NO PICTURES: NO ONE THOUGHT TO GET A CAMERA!
In Santa Fe, while I am attaching a hose to water the newly transplanted bushes, Gizmo runs a few feet around the side of the house and vanishes. When I look for him, he’s gone. Disappeared.
I walk all the way up the gravel lane to the mail box, calling his name. No response. I begin to panic because of the coyotes in the neighborhood. Calling him again and again, I quickly trot along the front of the house.
Then I turn, reaching the wild side of the house facing the mountains and our beautiful view when there are no forest fires in that direction. And, finally I find Gizmo.
He is lying on the ground, licking one foot, then another.
He has so many burrs stuck to his long fur that he cannot move without being in intense pain.
I carry him inside, calling desperately for Grace, as his burrs stab me whenever he moves.
There follows an hour devoted to removing burrs. We are both on the floor of the laundry room. Grace gets the dog-trimming scissors with the rounded ends, to be used if the burrs cannot be moved by fingers alone.
We try to free Gizmo’s hair from the base of the burr, making it easier to take it off. Sometimes Giz pulls his paw back. He is being very nice, often licking my hand rather then putting up a fuss. He struggles occasionally, baring his teeth and even giving not-too-powerful nips to tell me, “THAT HURTS.” He never, ever bites.
After 40 or 45 minutes of having burrs removed from his paws, ears, face, scrotum, chest, legs and back, he does struggle. He really wants to be somewhere else.
I hold on to him until he relaxes. Then the burr removal continues.
It comes down to one spine. Stuck between his right, front paw pads. And deeply embedded.
Grace gets a tweezers and we alternate working it out. I hold him and Grace tries to remove the painful reminder of the burr. When she gets it out a little bit, but not all the way, we switch. She holds, I tweeze. Then I add my right arm around his neck as Grace holds his body.
We also feel the pain. This is something we do not want to do, but must to avoid infections and other complications.
The spine is removed. Gizmo rapidly shakes his hair, runs to get water and then, amazingly comes back to us, indicating we are not only forgiven, but he’d like more fun, perhaps another walk.
Grace and I need time to recover. How does it feel when an owner must inflict pain on his or her pet dog? Terrible.
We wish we could have avoided the entire experience, which resembled taking your children to the doctor for vaccinations. A pet dog means that once more we are wearing our hearts on our sleeves, where our emotional and psychological reactions hurt us more and for a longer time than Gizmo probably experiences. Loving a dog is not easy, not all the time.
“My little dog - a heartbeat at my feet.” Edith Wharton
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