On May 9, 2017, detectives from the Sheriff’s Department came seized me without an explanation. My family begged the detectives not to take me, but they said they had to take me. It was the law.
My new family didn’t know when they adopted me and no one told them that on April 1, 2016, my mom and I had gotten out of the house through a slider that hadn’t been properly closed.
I was a very young dog. At first, I was playing with one of the goats, but then my mom ran up and chased the goat. They ran, so I ran. My mom wasn’t playing, and before I knew, the goat was dead. My mom had also attacked another goat. In the end, two goats were dead and a little pony was hurt.
Ever since I was six weeks old, I lived in California on 3 acres with goats and chickens. Goats weren’t a meal; goats were family — that’s what I knew. Thing is, I couldn’t prove that I didn’t kill the goats or hurt the pony.
In Lewis County dogs that kill livestock are put to death. My mom managed to escape justice by going to another state, but I got left behind. I ended up getting blamed for something I didn’t do.
I was locked up and labeled a dangerous dog and that label carried a stiff sentence — death.