She's 14 1/2 pounds. We brought our wagon, because we didn't want to leave her in the car, and sometimes, establishments that are iffy about letting a dog in will reconsider when they see her riding in her wagon.
So I wagoned her about for a while, looking at tchotkes — lunchboxes, LPs, baseball books, furnishings. While Ms. Edgy is in the lady's room, an employee of the store says that it's OK to let the pooch out of the wagon, that they've always allowed dogs there.
So I dismount the dog, keep her on the leash, and look at jackets — blazers that are retro, cool, and would fit a fat guy. Ms. Edgy returns and takes the dog's leash, and we go off in separate directions. Our anniversary approaches and I guess we were implicitly agreeing to split up, in case we saw something the other might like. I, for instance, like vintage Dukes of Hazzard shit (Confederate-flag-free, of course).
I walk to the far corner and am working my way back when I hear a dog squeal — repeatedly. My dog has never made a noise like that — ever — but by the third squeal, I realize that it maybe could be her. I sprint in the direction of the sound, and I see my wife on the floor, curled up around the dog arms and legs like Greg Buttle recovering a fumble. (It's been a while since I've seen a football game.) A pitbull mix is trying to get past her turtle shell of a back to get at my little doggie, while Charlene turns her back to stay between them. The crazed mutt wants my dog, not my wife, and fortunately doesn't take a piece out of the latter.
The owners have wrestled the dog off by the time I arrive. I have fifteen messages going through my head to kick somebody's ass — anybody's. But I put that aside, because even though our dog is in the clear for the moment, she's still squealing. When she stops four or five squeals later, you could hear the whole mall relax. But not completely, because they weren't sure if that meant my dog was alright, or dead.
Thankfully she wasn't dead. The other dog (the aggressor) belonged to one of the dealers — a couple — and as the woman is scolding her dog, the man is apologizing profusely to me. I elect to not kick his ass, because I'm worried about Rocket. But I don't really want to talk to him until I am calm — and my wife is calm, which may take days, possibly weeks. Fortunately, the operators of the mall come over and tell the dealers to get their dog out of there. The lady leads him out, scolding him, playing the part of a vigilant, stern dog-mom, when in fact, this shit is her fault. This dog was unleashed.
As she heads, out, the dog-daddie hands me his business card and says to call if they need to cover any vet expenses. I'm feeling better about him as I'm feeling worse about his wife. We examine the dog. She initially seems unmarked, but we start combing through her fur and find a piece of flesh missing on her flank, about a quarter inch wide, but it doesn't look deep. We ask the proprietors for Neosporin, and of all people, the doggie-daddy, not quite out of voice range, says, "I have some in the truck, I'll go get it."
I'm appreciating this guy just a little bit more, all the while wondering if this tends to happen a lot.
We get home in a hurry, we shave down the spot around the wound and disinfect it with everything we've got. When we've finished shaving, we notice two more tooth impressions near the wound. But we understand that bite wounds should be left open, so any bacteria can drain out.
So that's us, we spend the week cleaning and disinfecting. The dog is alright, but we're not into seeing this open wound. I call the guy's place of business on Sunday, and he doesn't get back to me by the end of the Monday. Monday night I call his cellphone. No reply by mid-day Tuesday. So I call her cellphone. Tuesday night she calls back, and while she's kinda owning responsibility for this, she's kinda not. She's saying her dog has never attacked a little dog — only big dogs. We conclude that she's fucked up and crazy, and we don't mention $$, because that promise came from her husband and we're getting the idea she has him oppressed and that's why she insisted that she do the talking with us.
Wednesday night, the dog is doing OK, but the wound won't scab over, partly due to the dog messing with it, but still. More drainage. We call the vet and she has a cancellation for this morning, so we bring her in. Vet says we've done everything right, but — and this is a big ol' but — she manipulates the skin around the wound, and when she slides the dog's flesh back a bit, there's a big fucking hole. That fucking dog got a tooth at least a half inch into our little Rocket.
She says we can keep observing and see if there's any sign of infection or she can go in and clean and close it up now. That's the smarter play to our estimation, and we're going in for surgery tomorrow. There's a chance she's had her abdominal wall punctured, and that could lead to sepsis. But there will be a much bigger wound in our dog after surgery, and anesthesia is always a fright. My wife, as you might guess, is beside herself. In a state, as the Brits say.
So, these folks are about to get a big old vet bill, along with some ugly pictures of what they did to my little girl. And I'm going to collect. I'm out of work, so I have time to chase folks down.
Photos below for the sturdy of heart. All others steer clear.
