Fleeting Thunder, Part 2

The Devil had passed, but not Princess’ memory of him. She stayed with the shakes, like the DTs. She shook so violently inside the crate, I was afraid for her.  The wild dog came out in her as we tried to approach the crate to check on her wounds. We couldn’t open it for fear that she would escape and try to dig a hole in the floor or couch again.

Old Man and I decided it was time to call Eldest Son. He told us that if we couldn’t keep her, call him. We couldn't and we did. Eldest Son had just lost his job, his car was repossessed and was in no way able to come to our aid. He lived several states away. We talked and we cried. We came up with this solution and that solution, but none were acceptable. He finally said the most feared words, words that I knew were coming, but didn’t want to accept. He had a friend who practiced veterinary medicine and who lived close to us. Eldest Son said he would make the call.

As we were talking, Eldest Son was on speaker-phone so Old Man could listen. Eldest Son admitted to having this same behavior occur and was hoping that Princess would be better suited to country life.  He said he had to resort to using barbed wire along the bottom of the pen. Old Man’s ears perked up. He had barbed wire! There was a temporary solution. It would give us a few days to figure out the best solution for Princess’ phobia.

I called Younger Son soon after that to see if he could help out with lacing the barbed wire around the bottom of the pen and through the hurricane fence that lie on the ground under the pen. He wasn’t home. It took Dear Daughter-In-Law ten minutes to find out why I was so upset. In telling her the story, every time I got to the part of having to get a vet involved, I melted into a blubbery mass of wet tears. Younger Son called as soon as he got home and within a few minutes, he and Dear Grandson were in the back yard helping Old Man mend the fence and lace barbed wire. The job wasn’t done until close to midnight. But, at least, Princess had a safe place to be and Poor Hound Dog could have his own crate back.

While the men were out in the yard, I sat by Princess and just talked. Her body shook, she panted profusely, and her eyes were dilated. Every time I reached a hand to undo the crate, she went wild. So, I just talked and sang, and sang and talked. It reminded me of when the world was new and all and I would sing to my children when they were frightened. She eventually calmed down enough so that I could open the crate and tend to her wounds, which, thankfully were not serious. The hardest part was yet to come.