Friday, September 12, 2014

Limping Home


I wasn’t expecting the blur of fur and bared teeth that flashed past the corner of my eye.
I wasn’t expecting to be struggling in the wet grass to wedge myself between an aggressive hundred pound Malamute and the dog it had attacked - my dog, Roscoe. I knew about my neighbor’s dog. Sweet as sugar to humans, but a holy terror to other dogs, which is why she’s normally kept indoors or behind a 6 foot fence. Normally. Today was different. Someone left the door ajar and the Malamute seized her chance to put an end to my dog once and for all.

I’d seen this dog attack another dog, unprovoked, and knew her to be ferocious. Before I could think to react, Roscoe was pinned by his neck on the ground and I could sense the neighbor dog meant to kill him. What happened next was all gnashing and squealing and fur flying and me somehow in the middle of it with my hands around the Malamute’s neck. I squeezed hard. Harder. God damn you, God damn you! was all I could think to say as the dog finally capitulated and Roscoe limped off. A trail of blood marked his path up the sidewalk to a hedge near our house where he disappeared from view.

The sun was too bright. My head began to pound as I lay in the soggy lawn of our courtyard, still holding the Malamute by his mane. The dog’s owner, Sarah was suddenly standing over me frantically wondering how to help. She was dressed for work and looked lovely, completely at odds with the setting. I relinquished her marauding pet and she tugged it back into her yard. A jittery electric halo danced around them - the kind I see just before getting a full-on migraine. Really? I thought, This has to happen now? And why not, nothing was making any sense. One moment I’m walking my dogs and the next I’m laying on the ground with a torn shirt, bite marks on my arms, and a seriously injured dog bleeding under a bush. Why not top the whole event off with a migraine?

Roscoe looked warily out from his leafy refuge. He licked his lips and flattened his ears back as if he’d done something wrong, as if he had disappointed me. Most of the blood that I could see was oozing from puncture wounds in his left foot. He’s a pretty furry guy, and I wasn’t confident that my quick once-over had cataloged all his wounds, so I coaxed him into the car and headed to our vet. Halfway there, I realized I hadn’t called to let them know we were coming. At a traffic light I pulled up the Urban Vet Care number on my phone. My thumb shook wildly as I pressed the call button. I hadn’t yet seriously regarded the puncture wounds I’d taken in my right bicep. The rip in my shirt sleeve made a little window where I could peek at the damage. It was dark purple and brown, and it stung the way a cut does when it’s really dirty. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a tetanus shot.

When the pleasant voice on the phone asked how she could help me, I informed her that I was bringing an injured dog. This was not a request, it was a statement of fact. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes, I said. You can get away with this sort of behavior when you’ve spent over 8K in vet bills within a single year. Two knee-rebuilds on one dog, a tumor removal from a second dog, and dental surgery for a cat will grant you this sort of access if you don't abuse it. The pleasant voice cleared her throat and said, Yes mister Howell, we’ll see you in fifteen minutes.

Roscoe was whisked away by a familiar vet tech for an initial assessment of his injuries. I brushed off the grass still clinging to my wet knees and puzzled about the Malamute. I remembered screaming Why are you doing this? What’s wrong with you? as if it could answer in a way that I would understand. But those weren't real questions anyway - just padding in between my curses. Still, I'd like to know how a pet can suddenly become so profoundly unhinged. It’s hard to imagine how far off the mark we can be in understanding our closest non-human companions. Sure, we know not to anthropomorphize, and we’re reluctantly aware of the more disagreeable aspects of the Circle of Life, like animals disemboweling each other for sustenance. But it’s extra troubling when one neighbor’s dog turns murderous against another, because we assume that these creatures share a rudimentary behavioral code with us. They are pack animals, after all. They know social structure and obligation. We’ve “trained” our dogs to obey. How can we get them so wrong? Likewise, how have we managed to map our own genome and even glimpsed the edges of the universe without turning that same rigorous wonder upon our oldest evolutionary partners? After thirty thousand years of comradeship you'd think we'd have more to show for our  efforts than "sit, stay, rollover" and "shake."

Roscoe came home seven hours later, sedated, with big patches of fur shaved off to expose the multiple wounds I suspected were hiding under his thick coat. There was a gash above his right ear, a bite mark to the skull just behind his left eye, and a ragged gouge on his butt. The most serious damage was the bite to his left rear foot, which was torn open with an exposed tendon. Adding insult to injury, a tooth had come loose in the struggle and needed extraction. Roscoe looked like hell. It had been clear to me, in the moment, that the neighbor dog intended to kill him. The evidence now seemed to agree. The attack lasted no more than twenty seconds before I got them apart. I shiver to think what a few more seconds may have cost my dog.





If you’ve got a pet nearby, and it’s not sound asleep, do this quick experiment. Go look it in the eyes. What’s the very first thing you notice? A welcoming recognition. Then maybe a quickening of curiosity. Just by doing this you’ve started a little trans-species conversation. Each of you must interpret the others reactions. Your pet’s look may say, What do you want from me? What are we going to do? It’s up to you how you answer, but don’t suppose this conversation is driven by instinct or intuition alone. Your pet is working hard to understand you. The average dog can understand 165 words. How many words a cat can learn is more of a mystery. Cats don’t test well (which seems to suit their purposes). Even without words, we animals study each other for intent, and build bridges across the formidable barriers between our species. Even my dogs do this with the cat. The fact that these encounters result not just in cooperation but affection, loyalty and even empathy, is one of nature’s divine miracles, easy to overlook because it is so small and commonplace.

There are times - particularly when my dogs and I are doing the same activity, like playing or running or relaxing on the floor - when I can look in their eyes and suppose I know just what they are thinking. Other times those same eyes surrender no clues. Our animals may have joined us around the campfire, so to speak, but their home is deep, deep in the forest. The domesticated pet straddles two worlds. That’s easy to forget with an animal curled beside you. Our pets stumble awkwardly between the social geographies of the animal kingdom and the hyper-demanding structures of human civilization. It’s no wonder that once in a while a dog gets its signals crossed.

I walked the vet's bill over to Sarah’s house. She was expecting it. Her ten year old daughter opened the door, accompanied by the Malamute. The dog was easily twice the girl’s mass, but she had no trouble controlling it. The girl walked the paperwork into the kitchen, leaving me briefly in the entryway with the dog, who began compulsively licking my hands and nuzzling against me. I knew better than to suppose this submissive display was some sort of doggy apology, but clearly the dog wanted my approval. I relented. I felt all through her fur but could find no wounds. It seemed Roscoe hadn’t gotten in a single lick. It was hard to imagine only hours ago I had my hands around this dog’s neck, squeezing with all my might. I would have killed you, I said quietly.

The girl returned just then. I’m sorry my dog is so stupid. My mom is going to get her more behavior training, She said. Yes, "more" would be good, I said.

Later, on our truncated limp around the neighborhood, Roscoe insisted on passing the neighbor’s house by veering way out in the street instead of sticking to the sidewalk. I indulged him. We’d have time to work on being brave in days to come. I thought back to the time when Roscoe alerted me to a rattlesnake coiled ahead of us on a trail we were hiking. He froze with alarm and curiosity as we waited for the snake to move off into the brush. I'm sure he doesn't think he saved my life, but I do. Likewise, I have no idea whether he feels like I averted his demise today. He does not appear to be haunted by constant self-reflection. It's of no concern to him. The obligation we have to each other doesn't have to be discussed or analyzed. Looking out for each other isn't just part of the deal, it IS the deal. I reached down to pet him, my hand zig-zagging between the wounds on his head, like a car weaving cautiously through a construction zone. We’ll get through this together, buddy, I said, It's what we do.