When they hurt, we hurt.
A terrible accident occurred yesterday. The short of it is Queenie got bitten by one of our other dogs in excitement over a treat. Her little face is broken in three places.(Terrible) Surgery or setting will not help the healing process. For now it's the cone of shame and medication. She is eating and sleeping well. Despite the medication I know she is in pain yet she is soldiering through like a real trooper. I wish I could say the same for me. This old girl is a hot mess.
In those moments of terror yesterday, time stood still. It was like a slow-mo clip in a movie where everything is drawn out and you can see every detail. Yet, I was not physically fast enough to prevent it. After I got Queenie out of harms way, I immediately began an examination. I knew she was hurt significantly by her shrieking cries. Regrettably, my brain shifted into gray cement fog mode. I had my phone in my hand for what seemed like interminable hours as I was deciding what to do. Tunnel vision, cotton in ears, mind on "DUHHHH". This is not normal for me. Historically I am pretty fantastic in an emergency situation. Really. I've had a daughter with stage four cancer and all the excitement attached to that. I've been involved in an armed robbery with a gun pointed to my head, better yet, a million years ago I was a flight attendant and trained for a myriad of emergent scenarios. That, and I raised two boys. All that few out the window yesterday and left me figuratively in the floor, fetal position, asking for my mommy.
I eventually pulled my head out of the sand and we were quickly on our way to the veterinarian. I'm so incredibly grateful they could see her immediately. The moment we walked in they escorted us to the exam room. Queenie was not crying anymore but I totally lost it. Lost. My. Damn. Mind. Buckets of tears. Ugly crying, the kind like when you were a kid and you had the uncontrollable quivering inhales and body shakes. Thankfully, they were professionals and scooped her up and whisked her to the back. There they sedated her and performed X-rays. They were so kind to me too, despite my pathetic blubbering puddle. They offered me tissues, water and a chair to fall into. They decided to keep her for for a few hours. They sent me home. I begrudgingly left. I hung on to my phone like it carried my most sacred possessions.
The phone call came and the diagnosis. It was better than anticipated so I zipped over to gobble her up. She was so pitiful. The photo here is what the sculpture of bandaging encompassed. She looked like an old war hero limping home after a long, grueling fight. I wish I could have offered her a shot of whiskey. I did sing to her, bless her heart. Since whiskey's out of the question, she'll get the good meds the office gave us. This morning she had a check up. They removed the bandages, (it looks worse than it really is) and she will be in the cone for a week or so. I'll take her back Friday for another looksie.
Something like this has never happened before and the dog who did the biting has never been aggressive. I have her separated from the rest of the pack. I hope to reintegrate them later but never, ever have food or treats in the mix.
As I type this, Queenie is lying on the bed, snoozing away. She had her midday meds and is as comfortable as she can be, all things considered. She will recover, she will be just fine. I know it....this old girl, however, is still hurting. She's so tiny. I'm supposed to be her guardian, her defender and to keep her safe. I failed. I will make every effort that this never, ever happens again. I promise Queenie.