“Dogs are our link to paradise. […] To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring–it was peace.” -Milan Kundera
Yesterday, a pit bull charged and attacked Beast on his morning walk. Carter had him on-leash, but the pit bull was off leash (in an on-leash park). Carter washed him off to realize that Beast had a ragged puncture wound (among other smaller wounds) on his shoulder. The vet sedated him and put a surgical drain in.
He spent the later hours of the day bleary on painkillers and antibiotics, his drain dripping blood around the house. It was gruesome. We put a t-shirt on him to absorb the blood at night, only to be woken up a few hours later by whimpering at the foot of our bed. He’d somehow managed to wrestle the t-shirt off.
The night was windy. We were awoken again by the scratching of the neighbor’s fence against our window. It was the least restful night I’ve had in awhile. I’d wake up and wonder if Beast was okay, and then it would be hard to get back to sleep.
How do parents do it? The sleep deprivation, the worry?