I'm Listening With a Broken Ear Page 2

  “Vicky?” says the vet, “It is a miracle. The dog tests negative for heartworm. If you want her, we will fix her up, get her de-wormed, remove the ticks, and give her all her shots for $120.”

  What a deal! The tick removal alone should have been $100. This is almost as much fun as holding open my wallet in a tornado.

  Asking for time to consult with my husband, I hurry inside. Asherel has just awoken, and turns bleary eyes to me, saying, “I kept seeing Honeybun in my head. I didn’t sleep very well.”

  She lies in bed, dark circles under her eyes, her hair scattered across the pillow. After telling her about what has transpired that morning, she springs out of bed. She knows there is no time to waste in accosting her father. Arvo is still in his pajamas, sitting with his cup of coffee at the computer, happily reading online news, little suspecting the ambush that stalks in the dawning day as we approach him.

  “You know that dog I told you about?” I begin, blinking and swallowing. Asherel stands at my side, her hands clutched together. Her tangled hair sticks to her cheek.

  “Yes,” he says, looking worried.

  The story spills out, a torrent of words flooding his peace.

  Arvo looks at us with a touch of resigned despair on his face. He loves his daughter, and he loves the compassionate hearts that motivate his wife and girl to be continually bringing home hopeless, rejected creatures. This is sadly not a new pattern for either of us.

  “We can’t afford another dog,” he laments, “We can’t afford the one we have. How will we pay for it?”

  Asherel cries out, “I will pay for it. I have enough in my savings account.” This is the sad state of our current finances. College savings, or a dying dog? He looks at her, and then back at me, and then at the floor.

  “We don’t even know if this dog is house trained,” counters Arvo.

  “No, we don’t," I admit, “But if she is any trouble we will get rid of her, we will find her a home.”

  He looks at us, and then again at the captivating floor. I really hate putting him in this position.

  “Animal Control will pick her up, but she will just be euthanized if they do,” I add. Do I want the dog? No, but somehow, I don’t want her to face certain death either.

  Arvo looks up. He covers his face with his hand, heaves a deep sigh, and moans, "I know I am going to regret this. Go get the dog."

  We spring into action. I call the vet immediately, and tell her to get those awful ticks off our poor dog, inoculate her, get the worms out of her, salve her cuts, and can she be ready soon?

  An hour later, we are standing at the vet counter, new leash and collar in hand. Asherel's hair is still unbrushed. She has not had breakfast. The vet walks Honeybun out to us. She rushes to us, full body waggling. You would have thought we were old friends. It almost seems like she knew we would be back. The nose-ringed receptionist has tears in her eyes as I pay with quarters and dollars from Asherel’s piggy bank. Though a penny short, the receptionist blows her nose and waves us away. Asherel sits on the floor, holding little Honeybun's face against hers. It will all be okay now, if she lives.

  Dear Lord,

  I thank you for the blessing of my compassion and goodness. I know you reward us for how well we please you with smooth and effortless lives, which bask in your glory. I have done a good work this day and now am very tired. Goodnight, precious Redeemer. Amen.

  CHAPTER 2 Irredeemable, Impossible, Illusions

  With imminent death in abeyance, the next hurdle is intercanine relations. As we pull into the driveway, Lucky, our other dog, stands eagerly at the door to greet us. His tongue drips with saliva of joy as he rams his tail violently from side to side. Oh happy, happy day- the beloved faithful owners have returned and he can now shower us with obeisance and dog spit. I feel like a two-timing husband, smiling with a blonde babe on my arm and cheerfully shouting, "Hey hon, I'm home with my new wife! You are gonna just love her!”

  Lucky is friendly, but neurotic. He is a fifty pound terrier mix, with long wild hair that sproings out in every direction- the Big Bang of Dogs. He has a beard that is invariably covered with mud as he loves to dig. Terrier literally means “of the earth". Terriers are bred to dig out vermin, and so their digging genes are highly developed. We are fighting thousands of years of selective breeding in our futile attempts to make this earth dog keep his claws out of the dirt. As if his digging fetish isn't enough to make me want to live on a gas planet, his other quirks assure my temper is rarely untested. Strange habits and screw-ball fears propagate in him like weeds. He is constantly plotting escapes from the yard, thus we have been forced to turn our backyard into a tacky impregnable fortress. We urge the neighbors to think of the varying barricades as “nouveau landscaping.” (Not every homeowner can convincingly pull off ten foot chicken wire stapled to the top of a three rail fence, with large boulders and spikes along the bottom edge.) The neighbors get the benefit of modern art without having to go to a museum. Like my dog, my creative solutions do not always evoke the warm, fuzzy feelings one might expect when true genius is revealed.

  When not scheming new getaways, he is a lazy slug, feigning eagerness for walks, but then minutes from starting out, collapses on a soft green lawn. He is like a bad actor in a B movie. He creeps forward, slowing while I look on in horror; certain he is having a heart attack. Slowly he tumbles to the lush lawn, and then heaves a large sigh and lies his head down. We blink at each other. When this first happened, I dropped to my knees and cried out, “Oh my poor dog!!!” and then he bounded to his feet, dragging me along behind him, beauty nap concluded.

  He loves other dogs, but plays with them by growling, and then slamming his chin down on them, and mock fighting. He never uses his teeth, and is dumbfounded when his aggressive play taunts other dogs, who then turn on him. When attacked, he tries to escape, totally oblivious as to how his social idiocy is provoking attacks. I, like all conscientious owners, recognize that it is always the other dogs' fault. My dog is an obedient and amazing dog, with a touch of canine genius that confuses other dogs. I have trained him impeccably, and while his obedience is not guaranteed, or even likely, he usually intends to obey. He is an independent, quirky, creative dog….. much like me, except for the dog part. The rest of the canine world just doesn’t understand him. They are jealous, for good reason. Not every dog can be so amazingly unique in his escapades. He has an unquenchable spirit, and these creative types must be treated carefully so as not to destroy their zest for life. I forgive Lucky's behavior and wish that my own talents so often misconstrued would be similarly forgiven. Belatedly recognizing it now, we were ignorant and thought this was a good dog, an obedient dog, a normal dog. It is to this dog we bring the starving, recently homeless, and unstable Honeybun.

  The initial greeting is encouraging. We put both dogs on leash and escort them out back. Lucky wags his tail and sniffs Honeybun’s bottom, the dog equivalent of a handshake. Honeybun stiffens, ears flattened and tail erect, but then largely ignores him. I had read that it is wise to keep new dogs leashed for a few days before trusting them free together. However, anyone can immediately see they are becoming fast friends. Oh true, some folks may have been more cautious and listened to the experts. This is exactly why I accomplish so much, with my goals quickly determined, and swiftly reached. Occasionally this involves skipping a few steps. I unerringly discern which are the crucial steps to skip, particularly in areas like this where I have not the slightest bit of experience or knowledge to hamper me. Then the little sticky notes of my mental to-do list are tossed away, and tomorrow's list beckons. I had not won "most likely to turn in a paper early award" in college for nothing.

  The dogs are fine together. The little bit of stiffening of Honeybun’s tail and the subtle raising of the fur along her back is perfectly understandable. We can skip over the “get acquainted for two days on leash” phase.

  We take off their leashes and let them explore the back yard unfettered. I smile, congratulating mysel
f on my uncanny innate knowledge of the workings of a dog’s mind. Lucky persists in shoving his nose in Honeybun's nether region, and she remarkably continues to ignore him. I would have slapped his face, but dogs have different parameters of decency.

  She walks with a limp, as though the grass hurts her paws. The vet said the many tick bites on her pads would bother her for a few days, but with time, the pain would subside and there did not appear to be any permanent injuries. She seems to walk on tiptoe, as though there is glass instead of soft grass beneath her pads. It lends her the air of a princess, a dainty and refined creature, gracing our yard.

  When she comes inside, she collapses on the new bed Asherel had bought her. She has learned to use the dog door immediately. Her thin sides heave up and down rapidly.

  “Is that ok?” asks Asherel, watching her rapid, fevered breathing.

  “Yes,” I say, not at all sure it is indeed ok, “She has been through a rough time and now she needs to rest and heal.”

  I watch her labored, double time breathing, and hope she doesn’t die. Lucky comes in and sniffs her. He doesn't seem to regard her as a rival, though she does not act eager to ingratiate herself with him. Given her near death experience, she likely feels weary, and she looks depressed. She doesn't welcome his attention, but as far as I can tell, doesn't terribly mind it either.

  In the middle of the night, I creep out to the sunroom, where she still lays. Her breathing looks more normal, and she feels a little cooler. Her silky ears twitch with my stroking, but she barely opens her eyes.

  For the first couple of days, Honeybun sleeps. She awakens for meals, and eats like a wild animal. She sucks the food down in great gulps, sides heaving, with one eye looking around at all times. She fixates on Lucky, with a piercing stare when the dinner bowls clatter to the floor. Within seconds, her food is gone, and then she continues watching us, licking the bowl for several minutes, until it shines. It is heartbreaking to watch. Life in the wild had been lean pickings, it is clear, and she likely had to fight for every scrap she managed to uncover.

  I feed the dogs in separate corners of the house. Lucky has never cared much about food, until Honeybun arrives, at which point his nonchalance vanishes. Curiously, he becomes very interested in what she is eating, certain it is better than what he is eating.

  Did she just growl at Lucky when he ventured near? I am not certain, and ignore it. I am willing to cut the poor creature some slack, feeling horribly sorry for her. Later the lesson that pity is not always the best response will come to haunt me. For now, misgivings are squelched as I am walking on a cloud of naïve confidence that softens the footfalls of ineptitude.

  On the third night, as the food bowls clang on the floor like gongs announcing the highlight of existence, I am smugly satisfied with the harmonious blending of our dog pack. Of course, I have been highly trained to deal with animal rescue, having taken a 4-H class at age twelve. Technically, it was not a class in actual rescue- it was more a class in how to properly brush your dog, but many of the same principles apply. Clearly the challenge before me is within my advanced skill set. Why has the media not gotten drift of my heroics yet?

  Interrupting my pleasant thoughts, Honeybun’s eyes turn red and flames shoot out of her mouth. This may seem like an exaggeration, but you are not there. With a Banshee call of fury, her head spins around four times, and fangs click into place. The guttural sounds that roll out of her cause dents in the floor. With a whirl of fur, before my heart can be stuffed back in my chest, she snarls and lunges at Lucky. As far as I can tell, Lucky has done nothing to provoke this maniacal attack other than to sniff at the wafting scent of her food bowl. Honeybun pounces onto his neck and begins ripping at his throat. She snaps her head back and forth, spitting out huge mouthfuls of fur. Lucky yelps and rolls, and twists, trying to evade the persistent charges. She is lightning fast, her tenuous health apparently not as tenuous as either I or Lucky had assumed. Her blitzkrieg is furious, and in my humble opinion, far exceeds the crime. She ignores my screaming to stop. My trumpeting commands never penetrate her fury. I wildly, ineffectually swipe at her but she has lost all contact with the outer world. Her brain is set on “detonate” and she continues to storm at him with a barrage of teeth. Asherel stands frozen, eyes wide, mouth agape. Matt, my middle son home from college, races out of his bedroom and swats at the torrent of fur balls rolling together. Asherel joins me in shrieking, and then Arvo catapults into the room. It has been a long time since our family has enjoyed so much quality time together.

  Clearly, Honeybun does not intend to stop until Lucky is dead. Lucky tries to run away but she relentlessly snaps at his long hair. She can not quite reach his skin and this seems to aggravate her even more. Arvo reaches bravely in to the maelstrom of growling, rolling, snapping terror, and pulls them apart. We bellow incriminations at Honeybun, who gradually morphs from wild animal to soft, pitiful, thin dog. She seems to awaken from hypnosis, and hangs her head. My voice cracks from having screamed so loudly. Lucky hightails it out of the house, and disappears into the yard. Arvo holds tightly to Honeybun’s collar. Bits of Lucky’s hair still hang from her mouth as the poisonous swelling of fury deflates.

  “No big deal,” says the optimistic Arvo, “This is what dogs do. They will figure it out.”

  We gape at him. I applaud a sunny outlook. However, the only result that I can envision from this type of “working things out” is a dog pushing up daisies in a shallow grave. I am not at all convinced that this is normal dog behavior, nor that it will be worked out, and am terrified by the wild animal just revealed. Could she turn on us just as quickly? She had been completely berserk, and our voices had meant nothing. All my prodigious dog brushing skills had been ineffectual.

  My hasty online research about aggression in dogs does not cheer me. In fact, the authorities say, dogs will kill each other, aggression cannot ever go unchecked, and never ever break up a dog fight. Optimistic as my husband is, on this point, it is not tempered with reality. The pictures on the internet of damage done to humans who try to break up dog fights could singlehandedly cure obesity if sold as dining room wallpaper. The dog, in the heat of fighting, does not distinguish good owner from the object of his attack. His aggressive switch is on, and anything in the way of his attack is in danger. Some of the pictures show skin ripped open to the bone. Furthermore, the experts warn that serious aggression should never be ignored, and is beyond the scope of most pet owners to handle on their own. Site after site recommends the use of a trained professional to deal with dog aggression.

  What have I done? My family and my dog are in danger. Trained professional! That sounds like something people with good jobs that dress in tuxedos for dinner and drink champagne hire. Not people who drink boxed wine on sale and have just come out of a yearlong income slump. And where does one even begin to find a "Trained Professional"? Our current dog is nutty, but he is not mean. We have never had cause to seek outside help. It is like being told our son needs a lobotomy.

  Shaking with fear and impotence, I tell Asherel it is impossible for us to keep this dog. All my resolve and competence of a mere half hour ago evaporates. Honeybun would have killed Lucky and maybe one of us in attempting to break up future fights. Asherel’s eyes shimmer with tears, but she knows she is powerless in this situation. Lucky still hovers on the far edge of the backyard, shaking. He has miraculously survived without a scratch but I doubt that will happen again. And if we hadn’t been there, we would surely have returned to white bones in a pile on the floor. It is true that when the devil flees from her heaving sides, she appears as surprised as we are about her sudden switch to Beelzebub. I may even detect some repentance, a morsel of understanding that killing the dog of the hand that feeds you is hardly the proper way to say thank you. But the fact remains that I am out of my comfort zone by several decibels.

  A call to the Humane Society reveals that if a dog shows aggression to another dog, they cannot take her. Brief considerations of lying mar the
purity of my character. When I ask them what would happen to an aggressive dog if Animal Control is summoned, they tell me she will undoubtedly be euthanized. Just as in the human world, the deck is stacked against those with "issues". What am I going to do? We put the dogs in separate rooms, and go to bed, with leaden spirits. The good news is she appears to be house trained….

  Dear Lord,

  I am confused, bewildered, upset…..I did a good deed and this is my reward? This is not what I bargained for. You know our situation, since you know everything even before it happens. If Honeybun was going to hate Lucky, couldn’t you have found a way to bring some other stranger along to rescue her?

  You know how willing I always am to follow your plan. I think you may have been distracted by some of the pressing world events, but I trust that you will find the perfect solution to this. I know that “all things work together for good for those who love God,” and you know I love you. I know you love me too and I look for a miraculous solution in the morning. Amen.

  PS- In case you are stumped, I will research the internet for ideas tomorrow and save you some time.