Black Doggerel

We were walking; and Spike spotted a stick on the ground and decided to play with it. This happens a thousand times a day. It was a small one; about pencil-width and twice as long. He pounced on it, bounced up and down and chomped it into pieces. So far, so normal.

I do know that sticks aren't a particularly safe dog toy; I've never encouraged it, and I carry a cloth tuggy to distract him off them. But I live in a windy town where you can't spit without hitting a tree, and it's truly not possible to avoid every little piece of wood on the pavement; and it's only possible to redirect him before he grabs it about 50% of the time. He's fast and he's sudden and he's not always predictable.

He froze for an instant and started frantically pawing at his face, snarling at what was hurting him. My heart stopped. I reached for him, to find out what the problem was and also to stop him putting his own eye out with his dew claws. He wrapped both front paws around my arm as I held his head, and he relaxed his jaws and let me explore with my fingers. That's how much he trusts me. If it had happened to Squish, I would have needed a vet trip and sedation just to get inside his mouth; it's a good thing Squish isn't a stick-chomper.

I found a sharp piece of stick poking into the inside of his lip, outside his teeth. I pulled it free and let go of his head. Shit. The frantic pawing started up again, and his eyes were bulging in panic now. There must be more.

It was a bit harder to relax him this time. Hold still darling, I've got it... I can't say that the prospect of losing a finger didn't flash through my mind. It does. It also doesn't stop you.

Whatever the problem was, it wasn't outside his teeth. I had to explore the entire inside of his mouth, under his tongue, the roof of his mouth - there. He'd bitten the twig into sections and there was one wedged across the roof of his mouth. There was blood on my fingers. He winced when I pulled it free. He didn't bite down; he didn't resist me at all. I knew he wouldn't.

Ever since John died, I've glided through life in the serene knowledge that I am emotionally bulletproof. Until now. Spike will be six years old on Monday; I'm twelve months closer to the day what's left of my heart gets ripped out.

At this moment, I honestly don't know if I can survive that a second time.

On the other hand, Spike was bumping me to play tug again before we were halfway home.

Grrr. I thought it was Sunday but apparently it's actually Caturday - the day when the local cats use my dog to get their zoomie adrenaline rush and week's worth of hard exercise.

Spike's normal standard of recall is pretty fucking high. But by the time the third cat had offered itself up for happy fun chase games, his adrenaline level had cut off most of his brain function - and what brain he had left knew damn well that I'd take him home the moment he came within touching distance. So he wouldn't, and although he was taking care to stay close and not attempting to leave the park, I was forced to use trick psychology* to get the leash back on him.

If I'd been stupid enough to have Squish completely loose, I'd still be hunting him now.



*I gave Squish his ball. I had a spare in my pocket, but Spike didn't know that till he'd come back and given me the "OMG YOU DID WHAT??!!" face.

Today, I've been shoulder-barged, flying-drop-kicked, bitten, tripped, arm-humped, leg-humped, mauled, barked at, boinged on repeatedly, nearly yanked over, had passers-by cross the road to avoid me, and my sock supply is shrinking at a scary rate.

On the other hand, one paw is now fine and the other is healing well.

ARGH. Today, just for a moment, I was the person with the loose dog attacking someone else's leashed dog. I do not feel good about this.


We were in our usual park (a place where it is both legal and normal for dogs to be offleash, by the way). Spike was offleash playing ball, Squish was on his twenty-foot-long leash. Squish had just taken a dump and I was fiddling with a plastic bag. So I didn't actually have my eye on Spike, and he saw the people with the leashed German Shepherd before I did.

If it had been anything except a German Shepherd, there would have been no trouble at all. Spike isn't a big fan of other dogs, but as long as he's not leashed he ignores them. But Spike has a real big problem with German Shepherds. We got jumped by one unexpectedly when he was ten months old, and he's held an enormous grudge ever since. He thinks they should all be exterminated. He didn't even stop to growl. He just piled straight in.

It only lasted a few seconds. He does have near-perfect recall (the only exceptions are squirrels and visible running cats), and he broke off and came back when I bellowed at him. He wasn't at all happy about it - "I could have taken him, Ma!" with all his hackles up and sparks in his eyes like a miniature black dragon, and Squish helpfully barking his head off in support. The people with the Shepherd hurried away, but my nerves couldn't take any more. I leashed everyone up and came home fast so I could check him for damage (I didn't find any). Damn thing must have been three times his size.

He looks so pleased with himself. The bastard.