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beansideSince that last post, life has continued to suck wind.
We made the decision to euthanize our dog of almost four years. He'd come to us at just over a year old, having already suffered abuses at the hands of his first owner. What we were told was that he was a people dog, good with other animals, etc. What we got was a dog with massive PTSD, and aggression issues. We worked with him, and tried to figure his triggers, and avoid them, but he bit everyone in the house at least once. I was his particular favorite target, and he bit me about three times. Actually, bit isn't the right word. Bit implies striking and letting go. He didn't do that. He would hit and rip, and hit again. My arms and legs bear testament. This last time--I didn't think that I was going to get away, and if I did, I wasn't going to get away intact.
Afterwards, I pressed towels on a bunch of wounds, and tried to tuck gobbets of flesh back in for bandaging. I had just started the new job, maybe three weeks prior, and now I was coming in wrapped like a mummy. For the first time, he had gotten my hand, and I had several holes near my fingers. Of course, they had to be on my fucking dominant hand. Sitting there, crying and in pain, we all admitted that our rehab of Tucker was a giant failure. I still feel guilty that it was me he bit before we came to that decision. Like it's my fault.
It's funny in a way. Animal rescuers can be the judgiest motherfuckers in the world. I know, because I was one of them. BT (before Tucker), I thought that the people who put down pets for one bite were stupid. They just didn't want to work with them. Tucker beat that out of me in a big way. We couldn't get him in the car to go to the vet, so the vet came to our house, and was amazing. I totally recommend Peaceful Passage to anyone in the Baltimore area.
Not long after Tucker, my father got sick. Wasn't anything huge, a nasty MRSA based UTI, but it meant a week in the hospital, plus three weeks in a rehab unit, getting his strength back.
About three weeks in, I came home from work with the start of a cold, and begged off seeing dad to be on the safe side. That was Tuesday. By Wednesday, it had settled in my chest, and I was having problems walking from the car to work. By Saturday, I was at urgent care with a 102 fever and a pulse oxygen of 87% (should be between 95-100%, being diagnosed with pneumonia. After four days of Zithromax, I wasn't any better. Going up ten stairs left me gasping for breath, fever was still spiking a lot, and I wasn't eating much, because I had to stop breathing to swallow, and then I'd feel like I was suffocating. Gave up, and finally went to the ER. Spent a long half day getting IV antibiotics and steroids, and a bunch of breathing treatments. I was off work for 1 week, with another visit to the ER because of side effects of Prednisone and Levaquin.
Shockingly, with all this shit going on, I wasn't as quick to settle into the new job, and made stupid errors. So, exactly one week after I got back from pneumonia, I was let go.
I'm freaking out massively. I have no money saved, because I was still recovering from losing my job in January. I don't know how the fuck we're going to survive until I get a new job. We have doctors and meds, and I don't even know if I'll get unemployment, because when I got fired in January, the company fought me on unemployment and won. It's been the cause of multiple panic attacks.
The lone good thing is our newest family member. We couldn't imagine life without a dog, so I got looking at rescues and shelters. We found Yoda through a private adoption, and kept him from ending up in a shelter. He's a bichon mix, all of 18 pounds, and with no trauma whatsoever. He thinks everyone is his friend, and he's started to heal the wounds left by Tucker. He's the chillest dog I have ever met. Nothing phases him.
We made the decision to euthanize our dog of almost four years. He'd come to us at just over a year old, having already suffered abuses at the hands of his first owner. What we were told was that he was a people dog, good with other animals, etc. What we got was a dog with massive PTSD, and aggression issues. We worked with him, and tried to figure his triggers, and avoid them, but he bit everyone in the house at least once. I was his particular favorite target, and he bit me about three times. Actually, bit isn't the right word. Bit implies striking and letting go. He didn't do that. He would hit and rip, and hit again. My arms and legs bear testament. This last time--I didn't think that I was going to get away, and if I did, I wasn't going to get away intact.
Afterwards, I pressed towels on a bunch of wounds, and tried to tuck gobbets of flesh back in for bandaging. I had just started the new job, maybe three weeks prior, and now I was coming in wrapped like a mummy. For the first time, he had gotten my hand, and I had several holes near my fingers. Of course, they had to be on my fucking dominant hand. Sitting there, crying and in pain, we all admitted that our rehab of Tucker was a giant failure. I still feel guilty that it was me he bit before we came to that decision. Like it's my fault.
It's funny in a way. Animal rescuers can be the judgiest motherfuckers in the world. I know, because I was one of them. BT (before Tucker), I thought that the people who put down pets for one bite were stupid. They just didn't want to work with them. Tucker beat that out of me in a big way. We couldn't get him in the car to go to the vet, so the vet came to our house, and was amazing. I totally recommend Peaceful Passage to anyone in the Baltimore area.
Not long after Tucker, my father got sick. Wasn't anything huge, a nasty MRSA based UTI, but it meant a week in the hospital, plus three weeks in a rehab unit, getting his strength back.
About three weeks in, I came home from work with the start of a cold, and begged off seeing dad to be on the safe side. That was Tuesday. By Wednesday, it had settled in my chest, and I was having problems walking from the car to work. By Saturday, I was at urgent care with a 102 fever and a pulse oxygen of 87% (should be between 95-100%, being diagnosed with pneumonia. After four days of Zithromax, I wasn't any better. Going up ten stairs left me gasping for breath, fever was still spiking a lot, and I wasn't eating much, because I had to stop breathing to swallow, and then I'd feel like I was suffocating. Gave up, and finally went to the ER. Spent a long half day getting IV antibiotics and steroids, and a bunch of breathing treatments. I was off work for 1 week, with another visit to the ER because of side effects of Prednisone and Levaquin.
Shockingly, with all this shit going on, I wasn't as quick to settle into the new job, and made stupid errors. So, exactly one week after I got back from pneumonia, I was let go.
I'm freaking out massively. I have no money saved, because I was still recovering from losing my job in January. I don't know how the fuck we're going to survive until I get a new job. We have doctors and meds, and I don't even know if I'll get unemployment, because when I got fired in January, the company fought me on unemployment and won. It's been the cause of multiple panic attacks.
The lone good thing is our newest family member. We couldn't imagine life without a dog, so I got looking at rescues and shelters. We found Yoda through a private adoption, and kept him from ending up in a shelter. He's a bichon mix, all of 18 pounds, and with no trauma whatsoever. He thinks everyone is his friend, and he's started to heal the wounds left by Tucker. He's the chillest dog I have ever met. Nothing phases him.
