The other evening I had to take the boy to get some things he needed for his football camp this weekend and decided some Mexican sounded good. I called the husband and had him meet us at the restaurant. When I got home, the boy and Wood was standing out at the cattle gate waving me over. I go over there and in the corner is the cutest little box terrier I have ever seen. And I don't like little dogs.
The poor little guy was terrified of Wood and the boy at first so after they moved away he came to me. And rolled over. And I feel like at this point in my story I should warn those who might be offended by what was wrong with this fella to stop reading...it's not for the faint of heart...
So the little guy rolls over and Wood and the boy utter a collective "Oh my God!" and I look down, and I look down again because I can't believe what I am seeing. You know the skin that goes over a male dogs privates? It's severed in half and the poor little guy's equipment is just hanging there. I'm a nurse, so things of this nature don't weird me out. So I looked a little closer, and it's not a new wound. Matter of fact it's not even recent. It's completely healed. But there were nats and such so I irrigated the area. I must go back to this: it's not a new wound and it was such a clean cut it looks like someone did with a scalpel. Intentionally.
So at this point I am convinced that God sent me this lil sweetie for 2 reasons: #1 I am not a weirdo who would ever do that. #2 I am a sucker for animals. I'm also wondering why in the Earth any compassionate human would have not had little guy's "situation" fixed.
But I go ahead and do the right thing and Wood goes around to all the neighbors and I put a post on facebook and craig's list. Then I fall in love with the little sweetie. I tell my husband I am keeping this dog. I name him Petey. I start doing financial figures in my head about what it's going to cost to get him fixed up.
I call my vet the next morning and I tell them about little Petey's "issue". The receptionist says,
"Are you kidding me!"
"Well there's no way I could make that up!"
She proceeds to tell me she knows the dog and the owners and they have been looking for him. They live right up the road. She asks me if I can meet Petey's owners at 3:30. I reply I guess.
I tell you honestly, the dog didn't seem to want to go. I'm glad Mason was willing to help with the whole mess. We get to the vet and the gentleman says, "We figured someone picked him up them dumped him when they seen his disability." To which I replied, "Oh he was born like that?" In my head, I knew that it was not congenital, but I figured I ask anyhow, because I am big enough to admit I can be snarky like that. His answer was no. What!? I didn't feel bad for being snarky all the sudden.
What I wanted to reply was, "What you are really trying to say is that the dog got grossly injured and you didn't have the decency to have it fixed? Are you joking? That, sir, is not a handicap. It's a shame for that poor animal. I had to irrigate it because nats were in it!"
I've said this before, I am ashamed to say, but sometimes doing the right thing doesn't feel right at all. In my eyes, that is the same thing as the boy breaking his leg and us deciding not to have it set and casted and calling it a "handicap."
Sorry about this rant, but I have been a mess all day about the poor little fella. Am I wrong? Tell me, someone.