 |
| Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. |
This is Raven. He's a Pueblo dog, a rescue, one abandoned as a puppy, left to die. That's not all. Besides being denied water and food, left to starve, he (and She-Wolf also) was beaten, kicked, threatened with flaming torches and with gunshots.
To say that he's walking case of canine PTSD is an understatement.
Also like She-Wolf, he found us at the old gallery more than seven years ago. It took some coaxing to get him to come inside, but eventually he did, and promptly lay down in front of the fire. We were each sharing our lunches with him on the sly on our respective days staffing it, each of us afraid to tell the other that we'd been adopted by another dog. That entire winter, Raven was my guard and guide, my escort every time I locked up to run up to the public restrooms, my protector from anything he thought a potential threat. He barely survived the winter; he couldn't even defecate, because there was nothing in his system. We have no idea how long he'd been without food and water before finding us; even then, the one meal a day he got was metabolized almost instantly. It's still hard to believe that he's with us today.
We tried to bring him home, of course, but whereas She-Wolf came home with us willingly the day before Thanksgiving in 2008, Raven was more skittish. It took three more months to get him here, Wings driving the pick-up and me holding him in a death grip in the bed in the back, the cold February winds turning my entire body numb while I fought to keep him from leaping over the side.
It was a challenge to integrate him fully with the other dogs, but he recognized She-Wolf as a cousin, and that was everyone's saving grace. To say that he has thrived here would also be a masterpiece of understatement — he is now a happy, healthy eight-year-old dog whose days are notable mostly for joy — but our canine relations are like us in another way: There are some scars that don't heal.
Raven barely survived his first year of life, menaced not only by starvation but by attacks from other dogs and from humans, too. He survived by a combination of wits and strength and an eventual willingness to take the fight to the enemy, which kept him alive but makes for problems down the road. Like a lot of rescues I've worked with, Raven suffers from fear aggression and displaced aggression, and he requires attention and work to keep it all under control.
When he's in pain, all of his training goes out the window.
That's not at all surprising, nor is it some kind of canine character defect. It's what happens when a being who has no human way to make its situation known, nor to ask for assistance, nor to engage in verbal diplomacy has pain inflicted upon it: The reaction is swift, and utterly instinctive.
So when he yelped last night when Wings rubbed his side, we knew there was something very wrong. He'd been licking at the hollow in his left hip joint, but they've all been doing that; they're still shedding, even as their new winter coats are about to come, and for all three, that is a spot where their undercoats are both especially heavy and hold on to the bitter end before releasing.
He wouldn't let us near enough to check, and we knew better than to force the issue then. Later, when he was relaxed and not thinking about it, I shone a flashlight from above, and saw the gaping open wound. Later on, we established just how large it was.
It's a wire cut, several inches long and about half that size in width. If you've never seen what happens with a barbed-wire cut, it's the equivalent of flaying: The wire catches the flesh like a razor blade, digs in, and as the animal pulls free, it peels back the skin. It's ugly, and it's incredibly painful.
We've dealt with these before with both the dogs and the horses — worse ones, believe it or not. A few weeks of snake medicine (of which we are down nearly to dust) and wrapping, and it'll heal with no infection, no scarring, and eventual healthy regrowth of his coat. But the process of getting from here to there is long and difficult.
It took us damn near an hour to get him patched up today, Wings doing the patching and bandaging, me holding his collar and body and muzzled jaw in a death grip. Because with a dog like Raven who operates, when feeling threatened at such an atavistic level, if you don't take these precautions, you're going to get bitten. And it won't be the dog's fault; he's protecting himself, and he's scared to death and his body's howling with pain. He would never hurt us intentionally, but his conscious mind is not what controls at times like these.
At any, rate after an hour or so of effort (and the attendant strain and pain to my back and limbs), he is bandaged. He's also miserable; he hates restraints of any sort. He also went swimming in the pond while I was in the shower washing the stall dust off, and so everything is loosened more than it should be, but at least it's still on.
He is medicated; we keep animal Mox and baby aspirin and generic Benadryl on hand in our stash of vet meds and supplies. I've managed to get each into him at staggered intervals now, so that they can work from the inside while the traditional medicine works at building new skin from without.
In the meantime, if you're among our friends and you've got some spare prayers, or vibes, or thoughts, or energy, or whatever, maybe send some of 'em Raven's way. He could use 'em. Frankly, so could we, because wire-cut injuries are a long hard road, not only for the patient, but for us, as well.
Thanks.
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
