The beginning of the end of the most recent chapter in my exciting life. I'm sure you've all been dying to know. Here's the sorry story:
On Tuesday evening, young boxer Zach and thirteen-year-old Bandit got into yet another fight. As far as I can reconstruct, after staying away from the proceedings except to hoist Zach up by his hind legs in an attempt to get him to stop, I saw the two brawlers disengage for a moment and reached for Zach's collar, hoping to haul him away from Bandit's throat. I felt a sting on my left ring finger and promptly moved away from the tussle. Soon after, the two let go of each other long enough for me to haul Zach inside the house and slam the door shut. I then noticed, to my surprise, that my finger was bleeding profusely. I held my hand up to get a better look and saw that my finger was cocked at a forty-five-degree angle at the first joint. I called my ex-doctor sister to tell her I thought my finger was broken, and she came down to my house, took one brief look at my finger, turned away with a gasp of horror, and said she'd take me to the emergency room. There, after several hours, I learned that my finger was indeed broken, bitten to the bone, and the tendon severed. I spent a pleasant night in the emergency room and was wheeled off to surgery at 8 or so the following morning. In the recovery room two hours later, my sister told me that at around 5 a.m. Zach had attacked Bandit. The fight lasted forty-five minutes, during most of which Bandit was lying on his back screaming while Zach was worrying his throat. When he finally could be stopped (a neighbor up the hill heard the sound of the fight and called to find out what was going on and then sent her burly husband down to help my poor, tiny sister, and his deep, ferocious voice finally snapped Zach out of his frenzy), it was clear that Bandit needed to be taken to the vet immediately. He's still there now, and it looks like he's going to die--of shock, since his injuries weren't all that severe.
Needless to say, Zach will no longer be living with me--indeed, I had already decided on Tuesday night that he would have to go--and I'm now trying to find someone who can take him in. There's a very active boxer rescue network in this country, so there's hope that he'll be able to be placed with someone who can give him what he needs: a home with no other animals and a person who won't leave him alone for long stretches of time and will give him a lot of exercise, discipline, and love (I was only good at the last). I will be very sad to see him go (I blame myself, not him, for what happened), and I feel very guilty about everything. I just hope it doesn't turn out that I have to take him to the vet and hold him as a fatal injection is administered.
As for me, well, the top of my finger was almost bitten off (it was being held on only by skin and a ligament, apparently). Part of the tendon was missing--a little snack for Bandit, which seems only fair, in light of subsequent events--so one of the the two tendons of the index finger was snipped away and spliced to what remained. For now, there's a little yellow ball sticking out of the tip of my ring finger that's quite fetching. And I can heartily recommend the Machias hospital where, as strange as it sounds, I actually sort of enjoyed my stay. Really decent people, and a nice quiet room on the ground floor--a single, even!--with a window that opened. Nurses who were very helpful (one went out to his car to see if he had a book for me when I was expressing horror at the thought of having nothing to read during the endless hours of waiting. He returned with something by Clive Cussler--dreck but welcome nonetheless--and said I could keep the book) and willing to break small rules (another told me if I was dying for a cig, she'd unhook me from my IV so I could go out into the parking lot with the aide with whom she was partnered--also a smoker--to get my fix; I didn't take her up on her offer, but it was appreciated). Even the food was more edible than usual, although my first meal, two hours post-op, was surprisingly demanding: spare ribs, scalloped potatoes, peas, and a big piece of apple pie. So, if any of you is ever taken ill in my neck of the woods, I can heartily recommend Downeast Community Hospital. Whether the surgeon was competent, only time will tell, but in all other respects, several thumbs up.
There you have it. By selfishly deciding to acquire a young dog so that I wouldn't suffer as much when my most beloved old one died, I have possibly killed not only the dog I love most but also perhaps the dog I adopted to ease my pain when the other died. The finger is nothing in comparison.
I think this is a sufficient excuse for missing the show, no?
