On a cold, early December Tuesday, I arrived home a bit past five p.m. after having run a couple of errands. As soon as I got out of my truck, I heard a cacophony of manic barking originating from way down the hill, behind the camper/dog house we all live in. Without being able to get an immediate visual as to what the noise was all about (as they were way down the hill, over 100 feet or so), by its tone alone, I could immediately tell it was not a euphonic gathering. As I descended the hill to investigate (maybe a raccoon up a tree...?), the "innocent" pack members trailed along with me--innocent in that they greeted me upon my arrival home, unlike the "down-the-hill gang", who were too preoccupied with their "hunt". I did a mental roll call of who was not with me, those members of this "sub-pack" down the hill, as the Innocents and I went to investigate. As soon as I got to the scene of the crime, I could see that it was Ellie who was the "prey" of this sub-pack of seven dogs. They had her surrounded, but she had wisely embedded herself beneath a felled tree for protection. I could plainly see that she had been viciously attacked and, needless to say, I was extremely upset. Ellie had two huge chunks of flesh missing: one from her right haunch and another from the top of her neck (cervical area). She also had over ten major tears and bite marks on her back, face and stomach.
The sub-pack immediately dispersed, after I screamed, as if I was a vicious dog (as the Alpha, I assure you I make a huge impact on all dogs, be it with a postured "look", but most especially with my own special variation of savage snarling and flailing about. The Madwoman of Chaillot--I mean Floyd County!
The problem I was faced with was how to get Ellie back up the hill, in her mangled condition, without losing my balance and rolling both of us down into the hollow. She only weighs fifty pounds but with a 45% incline on these hills (or "knobs" as they're called in this area of the country), "steep" is a true understatement. I decided to scurry back up the hill, get a big blanket to use as a quasi "gurney" and haul Ellie back up the hill safely so I could then rush her to the veterinarian. Once I had the coverlet, I again descended, sliding like mad, grabbing tree trunks, saplings or Tarzan-like grape vines to keep from dropping off the hill and finally back to Ellie's place of refuge. By then it was after six o'clock; the sky is black as pitch. Guess what? Ellie was gone! Since all of the dogs (including the guilty sub-pack) followed me back up the hill after my initial assessment of the situation, Ellie must have seen it as her opportunity to escape (and in her mind, she probably and correctly believed, with her life). I was devastated. I called and called and called her, to no avail. Frankly, I don't blame her. For the next fours days and nights, I searched for her, called for her, telepathically begging her to come home. The weather had begun to turn ugly the day after she was attacked--thirty degrees, rain, high winds...my almost worst nightmare. I felt stupid and useless--I knew she was in pain and most likely getting a serious round of infections, let alone the mental trauma she was undoubtedly suffering. By Friday night I was very depressed. Shortly after awakening Saturday morning, my phone rang...I said a silent prayer (and hoped, hoped, hoped) that it might be a response to the newspaper ads I'd placed a few days earlier regarding her disappearance. However, it was my elderly neighbor, Louis, who not only knows and loves Ellie, too, but had been keeping his eyes peeled for a sighting of her (she regularly visits him and his dog, Sonny, since the live adjacent to my 130 acres and because they feed her lots of leftover MEAT, being the old school carnivore that he is). He was excited to tell me that Ellie was in his barn! He added that she was "a mess" ( and of course she was after nearly five days without receiving any medical attention). I jumped into my Tundra, zipped up to Louis', ran to his barn (where he and Sonny were waiting for me), and immediately covered Ellie with a blanket; it was freezing cold. Louis was right; she was in horrible shape. Her wounds had become necrotic and they reeked of rotting flesh. As I tried to gently pick her up, she shrieked, howled and half-heartedly snapped at me, but I knew I had get her to the vet immediately. In fact, I feared that it might be too late. Carrying her to the truck, her wounds oozed a wretched discharge all down the front of me. It took three hours of after-hours emergency treatment and three days of hospitalization (including drains inserted in her body, mega antibiotics, non-stop intravenous fluids and loads of pain medications). Finally, she came home and within a couple of days, Ellie began to emotionally recuperate as well.
Ellie's near death experience, part two:
Three weeks after Ellie came home, she was 95% healed. She was joining us on our walks, eating a lot and enjoying her status as one of the dogs who sleeps in my bed. Then, one morning while I was working on the first volume of my book, "Diary of a Dog Lover", most all of the dogs napping peacefully, I hear a manic brouhaha outdoors. I jumped up, looked around for Ellie and cringed as I realized she was no where to be found. I then ran out where, to my horror, the same sub-pack, all six to seven of them, had her pinned down and were attempting to finish what they'd started a month before. Again, I interceded as the Alpha and broke it up in a split second.
I immediately examined Ellie and, sure enough, she was re-injured...not like before but still serious enough to have to go back to the vet for about one hour of repairs. The pack had ripped (almost) completely off her right haunch, all the way up to her vulva, just missing puncturing her urethra (which would have been a whole other ordeal for her). After twenty eight stitches, another round of antibiotics, more pain meds and lots of bed rest,
I'm happy to report that Ellie is fully recovered. As for the canine marauders...
...they took a little drive with me, with no airs of danger or malice from me, and we went to a burger joint where I ordered (with my last fifteen dollars) bacon cheeseburgers for all six dogs. Then they had leftover Christmas funsize Snickers when we got to the vet clinic--while eating the normally verboten chocolate, they got an intramuscular prick of sedation (aka, "dog juice", in the veterinarian world). Not one of them noticed (the trick is to keep hold of the food between your thumb and forefinger, thereby making them use their incisors, creating a sort of scraping effect of the chocolate by them, causing them to really concentrate on their task at hand--literally) the prick to their thigh. Within five minutes, they were splayed out on the surgery room floor, half-eaten Snickers in their mouths, taking a big time magic carpet ride. At that point, the vet administered the euthanasia solution and off they went, where all dogs go, straight to heaven. They could not, in good faith, be adopted out--what if they killed the dog next door to the new home? I remind myself that the ratio of dogs I've had to have killed (and I use that word rather than "put to sleep" or "euthanized" because it is what it is). I prefer the euphemisms, sure, but let's face it--until we get a handle on the badly bred, over bred and just downright abused animals who have no place to go, what else can I do? I remind myself constantly that the ratio of dogs I've had to destroy compared to the ones I've saved isn't even comparable. I've saved hundreds and hundreds of dogs and have only put down seventeen dogs since 1998!!! Anyway, all I know is that when it's my time to die, I'd like to also be on that magic carpet, flying away, with the taste of chocolate in my mouth. Peace.
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On a cold, early December Tuesday, I arrived home a bit past five p.m. after having run a couple of errands. As soon as I got out of my truck, I heard a cacophony of manic barking originating from way down the hill, behind the camper/dog house we all live in. Without being able to get an immediate visual as to what the noise was all about (as they were way down the hill, over 100 feet or so), by its tone alone, I could immediately tell it was not a euphonic gathering. As I descended the hill to investigate (maybe a raccoon up a tree...?), the "innocent" pack members trailed along with me--innocent in that they greeted me upon my arrival home, unlike the "down-the-hill gang", who were too preoccupied with their "hunt". I did a mental roll call of who was not with me, those members of this "sub-pack" down the hill, as the Innocents and I went to investigate. As soon as I got to the scene of the crime, I could see that it was Ellie who was the "prey" of this sub-pack of seven dogs. They had her surrounded, but she had wisely embedded herself beneath a felled tree for protection. I could plainly see that she had been viciously attacked and, needless to say, I was extremely upset. Ellie had two huge chunks of flesh missing: one from her right haunch and another from the top of her neck (cervical area). She also had over ten major tears and bite marks on her back, face and stomach. 
devastated. I called and called and called her, to no avail. Frankly, I don't blame her. For the next fours days and nights, I searched for her, called for her, telepathically begging her to come home. The weather had begun to turn ugly the day after she was attacked--thirty degrees, rain, high winds...my almost worst nightmare. I felt stupid and useless--I knew she was in pain and most likely getting a serious round of infections, let alone the mental trauma she was undoubtedly suffering. By Friday night I was very depressed. Shortly after awakening Saturday morning, my phone rang...I said a silent prayer (and hoped, hoped, hoped) that it might be a response to the newspaper ads I'd placed a few days earlier regarding her disappearance. However, it was my elderly neighbor, Louis, who not only knows and loves Ellie, too, but had been keeping his eyes peeled for a sighting of her (she regularly visits him and his dog, Sonny, since the live adjacent to my 130 acres and because they feed her lots of leftover MEAT, being the old school carnivore that he is). He was excited to tell me that Ellie was in his barn! He added that she was "a mess" ( and of course she was after nearly five days without receiving any medical attention). I jumped into my Tundra, zipped up to Louis', ran to his barn (where he and Sonny were waiting for me), and immediately covered Ellie with a blanket; it was freezing cold. Louis was right; she was in horrible shape. Her wounds had become necrotic and they reeked of rotting flesh. As I tried to gently pick her up, she shrieked, howled and half-heartedly snapped at me, but I knew I had get her to the vet immediately. In fact, I feared that it might be too late. Carrying her to the truck, her wounds oozed a wretched discharge all down the front of me. It took three hours of after-hours emergency treatment and three days of hospitalization (including drains inserted in her body, mega antibiotics, non-stop intravenous fluids and loads of pain medications). Finally, she came home and within a couple of days, Ellie began to emotionally recuperate as well.
Three weeks after Ellie came home, she was 95% healed. She was joining us on our walks, eating a lot and enjoying her status as one of the dogs who sleeps in my bed. Then, one morning while I was working on the first volume of my book, "Diary of a Dog Lover", most all of the dogs napping peacefully, I hear a manic brouhaha outdoors. I jumped up, looked around for Ellie and cringed as I realized she was no where to be found. I then ran out where, to my horror, the same sub-pack, all six to seven of them, had her pinned down and were attempting to finish what they'd started a month before. Again, I interceded as the Alpha and broke it up in a split second.
veterinarian world). Not one of them noticed (the trick is to keep hold of the food between your thumb and forefinger, thereby making them use their incisors, creating a sort of scraping effect of the chocolate by them, causing them to really concentrate on their task at hand--literally) the prick to their thigh. Within five minutes, they were splayed out on the surgery room floor, half-eaten Snickers in their mouths, taking a big time magic carpet ride. At that point, the vet administered the euthanasia solution and off they went, where all dogs go, straight to heaven. They could not, in good faith, be adopted out--what if they killed the dog next door to the new home? I remind myself that the ratio of dogs I've had to have killed (and I use that word rather than "put to sleep" or "euthanized" because it is what it is). I prefer the euphemisms, sure, but let's face it--until we get a handle on the badly bred, over bred and just downright abused animals who have no place to go, what else can I do? I remind myself constantly that the ratio of dogs I've had to destroy compared to the ones I've saved isn't even comparable. I've saved hundreds and hundreds of dogs and have only put down seventeen dogs since 1998!!! Anyway, all I know is that when it's my time to die, I'd like to also be on that magic carpet, flying away, with the taste of chocolate in my mouth. Peace.
