|
December 26, 2004 ~ Blood, Iodine, and a Mess of Worry
Sunday.
Miss Rose
Show the universe a plan, and it will laugh in your face. So we didn't plan. The only plan was to be flexible and do whatever it was that Monty and Rose needed most. Sure enough, the universe threw us one hell of a curveball. It came with a phone call from the rescue.
They were running late. They were running late, because they had a medical emergency. Monty had a huge, nasty gash in his paw.
When Montague saw them coming with the leash and collar, he became extremely excited, as he always is. "A walk! A walk for me!! Oh, joy!!" He hadn't watched where he put his paw. Which was through the fence. Through the fence of the pen next to his. Where the wolf inside who did not like him took advantage of his distraction, and clamped her jaws onto his paw and would not let go. Monty, angry and in great pain, started biting at her face to get her to let go, while all of the rescue workers rushed in to try to separate the two. (This is one of the many reasons why we're building new pens and deconstructing the old compounds. Shared fencing has got to go.)
Luckily, they were able to separate the two very quickly, then tended to their wounds. Monty ended up with some small cuts on his nose, a few fang holes on the bottom and back of his front left paw and leg, and a nasty, deep painful gash across the top of that paw. Poor dog, he can't put that paw down without whimpering. The wolf next door had several cuts around her muzzle to treat. After they'd mostly stopped the bleeding and cleaned the wounds (not an easy feat), they crated Rose and Monty in the van to be transported, but first had to fix the fence so no one could get loose while they were gone.
Then, they went straight to the vet. But the vet was closed. Christmas Eve. Nobody can see Monty until Monday, and by then it will be too late to stitch the gash in his paw. Well. Crap.
So they brought them to our house. Monty was having a lot of trouble walking (and he's way, WAY too heavy and big to lift, especially with a wound that can't be bumped or jostled) and he couldn't be kept in the outdoor pen that we built, since the wounds would need to be kept clean.
Well then. Mr. Monty-doo would be going straight into the house, scared or not. No time for carefully introducing the poor dog to the scary house over a period of weeks, as we'd expected to need to do, since Monty has always been terribly fearful of cars and closed spaces and cell phones and cameras and things that make noise and strangers and damn near everything. Forget training and housebreaking (bring in the towels and rug cleaner!). Forget taking a hike to relax them. And so much for that expensive outdoor pen. Time to improvise.
When the van pulled up, Morgan ran out the door, and I grabbed my shoes and stood in my stocking feet on the porch, trying to pull them on. I crept around the side of the van and peeked in at the two crates. Miss Rose immediately put her ears down, eyes in that soft begging look, tail wagging furiously, and flipped over on her back in the submissive posture. Monty looked out, concerned and pained, holding his hurt paw up in front of him. When I came to the doors, though, he put his ears down and begged for me to come closer. "It's my favorite person in the world! They brought me to my favorite person in the world," he said, his whole body softening. My heart broke, right there. Shattered in the driveway.
I wondered what he thought. Maybe, "Oh, I see. When things hurt too much, they bring you to your favorite person in the world." I've been working at the rescue for almost a year now, and, early on, timid, fearful Montague had picked me as His Person. His Lady. His favorite person in the world. Did he realize that this was permanent? Did he realize that now he had a home, two alphas to love him, and his friend Rose would be here for good too? Did he realize that when he heals, he'll get to go on a hike with his favorite person in the world every single day?
We took Rose out so that she would be out of the way, and she melted into a puddle of love, greeting everyone. Nancy let Monty out and held him while I cleaned his wounds again and learned what each of the bottles contained and what those contents do. I shuddered at the close look at the wound. It was bad. Very bad. I could see tendons inside. And bite wounds are most prone to infection...
I slipped his lead on, and we helped him down from the van. He pressed against my leg, scared and uncertain. I helped him up the porch stairs, and he paused when we came to the house door, looking back up at me saying, "You want me to go in there??"
"Yes, Monty, inside."
He timidly limped in and then stopped just inside the door, sniffing and sniffing and sniffing. I let him take his time. He looked back, suddenly concerned about Rose. "Where'd she go??" Morgan called back for them to follow with her. Once Monty saw her face at the door, he turned back around and started forward again. I gently led him to the bedroom and into his crate, praising him all the way. He settled on to the blanket and started licking his paw, just as we'd hoped he would. I reassured him while Morgan carried Rose's crate into the bedroom next to his, and then we crated Rose up as well, frequently checking on them while lunch was eaten and logistics of the adoption were worked out.
And then the people were gone and we had two dogs in crates in our bedroom.
That didn't last long. Soon Monty had claimed the living room rug. We spread towels there for him (so that we could clean his paw with iodine after every time he went outside), and I laid down with him, as he didn't seem comfortable unless I was right beside him, becoming very concerned if I so much as left the room. He already knew to ask to go outside, and he couldn't move fast enough to get himself into trouble, so we quickly came to trust him and allow him free reign, so long as we were home. We knew he had been a housedog at one point in his history, and you could tell: as soon as he laid down on the living room rug, it all came back to him.
Monty licking his wounded paw. This picture captures the mood of the weekend.
And he has been so very, very happy, and gentle, despite his hurt paw. Grinning all of the time, snuggling up against me as I lay with him, trusting me so very much. Incredible, this huge bulk of dog in my living room acting so calm and happy and normal, when just a week ago he was his "normal" self at the rescue, scared of everything and uncertain and still frightened, even after how far he's come since I started working there. And here he is, lying next to me while I write on the laptop, grinning up to me every once in a while, and panting a happy pant when I reach down to pet him. Asking to go out when he needs to, not complaining at all when I squirt some iodine into his wound. I keep tearing up with pride and happiness for him. All of this, with a bad wound thrown in. I'm just in awe. We expected housetraining Monty and getting him over his fear to take weeks of focused, hard work. And there he was, comfortable after only a few minutes.
Frankly, it may be because of his paw. He's uncertain and hurt and frightened, and he saw a bit of stability (me) and has latched on to it. When he found himself at my house, he knew exactly what to do. Stick by his Lady, and everything would be fine. So he has done exactly that, and God help me if I ever betray that trust. I've been lying next to him and talking to him, taking naps with him, singing or stroking him to sleep, and slowly brushing all of the mats out of his coat for two days now. I've been treating his paw, helping him get outside when he needs to, cutting his food up into small pieces so that he'll eat it (he has not had much of an appetite, since he's hurting). I've actually gotten to the point where most of the mats and old dirt are out of most of his coat, though we still have to work on his belly some more, and his legs, which I've not touched for obvious reasons. He still needs a bath, though, he's a stinky boy, but he'll have to heal before that's possible. (Plans for not taking him inside until we could clean him? So much for those.)
I can't believe I have a Monty on my living room floor.
So, some weird Christmas it has been. Nursing poor Monty 24/7, waiting and waiting for Monday morning, when we can finally get him to the vet. Hopefully, there won't be too much of an infection. Hopefully, he doesn't have too much internal damage. Hopefully, the vet will know a way to help him heal. God, it looks bad. It has made me insane, just sitting here, unable to do anything over the entire holiday but hope, and clean the wound, and hope. God, I hope his paw and leg are going to be okay...
This entry reads much happier and more optimistic than I feel, and I'm not sure why. The whole experience has been incredibly stressful and full of worry and heart wrenching. I am exhausted. Learning that he had been hurt, but not knowing how badly until I saw him. Trying to clean out the wound despite how I knew the cleaning was hurting him, how he was trying everything in his power to get away, growling at me accusingly. Waiting and waiting and waiting (and still waiting!) before we can get him some medical help. How bad that wound looks, how it's got a mild infection started already and there's not a damn thing we can do until we see the vet except keep it clean. Wishing I had access to antibiotics without a prescription. I mean, even the little things: we haven't gotten Monty to poop, yet, and we're worried about that. We watch them constantly. We can't go anywhere, and we've canceled all of our holiday plans (my in-laws were going to visit this week, but now that is not at all possible).
I don't begrudge him any of this, of course. I would and will do anything to help him heal. But their arrival has been extremely draining due to his injury. Our hearts have been pulled every which way. This has turned our life, our house, and our plans on end.
Morgan's and my life together has taken an about-face in trying to care for these two. I keep saying to myself, over and over, "He will heal. When he heals, all of this will be much easier. We'll be able to go places again. We'll be able to have guests. We won't have to watch him constantly. We'll be able to start training them. We'll be able to give him a bath. We can take him on hikes. We can work on his socialization. Once he heals. When he finally heals..."
But, from the looks of that wound, it could be months. Oh Monty. You were only an hour away from having a normal happy home and a normal happy life. I'm sorry that this happened before you could. I'm sorry that this has made the transition such a painful and scary experience. I pray that you won't have any permanent damage to hinder you from what we have to offer. I hope I hope I hope...
Rose and me, yesterday
|
|
