there so I had to go get it? Not fun, dude.”
He’s a great little dog, and I’m so grateful to have him in my life. He’s happy, and that’s what matters to me most. He has the opportunity to be spoiled and live his life free from abuse. If he goes to Trent first and me second, then that’s his choice. I can’t help but resent my brother about what he did to this beautiful living soul, and, in turn, how that soul perceives me.
Selfish, I know. But like everybody I know, I just want to be loved.
