Day 4
I’m so tired and so sore, from work and from workouts. I decide to take the dogs on the shorter loop.
As I leash up Redford and Violet, Tulip worries (as usual) that I might not take her this time (even though I always take her).
Half an hour later, at the back door, I must zone out for a second because, for some incomprehensible reason, I untether Tulip first. Then Redford, but by the time I go for Violet, Tulip and she are already at it. Snarling. Teeth. Jumping. Clashing.
All the articles online say don’t yell—it makes it worse—but I’m yelling. “Stop! Stop! Stop! Goddammit!” Though Violet’s still on the leash, she’s attempting to fight Tulip off, and Redford is trying to defend his sister as well. We’re all going around in circles on the deck.
The articles also say, to break up a dogfight, you need as many people as there are dogs involved. Each person picks up the hind legs of a dog and walks backward. I’m by myself, and I literally, at one point, yell, “Oh, god! Help!” Who I expect to help me is unclear, but I am so scared.
I finally wrestle Redford and Violet into the yard and close the gate, shutting Tulip on the deck by herself. I don’t know if her heart rate’s up, but mine sure as shit is. I sit on the steps and pet Redford and Violet. When I glance back at Tulip, she’s wagging. It’s been five seconds since the fight. A rage boils inside me. For the first (and, I hope, only) time, I feel violent towards my foster dog.
I don’t act on my feeling. I breathe and pet my babies, then I take Tulip inside and put her unceremoniously in her kennel. She whines. I tell her to be quiet.
Violet is licking her right haunch. I flip on the light and take a look. She’s bleeding, there on her hip, and above and below her left eye. I wash her wounds and feel very, very sad.
Fifteen minutes later, I realize my thigh stings. I look down. My pants are torn, and my leg is bleeding.
Looking back, the skirmish lasted probably thirty to forty-five seconds, but in dog years, what is that?, like a fortnight or something. It certainly felt like it.
Day 5
I notice Tulip has a scratch on her right cheek. (I guess Violet got one jab in.) I wash her wound and feel very, very sad.
No walk today.
Day 6
My thighs are covered in bruises from the spat.
I realize Tulip may have to go to a one-dog household. That, or to an owner who’s willing to do some hard work.
No walk today.
I sprint out the door to make it my friend’s birthday dinner on time, realizing on the way there that my dark purple shirt is now fur-trimmed and I don’t have a lint roller. Ah, the perils of taking snuggly naps on the couch with one’s foster dog prior to social engagements.
Day 7
Between thundershowers, I gird my loins and talk the doggies for a walk. It’s amazing to me that they can walk on the leash with their sides touching, no problem, but the unstructured meetings explode into rage-fests.
Tulip poops and pees on the walk!
