One tough week…

First off, my brother finally made it to the end.  I was beginning to think the doctors had it all wrong, but they got the last word, although he made it a year longer than they said he would.  So, come this weekend, we’re headed to Arkansas to pay tribute to his life, and drink to his passing.

Next thing happened was Dawg’s doing.  He’s been getting more and more rambunctious and, because she’d gone back to using the long leash (some people just can’t learn), he pulled the wife down and hurt her knees.  Finally, today, Dawg and I went out walking.  Along the way we ran across one of his oldest “friends” (a lady who used to work at the daycare center to which he went).  She’s studying to be a vet, and wanted to pet Dawg for old time’s sake.  I warned her that he’d started being more aggressive, but she has a Rotty with the same problem, so she wasn’t worried.  So we talked about her Rotty, how school was going, etc., and the whole time Dawg just laid down beside my wheelchair.  Of course, with the short leash, he didn’t have a lot of choice.  But as she turned to walk away, Dawg proved to me that a short leash isn’t enough.  He lept up and took a hunk out of her butt cheek.

Now, first off, she wasn’t in the wrong — she didn’t do anything to deserve such treatment.  And even though I try to watch him every minute, I was shocked.  This is the first time he’s carried it that far.  The wife and I had always said that “biting” would be the final straw.  He’d have to go down for that.  But the “friend” called the cops.  I’d already told her to see a doctor (she needed a couple of stitches) and I paid for it.  I also paid for the antibiotics she needed.  But she called the cops.  (Hang on, that wasn’t wrong either, but there are consequences.)  [Later edit: it turns out that the doctor called the cops.  It seems that when they treat a dog bite, they’re required to do that.  Now I owe the friend an apology on top of the other apology!]

The animal control people came out, and it was obvious that the BBD (Big Black Dog) syndrome was already in place.  He was there to face down a killer.  Then he saw that Dawg’s shot record was up to date, and noticed the 2008 Dog Hero of the Year plaque on the wall, and the framed “Good Citizen” certificate, and the registration for his Service Dog status, and you could tell the poor guy felt silly.  He had me sign a report (the “friend” had said she was just walking past me when she was attacked by the vicious animal), pay a couple of small fines, and he put Dawg into a 10-day lockdown…sort of.  Dawg’s “quarantined” in my home.  Unless I go out.  Then he can go with me.  He’s not to play with any other dogs, or be around other people — well, unless I’m there, then it’s okay.

After 10 days they’re supposed to come back and make sure he hasn’t dropped dead from rabies or something, but the guy said for me just to call him and say that Dawg’s still alive and kicking.  So now he can’t be killed for at least 10 days. And although I’m mad enough to bite horseshoes and spit nails right now, I know that by then I’ll be over it.

But I’m still going out tomorrow and getting him a muzzle.  And the wife has agreed to just use the short lash again.  Maybe between the two of us, we can keep him alive for another year or two, until he drops from old age.  After all, that’s what he’s been doing for me, and I owe him at least that much.

Quacked up


About Daddy Bear

I'm old and grouchy -- don't push it! I've got a long, pointless, and boring story, & I'm not afraid to tell it...and tell it...and tell it...
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