Worry

Some people are champion worriers. My dad and my sister are two that spring to mind, but I’m no slouch. My sister and I like to talk about how, if we worry enough about a thing, it can’t possibly happen. And so to control our destiny, we worry enough about many things. The only problem is that other things happen, of course, things that we can’t fathom. When Boonie died, she said, “I never thought to worry about your dog getting shot.” I hadn’t either.

Naturally, when an unexpected event occurs, that realm of possibility opens itself up, and like a cold sore, it’ll subside, but it can and will erupt in your face at inopportune times. Like your wedding day. Or a Thursday.

A couple months ago, my friend told me that one of her neighbor’s two dogs was strangled to death accidentally while they were wrestling with each other. Somehow their collars got caught, and when the woman realized what was happening, she tried to cut the collar off, but she couldn’t. And the dog died.

So for two months, my dogs accidentally strangling each other has been another worry-cold-sore for me. It couldn’t possibly happen though because I worried about it.

Except it did.

On Friday night, Redford and Violet were wrestling on the living room floor, when I noticed that the noises they were making sounded different from their usual grunts and sung notes. They sounded desperate.

I turned around and found them locked together at the muzzle, bucking and pulling against each other. It was pretty dark in the room. I sprinted over and knelt down, trying to get a read on what was happening. Of course, both dogs were panicked, so this was a flurry of teeth, ears, hands, paws.

My blood pressure shot through the roof, and I realized only later that I was shouting, “Wait! Wait! Wait!” I don’t know why that’s the word I chose; I just kept saying, “Wait!”

When I got in there with my hands, I realized that Redford’s bottom canine teeth had hooked on Violet’s collar, and then his whole chin must’ve gotten shoved under it. Violet had probably been lying on the floor at the start, and when she stood up, her collar had flipped, or doubled over, and was now strangling her.

I searched for the release, but the nylon was pulled so tight, I couldn’t even push in on the plastic clasp. Redford was yanking violently, emitting confused snorts. Violet was pulling too, but I could see that she was getting weaker, and the only noises she was getting out through her nearly-closed airway were terrified whines.

I was still yelling, “Wait!” I thought about running to the kitchen for some scissors, but I was afraid I wouldn’t find them in time. In what was a moment of unadulterated fight-or-flight, I made a move that I knew would either save her life or break her neck. Gambling on which way the collar was flipped, I reached underneath Violet, grabbed the legs on the right side of her body, and pulled them toward myself, flipping her onto her side, like I’ve seen people do after they lasso livestock but before binding the animal’s hooves.

The collar slackened. Redford slid his jaw out from underneath. Violet stood up and shook herself off. I stayed on my knees on the floor, chest heaving, “Wait. Wait. Wait.”

I had recently gotten the dogs new collars, and before they’re all stiffened up with dirt and dander, they lose their shape easily—Violet’s must’ve gotten too loose without my realizing it. I tightened it and put it back on her neck.

Of course, now I can’t stop worrying it’s too tight and might hurt her.

But because I’m worrying about it, it means it can’t happen, right?

Goddammit.