In Which We Learn an Important Lesson Amid Paralyzing Fear

Almost three months ago, Rosie was attacked by a pit bull mix on the large dog side of my local dog run.  This was, without question, one of the most terrifying and traumatic experiences of my life.  One second Rosie was just standing around minding her own business, and it looked as if this pit was going to sniff her butt, and the next second she was letting out an unearthly scream as this dog took almost her entire neck in its jaws and dragged her on the ground.

I remember standing stock still, completely shocked, as other people rushed around to try and pry this pit bull off of poor Rosie.  It felt like an eternity, but was probably just a couple of seconds, when I finally dropped the leash I'd been clutching in my fist and ran over to the attack.  It was at this moment that a bunch of dog run members lifted the pit bull up by its hind legs, and is it went into the air, it took Rosie with it, and this was the only time I saw her face during the whole ordeal.  Her expression in that moment is burned into my memory, and I hope I never see it again; it was fear in its purest form.  Even writing about it know, I can feel my heart speed up, my eyes get wet, my cheeks burn, and a clenching in my chest.

I'm not sure exactly how or why the pit finally let her go.  Some people were kicking it, and one guy tried to pry its mouth open with his hand, but at some point he finally dropped Rosie and she ran away under a bench as quickly as she could.  This immediately made me breathe easier, as I was partially convinced she was going to drop out of this dog's mouth paralyzed or dead.  But as soon as I started to feel better, I realized that the only thing keeping this pit bull from going after her again was one guy holding onto it's right hind leg.  I screamed at the dog's owner to get his fucking collar on and hold onto him, and I immediately rushed after Rosie, who was so freaked out that she shied away from my touch at first.

I picked her up and I looked at her neck; it was so covered in slobber that it was next to impossible to see if she was bleeding or if there were any wounds at all, and I thought I heard someone say that it took a minute or two for blood to come out anyway.  I took this moment to set her down, as someone offered to look after her for me, while I got the information of the woman who owned the pit bull.  She was distraught, crying, clearly in shock herself.  People were yelling at her, and this only infuriated me.  I am a fairly practical person in a lot of ways, but I think particularly in a crisis, and yelling at her was decidedly not helping.  When I finally got people to shut up, she was able to give me her name, address, and telephone number, and I ran back to Rosie.  Feeling around on her neck this time, I saw some red on my hand, and I grabbed her and bolted out of the dog run.

On the way to the vet, not more than five minutes after getting viciously attacked, Rosie was happy as a clam.  Her tail was wagging, and I'm sure she was glad that we were out of the dog park, but mostly I think she was just happy that we were running.  It was as if, to her, nothing all that bad had happened.  That is, of course, until she realized that we were going to the vet's and then she suddenly became unhappy again.

We were extraordinarily lucky: no puncture wounds, just serious bruising and a cut on the ear.  The doctor said that had the pit bull bit down just a little harder, and Rosie not been wearing her customary two collars, she would've needed surgery and could have been seriously paralyzed (or worse, of course).  As it is, she just got an extra rabies shot, some painkillers, antibiotics, and a cone around her head.

The next day, we walked by the dog park, and Rosie cried at me when I wouldn't let her in.

Sometimes when I've thought about this incident, I focus on the helplessness I felt, and the unnecessary guilt I would feel afterward.  I can certainly wallow on my perceived failure as her caregiver and protector.  But what mostly sticks with me are her tail wagging when we were running to the vet, and her crying when I wouldn't let her in to the dog park the next day.

Rosie lives in the present.  She takes what comes, and she moves on to the next thing.  If something bad happens, then it's bad at that moment, but it's never going to keep her from appreciating the good when it comes along.  This is the greatest gift that animals can give us, I think.  We have gained much, as a species, from our ability to connect events into causal relationships and discern patterns, but it's also left us mired in the past and unable to completely move on from isolated incidents.  Now, I wouldn't want to live entirely like Rosie; if she eats a leaf that makes her throw up, she never realizes the connection, and will eat another leaf thirty seconds later.  But if I were a little more capable of living in the present, maybe I wouldn't find myself constantly doubting every decision I make, and I'd be a little bit happier, moment-to-moment, tail wagging and head held high.