Mabon Moon of the First Snow
Dogs, the dogs who live with us now and the others, so many, are gentle with each other. Usually. Once in awhile, like Monday when I let a peanut butter container become the object of a conflict, the not yet, probably never, domesticated dog emerges, always in a frenzy.
In this case, ironically, I was making dog biscuits from eggs, peanut butter, vegetable oil and flour. One large plastic peanut butter container was empty, so I set it on the floor while I took the red plastic container of flour and began pouring it into the mixer. Working with flour for this one-time baker soothes me, so the high-pitched yelps coming from Kate’s sewing room didn’t register right away.
Soon enough, though. When I turned the corner around the refrigerator, I saw Gertie, our German shorthair, pinned to the floor as a determined and angry Kepler shook the folds of skin at her neck. He had her by the throat with the clear intention of ripping it, tearing. His closed jaws swung back and forth as he gripped her tighter and tighter.
A usual method for breaking up dog fights-this was far from our first-is to douse the combatants with cold water. None available. Not quick enough. Gertie appeared to me to be in mortal danger. My pulse began to race. Kate had hold of Kepler’s tail with her right hand, the one that had received the platelet injections only last Friday. Kepler didn’t respond.
When dogs go past a certain point, they are no longer the same creature who nuzzles you, leans against your leg, licks your face. I don’t know what that point is because when it is crossed things become bloody and deadly right away.
With a response I imagine similar to seeing a child in danger I leapt into the fight without thinking. Never intervene in a dog fight. A first rule of living with dogs. When struggling in this way, they don’t discriminate between friend and foe. They just bite.
There is, however, a prior and more primal rule than that first one: don’t let a dog die. I kicked Kepler. Didn’t work. He hung on, looking like a bull dog hanging on the nose of a bull. He would not quit. Gertie’s cry was pitiful and my heart sank with the possibility of her dying.
I’m not even sure now how I got Kepler off of her, but I did. Then Vega took hold. The fight fever can be contagious. I got Vega off of her. Again, I don’t recall how.
A year or so ago, Vega and Rigel had Gertie down and Rigel was the one with teeth on her throat. After I separated them and took Gertie to the vet, I told Roger Barr, the vet, that I thought they were going to kill her. He said they would have. When dogs go past that point, the instinctive warrior animal, the wilderness predator becomes dominate. Then the fight is to the death.
