|Dangerspouse Rides Again|
Garage - Track
Jun. 03, 2004 - 12:30 p.m.
I now believe in God again.
The vengeful, pillar-o-salt smiting, burning shrubbery God of the Old Testament.
And He is on my side.
I had a nice long weekend, free of work, computer, and avian attacks. A real rarity in my little world. Took a couple extra days off around the Memorial Day Sales holiday to recoup and pick at the remaining scabs on my back, and it all felt wonderful.
Unfortunately, Casey the Wonder Corgi did not have quite so bucolic a time of it.
When his last attempt on my life (via vulture attack) failed, he elicited the help of the cat in order to devise a more successful plan. The cat was more than happy to join forces, as she is still apparently holding a grudge from that regrettable peeing incident.
I caught them last week conspiring in the woods:
They are trying hard to look innocent, but I know 'em better than that. There is murder afoot.
I worried for days about when the next blow was going to fall. What would it be? Cat poop kneaded into my Terrine du Canard? Rubber Spikey Ball toy filled with fire ants? Baiting a bear into my living room while I watched porn? Taping over my porn??
As it turns out, it was none of those things.
And maybe for ever. For God the Almighty jabbed His righteous finger down onto the "Smite" button before they even had a chance.
Friday morning I stopped at the grocery store on my way home from work, and pulled into the Dangerhouse at around 11am. Two big sacks - one filled with kale, the other with parsley (I'm big on garnishes) - were cradled in my arms as I waddled into the garage. As soon as I opened the door leading into the house though.... ziiiip! Casey ran out between my legs and was down the driveway hauling ass for the woods before I could even yell "FUCKING DOG!"
We have a gate at the top of the stairs that keeps the dog from pulling his escape routine, but NewWifey(tm) must have forgotten to latch it in her haste to get to work this morning.
Well, this has happened before, and the dog always comes back after an hour or two. Usually matted with deer offal and bear droppings, but he does come back.
So I trudged up the stairs into the kitchen and put my goceries away without a second thought. Ten minutes later I'm in the bedroom changing into my sweats when I heard a low rumbling sound - it was a truck coming down our hill.
We don't get much traffic on our street. In the middle of the State Park where we live only residents, delivery trucks and weekend militia hobbyists ever wend their way along our little byway. This time it was a delivery truck, one of those big Fed-Ex jobs. One of our neighbors had probably ordered a barn or something.
I know I've mentioned it before, but Welsh Corgis are herding dogs, the smallest of that group. They are known in pooch circles as being tenacious, unswerving corallers of cattle and sheep, absolutely fearless even when two tons of horned beef bears down on them as they work the group.
We don't have cattle in my State Park. We do have bicycles though, and motorcycles, and lawnmowers and deer and bear and turkey and cars and the occassional Fed-Ex truck. All of which Casey will try to herd off the road by nipping at its heels and nudging with his body.
So when Casey heard the truck off in the distance, it was his call to action. He knew he had to get that Fed-Ex van into a corall before it disappeared down the end of the street.
I figured all that out later. At the time, what I heard as I was pulling on my socks was:
I suppose it was bound to happen. The Fed-Ex guy has actually managed to successfully dodge that furry bullet on several previous occassions, but this time (he told me) he didn't spot Casey's hurtling form until he was already leaping teeth first into the front wheel.
When I found Casey huddling behind the wood shed in the yard he was pale and shaking, and his front left leg was held out at an odd angle. It seemed to have an extra bend in it. He let me pick him up though, and I carried him back inside. The Fed-Ex guy stuck around long enough looking worried until I assured him I wasn't gonna sue.
Inside I phoned Casey's vet, who (for some reason) was not suprised to hear that I was calling with another bizarre emergency. When I told him that the Corgi had finally caught the Fed-Ex truck, he told me to bring him right over.
We got to the vet and I told the receptionist that my dog got hit by a truck and the vet told me to bring him in immediately. She pointed to a chair and told me to have a seat. I sat next to a lady who was worried her Spaniel might have ear mites. I was holding a shivvering, whimpering Corgi with one wing twisted 90 degrees out like a Gumby doll. When the receptionist stood up 10 minutes later she pointed to the dirty eared Spaniel and told the lady the vet would see her now. Casey's eyes were starting to roll into the back of his head as he slipped into shock. Spaniel Lady came out 10 minutes later. It turns out her baby only had some regular ol' dirt in his ear. Hooray! Meanwhile, Casey's breath was getting shallower. However they took us next, letting me leapfrog over the guy with the pregnant turtle in for an OB check. Nice that they have priorities.
Well, they sedated him and took x-rays and checked soft tissue and looked for signs of internal damage. After getting plowed into by a 24 foot long, 10 wheeled delivery truck, Casey only suffered a shattered radius - one of the two long bones that run down his foreleg.
I guess God has a "Mild" setting on that smite button. Oh well, you take what you can get.
They set Casey up with a pretty spiffy cast. Bright lime green, of all things, which NewWifey(tm) promptly tagged with all sorts of "Get Well" messages from her and the cat. He was still pretty heavily sedated, so we didn't feel bad about going off for our Memorial Day keggers. He just lay there like a lox.
Well yesterday I finally went back to my work, and NewWifey(tm) returned to hers. We both patted the dog before we left and I told him to break a leg (NewWifey(tm) is getting sick of that joke). I came home 7 hours later with more bags of garnishes to find....
A 5 legged dog.
Somehow, somehow Casey had managed to wriggle his leg free out the top of his cast! It seemed impossible - the cast ran from his shoulder to PAST his foot. His bones would have to be the consistancy of overcooked pasta in order to contort themselves out of that plaster prison.
But there he was. The cast was still in place, held on by a loop around his neck and torso. His leg was splayed out to the side, the foot dangling several inches above terra floora. He was using the cast as his leg, while his broken limb just swung freely out to the side. He had a look of smug accomplishment.
I rang the vet up again.
He was incredulous. "Casey...GOT OUT of that cast? *sigh*...Ok, bring him back in."
I did, and this time they went for Industrial Strength. Out came the adhesive wrapping they use to patch back together meth lab Pit Bulls that the SWAT team just aerated. You can run his leg onto a table saw now and that cast will stop a tungsten tipped blade.
He has to stay barded like that for the next six weeks too, which should be plenty of time to reflect on the error of his ways. Hopefully he'll realize when this is all over that plotting against the wallet that feeds him is counterproductive. AND a real effective way to piss off the God of Smitings and Uncomfortable Casts.
Here he is, looking contrite (and full):
Hmmm. Obviously not *completely* contrite if he can stick his tongue out at the camera like that. (And yes, no matter how wracked with pain, Green Spikey Ball is not to be let out of his sight.)
It's nice being a member of a Union that rakes Management over the coals for perks, while offering nothing in return. Not even performance guarantees (hence my ongoing employment). So even though I just took an extended vacation I still qualify for more days off than President Bush gets at his Texas ranch each month. So listen, if I'm gone for a week or two here and there in the coming months, I haven't abandoned this diary. I'm just tanning somewhere, sans laptop. Curb your instinct to leave plaintive and beseeching notes, wailing over my absence.
That reminds me, I really want to get away from all the stress and violence I've been subject to here in the wilds of North Jersey lately. Corgi attacks, vulture attacks, exploding vegetables...I need a break.
You know what I'd like to see?
I'd like to see lions.
Real lions, in the wild. Big, powerful beasts with rending claws and tearing teeth. Who won't attack me because I'll be in a 90mph-capable Land Rover flanked by natives toting Manlichter 40 calibers.
And where can you see lions?
See ya there!