I was going to write a post about how hayfever is making me want to rip my eyeballs out or how I’ve fallen off the Nutella wagon and am a jar away from needing serious rehab, but I feel there’s a more pressing issue to discuss: my poor little dude Squirt.
On Friday I received this text from my mom:
“Squirt was attacked by Samden
on way to hospital now
big cut on top of back”
Apparently they were on a walk, Squirt was settling in to take a dump, when a big neighborhood dog got loose and grabbed Squirt. As my mom put it — “He had Squirt in his mouth like a big bone.” It was hard to get that image out of my head, or that of Squirt with a gash on his back, trembling, or my parents worriedly rushing to the emergency veterinary hospital. I would have felt helpless were I there with them, but I felt even more helpless being thousands of miles away. My parents continued to text me updates, and my dad eventually sent me a photo of Squirt with a row of staples on his neck, his shaved back showing multiple wounds. That image of Frankensquirt may haunt me the most.
My parents had to file a police report and speak with local animal control, but eventually they were able to get the owner of the attacking dog to pay Squirt’s vet bill without a lawsuit, which is nice. I was sure it was going to be a long, drawn-out affair.
Now I’m not sure what the canine combat rules are, but if they’re anything like Cartman’s “You don’t shoot a guy in the d**k, Butters!” you don’t attack a dog when he’s mid-dump squat. That’s just not cool.
My dad emailed me as they were leaving the vet office. “Squirt dumped all over my shirt and pants in the lobby as we are checking out!” It was the icing on the proverbial crappy day cake, the head-on collision between comedy and tragedy.
“Oh goddd why?!!” I replied. “Was it because they gave him some medicine or anesthesia?”
“No,” he said. “He had the squirts when he was attacked, I think he was just finishing.”
The vet told my parents that Squirt’s scars will give him street cred. He’s one tough little almost-15-year-old. My mom assured me he’s doing better, finally eating his food on his own and is barking again instead of just whimpering. Never thought we’d be happy to hear his annoying little bark!
I’ll end with a fun video I shot when I was home last month of Squirt barking in slow motion, or how he probably hears himself when big dogs come around.