The Princesses: One Biter, One Bolter, No Exit Strategy

What happens when your last dog sends your next two — and both arrive with teeth, trauma, and zero impulse control.

Every dog person thinks they’re ready for another. You tell yourself it’s love, healing, or fate — but sometimes it’s just grief wearing a different collar. My last dog, Zee, was my heart. When she died, I swore I couldn’t do it again. And then, like some cosmic joke, I ended up with two. One bites. One bolts. Neither believes in personal space. This is their story — and mine.

I didn’t want to rescue a dog.

Not because I don’t believe in rescue — I do, in theory. But I know Shepherds. They don’t forget. They don’t let go. When a German Shepherd gets “rehomed,” it doesn’t matter if the old owner sucked. That dog still thinks you kidnapped her. She just wants to go back — even if “back” was a basement or a backyard with no shade.

But I did it anyway. Because Trish said it was the “right” thing to do. Because society says adopt, don’t shop. Because I wanted to believe I could save something. People say your last dog sends your next, and Zee left a meteor-sized hole in my heart.

That’s how we got Ariel.

She’s stunning — black and silver, intense eyes, smarter than me most days. But she came with issues. Big ones. Escape artist: opens baby gates with her teeth, jumps up and hits door handles to let herself out. Counter surfer. And if you don’t slam the front door fast enough, she’s gone.

She seemed healthy at first, then started limping within a month. Advanced arthritis from an untreated cruciate tear. She needed TPLO surgery — basically rebuilding her knee with plates and screws. Nine grand.

We asked the rescue for help. They acted like we’d asked them to pay off our mortgage.

“We don’t do that,” they said.

This from the same rescue who had a dog listed as needing double hip replacement, looking for a medical foster. But Ariel? Nope. You’re on your own.

We found a surgeon who’d do it for half that. I talked Patrick into it. Ariel loves to play ball — we have photos of her midair, catching anything. It’s her joy.

The surgery was hell. I slept next to her crate in the living room because otherwise she’d cry all night. The meds gave her diarrhea on schedule every four hours. Skip a dose and she was in pain. Give it, and I was a zombie.

And after all that? She still wouldn’t use the leg.

Eight weeks later, we had the hardware removed, hoping her body was rejecting it. X-rays came back perfect. Structurally fine. But she refused to trust the leg. Another four grand.

She’s on pain meds, nerve meds, chill-the-hell-out meds. We tried PT, but Ariel’s a biter. It takes two people and a muzzle to touch the leg. Three on a bad day. I lost my job, so PT funding was no more. One vet suggested amputation.

This was my first rescue.

It will be my last.

While I was guilt-scrolling Petfinder pages, Patrick was doing his own research. He wanted the best-trained German Shepherds in the state. He found a breeder who trained dogs for police and military — highly intelligent, highly energetic, absolutely beautiful.

We told him we wanted a female puppy. When the litter came, he put three on the floor. One of them was sable with a black stripe down her back.

“The one with the stripe,” we said.

That was Diana.

The breeder told us to bring her back at five months.

“I’ll train her,” he promised.

We misunderstood. We thought that meant she’d be trained — obedience, sit, stay, heel, all the basics.

Instead, she broke her toe at exactly five months, sprinting out of her crate at 60 mph. The breeder said no training until it healed.

So instead of obedience school, we got bandage changes, vet bills, e-collar tantrums — and a one-pawed, howling crate goblin who couldn’t care less. I had been so looking forward to sleeping again.

When she finally went to his so-called “boot camp,” we imagined salutes. A calm, focused dog. Maybe even a “Good girl” from the breeder.

Instead, she came back worse. Dog-aggressive. Completely unwalkable. She sees another dog and becomes Cujo: stands on her hind legs, barking, lunging, yanking me into the street. She’s pulled me over. Twice.

When I take Diana out I look like I’m on a stakeout — scanning corners, ready to bolt back inside at the first glimpse of another dog, like sniper fire could come from anywhere. I walk her with a leash around my waist, a slip collar, a prong collar, a leather leash, and an e-collar set to tone → vibrate → zap. Sometimes the zap doesn’t even work unless I crank it to six. I felt bad — until I realized she might get us both killed lunging at a poodle.

Then I watched the breeder’s training videos.

He encourages the barking. Holds a toy out while the dogs go nuts, restrained from behind. It’s police work. And I guess that’s great if you’re K-9 unit.

But we’re just people. In a house. With no yard. In a beach town.

No sirens. No backup. Just us, a leash, and consequences.

And Diana? She’s just trying to get Ariel to play.

Ariel, with her three working legs, snarls and bites her in the face when she’s had enough. Diana doesn’t care. She zooms faster. Launches into the wall like a possessed Roomba. Spins back for more.

We named her Diana because we thought it was a princess name.

So now we have two princesses.

Princess Ariel and Princess Diana.

They even have an Instagram. Five thousand people think they’re adorable. None of them has met them.