Fragments From Floyd

Buster, he ain't. I suppose the time will never come when we forget Buster's ways of doing things and comparing them to the Ruling Beast of the house. Sometimes, the differences are more apparent than others. Yesterday was one of those days.

"Buster, ya wanna go to Puppy Camp?" we'd ask, and the big black dog went all wiggly. He loved to go to the vet for whatever reason, didn't matter. He loved the tidal wave of exotic smells, loved all the gals there, enjoyed the ride to town as if he were going to, well, camp! Getting T-man to town yesterday for his last rabies shot, was, as we expected, a two-human undertaking. I drove, Ann sat in the back seat of the new Forester, twisted 180 degrees at the hips administering to Hisself, and the dog rode unhappily in the back-- howling, warbling and whining even with constant reassurances and lots of treats. It is a very long way to town.

Once at Puppy Camp, Buster hopped right out of the front seat of the truck. (Tsuga may never be trustworthy to ride up front with the driver!) In his over-exuberance one time, Buster did knock down two of the staff in his eagerness to get to his bunk, so he got special treatment and was let in through the back door by way of the fenced yard beside the building. That is the last place I ever saw the old boy five months ago, wagging his black tail, happy to be among friends again. Tsuga is barely containable with the choke chain and leash, and got his first score yesterday, knocking one of the girls on her keister while we were trying to weigh him. (She's fine, it was funny. Tsuga's fine too. He weighs 57 pounds and is exactly five months old today!)

When we got home, we took our usual walk around the pasture, and Tsuga rolled in turkey poop. But that was not the end of the excitement for the day. The last big event was not the least bit cute or funny and could have had a very unhappy ending. At least we were home when it happened.

You may know how it is when accidents happen. Afterward, you can't quite put the sequence in order, cannot say what happened first or second, what you were thinking, who did what. So this will be hard to explain, and like many accidents, its occurrence was so improbable and odd that I probably shouldn't even try to describe the particulars. I'll do my best to distill the details.

We had finished dinner. Ann was puttering around in the kitchen while I sat at the table reading the mail. Tsuga, as usual for this time of day, was helping with the dinner dishes.(Come on. Tell me your pooch doesn't lick your plates clean.) I could hear out of the corner of my ear that he was particularly intent on one plate, scooting it along on the hearth in front of the woodstove. I should describe a few things about the stove at this point. There is an ash lip or tray under the door-- a shelf the width of the stove, three inches deep, curved up slightly at its free end. In the center of the stove, the draft control is a metal rod that extends about three inches beyond the ash tray and is tipped by a wound brass knob that dissipates heat. Here's what happened, best as I can tell:

The dog had pushed that plate under the front of the woodstove but wasn't quite through with his job on it yet. We were both ignoring him. And here's where it gets fuzzy. Ann suddenly is screaming something... help him help him oh no what'll we do!... The dog is thrashing about wildly at the center of the stove as if he was being pulled into it, held somehow, and he is wailing the most terrifying scream of fear you can imagine. I rushed over and could not understand what was happening. The dog's top and bottom jaw were apparently locked somehow on the ash tray and he couldn't get them off; or somehow he'd gotten the damper rod end lodged in his throat (too?). The more we tried to dislodge him the more terror-stricken he became, still shrieking like an animal being dismembered. Then I could tell something held his collar, but the way he was thrashing about, it took me what seemed an eternity to find the latch. By that time Ann had run for the scissors to cut the collar off, but I found the latch and released it. I fully expected to turn and see the dog's mouth mutilated or his jaw dislocated.

Tsuga seems to be fine. Can't find any sign of injury. Five minutes after it was all over he was playing with his stuffed animals. We, on the other hand, probably need therapy for PTSD. And we're thinking maybe goldfish, next time. Take home lesson: Murphy was right. If it can go wrong, it will. Moral: before we leave him home alone, we'll remove the pup's collar. Murphy will still win.