Today I am thankful for my fingers. I really am. You just don't know how helpful they are until one or two are malfunctioning, in which case even the most mundane tasks (like typing) take an exorbitant amount of time and effort. **Please note that I am thankful for way more than my fingers today, but this particular appendage is on my mind today for reasons I am about to explain...*
I am a ridiculously soft-hearted individual when it comes to animals. Duh. You already know that. A couple of years ago, when Gordon was rehabbing a house near ours, I got to be friends with a dog who belonged to the neighbors. I brought him treats and played with him through the fence. He was a pretty big boy, some parts black lab, some parts great dane and some parts horse, apparently. It broke my heart and made me cry every day...this enormous dog was kept in a pen that was 8 feet long and 4 feet wide. Full of his own urine and feces, he was filthy and stinky and disgusting. During the 8 months we workede on the house, I never once saw this dog out of his pen. Worst of all, I would occasionally see him trying to run in his pen. He couldnt even get in a full stride before he reached the end and had to turn around. The owners had an entire fenced in yard, but they never let him out.
Even after we finished with the house, this poor dog tormented me. Inevitably, he would invade my thoughts on a regular basis, especially on cold nights when I knew he was stuck out there in the muck, with no love of affection or playing or shelter. This went on for a couple of years until last year, I decided it was time to dognap him. We put the operation into effect, but at the last minute decided to abort the mission.
And then, the arctic air mass swept through the Salt Lake valley this week. We have experienced highs in the teens and it's just too cold for any creature to be outdoors, especially at night. So despite the fact that we already have two dogs, Gordon and I decided to revive Operation Dognap on Wednesday night. It went off without a hitch...minus the fact that Gordon had to carry this behemoth of a dog to the car, cutting through other people's yards to reach the getaway car. We got him home and a bath was the first order of business. He smelled like something unearthly. You would not believe how sweet and docile this big guy is. He stood patiently in the hot water, he clearly enjoyed it. No one had ever played World of Handsome with him. We scrubbed him up, brushed his hair, and he was a new man.
Meanwhile, our own dogs were barricaded downstairs, away from the new arrival. Samson the Blue Heeler is not exactly the President of the Welcome Wagon for Wayward Pets. One of his less-than-charming traits is dog-aggression. He's a lamb at any other moment, but he has a problem with other dogs. It usually takes a few minutes of intense work to get him to be comfortable and play with any other dog.
So we kept them separated and gave the big guy a soft bed in the warm basement. But get this...this dog is at least 6-7 years old, and he freaked out at the prospect of going down the stairs. Clearly, he had never seen stairs before. So anyway, he displayed a few acts of bad behaviour, he clearly had not been to finishing school. I forgave him for whizzing on the wall, but I wasn't happy about it. He promptly got put in a room by himself with his bed.
The next day, which was Thursday, we played with him in the backyard and he had such a fun time. You could see that he clearly loved the prospect of jumping and playing and running. (Get ready for the part where I lose the use of my full set of digits...) It seemed like a good time to ease Sam into the idea of a new dog in the yard. Nope. It really wasn't such a good idea. The short version of the story is an image of Gordon using his full body weight to hold Seabiscuit back from Sam and me in my pajamas rolling around in the snow trying to wrestle Sam away from the dog. It wasnt pretty. I'm sure our neighbors thought we were all being scalped to death by the sounds emanating from the back yard.
It seemed like forever, but we finally tore them apart (mind you, little Sam was the primary aggressor in this situation...he may have a slight Napoleon complex). My blood was sprayed (okay, that may be a slight overstatement, but certainly dripping) all over the back yard. Gordon's wrist showed the telltale signs of a large set of dog teeth. My left ring finger had a pretty ugly cut on one side, and only a fraction of the requisite skin left on the other side.
I dont do blood and pain very well, primarily because I'm really not used to it. I have never really gotten hurt in any serious way. I was somewhat bothered by my blood in the backyard and had to stop looking at my hand. Bless his heart, my wounded husband nursed my hand and washed it off. And then freaked me out by telling me that something akin to guts (sorry!) was oozing from the cut. Not so good, I thought. He told me I probably need stitches, but I have observed the process a few too many times (remember who my husband is?) and I don't see myself being able to handle those shots they shoot in your finger to numb it.
So we cleaned it out, wrapped it up and went on our merry way. But then came today. I'm at work and nine-finger typing is pretty darn silly. My finger is swollen to the size of my big toe (I have fat, Flintstones-esque toes) and it's black and blue and numb and somehow painful at the same time. It's a problem. So I am going to have lunch with my one-and-only Bestie Sarah Crane, and then I think a trip to the ER is a necessity.
Wouldn't this post be much improved with illustration photos? Yes, I know it would. Sadly, though, I (once again) dropped the camera and broke it. I should not be trusted with expensive electronics. It never turns out well.
So anyway. It was a pretty-low key Thanksgiving, all in all.
Wish me luck!
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