A few words about dog bites, worst case scenarios, and the toughest beagle ever

Dominic Toretto and Billy The Kid were right: family and pals are important.

Blood has an awful smell, man or animal. Describing it requires my nose to squeeze shut. It comes on like soiled yard leaves mixed with something rotten, giving off an odor that should be kept locked away for a few months. For the souls who have to deal with it every day, you have my sympathy.

I have a few things on my mind, and what I am going to get into isn’t for everybody. For that reason, I am making this a paid subscriber only post. A time for when you need to say shit and not have to worry about some random Facebook hack cooking what you just poured out of your soul.

Confession: I don’t live and die on subscriptions. I never have. They’re merely your way of saying “I appreciate the time and effort and bravery in putting these things together.” That’s it. But it is a good tool to divide the real supporters from the ones who are merely looking inside the window of my shop. Let’s get on with it.

My dog, Roscoe, was bit by a dog yesterday. A seemingly friendly altercation turned nearly deadly in a matter of seconds. The greatest trick that humans play on themselves is playing inception with the idea that dogs aren’t triggered by the same shit we are. They certainly are. A fight over a toy or ground can turn into a big deal.

Roscoe was bit badly on his neck area in several spots, one deep spot. He was bitten on his stomach, causing concern for the doctors and nurses when they were looking at him. Still, he was able to walk away from this incident on his own.

A day was going in one direction, and then another. In a sheer panic for his life, Roscoe accidentally bit my wife badly. She had to go to urgent care, and Roscoe had to go to the emergency room. Saturday went from “we can do whatever we want” to “what else can go wrong?” A stop at Webster Groves Animal Hospital reminded me they don’t do E.R. cases. A furious ride down I-44 and back into Kirkwood to the Animal Emergency Clinic near Crestwood felt like The Fast and Furious came to St. Louis in the form of a Buick Encore.

Blood smeared on my shirt and hands wasn’t a big deal. It’s the way the human mind can disturb and piss you off at once. All the possibilities. What if there’s internal bruising? The other dog was basically treating my beagle’s stomach like whack-a-mole with his teeth. Feeling fresh blood from YOUR dog pool up on your hands is an experience that requires zero description. Seeing your dog in agony with you unable to do shit is painful. There’s no remedy for that pain. It doesn’t exist at our pay level.

Out of all of it, I felt the worst for my son. He had to endure all of it. They went outside to get the dogs after a new couch was set up inside, and their smiles chilled up to terror as they witnessed a dog fight unfolding. The biggest issue was getting the other dog’s teeth off my dog’s neck. A dog’s grip is unlike a human’s grip, connected with sharp daggers stabbing in all areas.

When you’ve helped pry a dog’s face off another dog’s neck, that counts as a minor bit of trauma.

In the end, Roscoe retained the belt for Toughest Fucking Beagle Known To Mankind. Disabled with tick fever in his right front paw already, now his left side is hindered. He had four bite marks along his shoulder, and a few on his belly. Yet, he walked out of that hospital last night like a boxer would leave an exam room after a fight.

A HUGE thank you to the diligent and caring workers at the Animal Emergency Clinic in Crestwood. They’re right atop the Quik Trip when you get off 44 and Big Bend Road. From the front room receptionists to the doctors and medical team, they were aces across the board for that hours-long stay and exam. They treated and patched Roscoe up like they would any of their own animals at home.

Bloodied and battered, Roscoe needed about 15-20 minutes to relax at home. Once he was comfortable enough to sink into a pillow, I think we all breathed easier. Soon after, our tired brains tried to expire for a while with mixed results.

The best part was Roscoe survived. Ladies and gents, I shit you not, hyperbole restricted, I wasn’t sure we were going to get the dog off Roscoe. I wasn’t. If we couldn’t, my lovely beagle would have died and you’d be reading a much different post. Maybe you wouldn’t be reading anything at all.

Our dogs are as important to us as most things, if all things. They’re unwavering support beacons, propping us up when the world wants to knock us down and keep us there permanently if we let it. They wait for us to come home and do it eagerly, like we’re an Aerosmith/Taylor Swift concert coming inside. They’re our best friends, the real ones who don’t judge.

So, losing something like that is a direct shot to the chest. It’s a direct shot to a life I have carefully assembled over the past 21 years. At the end of it all, we were okay.

That’s resilience. That’s family, like my mom and dad being there when we needed it. You need a dad who can take your mind off things for 30 minutes or so. That’s love.

That’s all for now. Hug your damn dogs; they are indeed finite, just like us.