It seems ridiculous now, that minutes before it all happened, we were all sitting quietly, taking pictures.
We moved into our new home on the Montreal plateau, February 1. A week later, my room mate moved in with his Beagle/Jack Russell cross, Cuca. Floyd and Cuca were instant besties, and I found myself replaced as the one Floyd would always follow around.
Minutes before it all happened, I took this picture and saved it as "Double Trouble":
My room mate and I have been working with a dog trainer, and it was though instantly, all that hard work we had put in, failed us. The dogs escaped from the yard, and I watched as the disappeared down the back alley, and turned the corner, all the while ignoring my whistles and calls. They had escaped before, but already I knew they had gone further than they ever had before.
By the time I reached the end of the alley, they were nowhere to be seen or heard, my calling did nothing but annoy neighbours. My room mate rushed home from work, as we began searching for them, in all the places we THOUGHT they would go. Never in our wildest dreams, did it occur to us, that our dogs would run off for over a mile, through countless allies and yards, across some of the busiest streets in Montreal.
The phone call came soon, just as I finished posting LOST DOGS ads on craigslist and facebook.
"Get in a cab and go to 2225 Gilford. I will pay for it when you get here. Go now."
I prodded my room mate for more info, as he just kept repeating "2225 Gilford" and then "Floyd's been hit".
I always wondered while watching crime drama shows on A&E, how I would react to being told a loved one of mine had been killed. I know now that I would scream, and crumple to the floor. But fear not! for as I soon discovered.. Floyd was very far from dead.
I reached the vet, and after some confused anglo/franco conversing, I was led to the exam room where much to my surprise, Floyd was standing, considerably bloodied and understandably confused.
The vet examined Floyd while I cooed and attempted to calm both him and myself, as blood squirted high into the air from puncture wounds, soaking all of us in the room. Sparing you more gory details, Floyd was about to become a real life Frankenweenie, as he would under go surgeries, and get stitched back together.
I found out the 2 dogs had reached Cartier and St. Joseph, where Floyd was then hit by an ambulance as he ran across the street. He had flown through the air, hit the asphalt, and gotten up right away, while his buddy Cuca, barked for help. She was unscathed from the ordeal, but it took a woman and her daughter who had witnessed the accident, half an hour to try and lure her into being caught. The EMT driving the ambulance had stopped traffic, and had put Floyd under a blanket while giving him an exam. The police arrived and rushed Floyd to the vet.
I was then sent home to wait, after being asked to leave a $400 deposit.
I discovered this past summer, that in times of high stress and mental breakdown, I begin busying myself with often useless and pointless tasks, like refolding clothes until I have achieved perfect corners, and cleaning surfaces and dishes that don't need to be cleaned. And apparently this was to be no exception.
I began right away at looking for a pattern to make Floyd a bed. I found one that didn't make any sense, but I was convinced I perfectly understood what these backwards-ass diagrams were telling me to do. It took hours, but at least it kept me away from my clean dishes. I cut up perfectly good shirts and pillows to stuff the thing.. I am supposing on some level I probably felt like I didn't deserve them, for being such a bad mom!
I put the bed on the floor, only to have it instantly usurped by Cuca.
The vet called and told me they would need to keep Floyd over night, as he would have to undergo an operation for his puncture wound. By noon the next day, I was able to pick up a very woozy, cone headed dog.
He just about dragged me home, which in retrospect, was a terribly bad idea to let him do. Floyd had air in his thorax, most likely let in by the puncture wound on his side. The excitement of rushing home, most likely aggravated his condition, and I found myself with a wheezing, short of breath Frankenweenie.
We drove back to the vet a few hours later, when his breathing still hadn't settled. More tests and Xrays. Yes it seemed there was more air, but they couldn't be sure since the initial radiographs had been sent to a specialist to see whether or not there was more damage than they could see.. like a punctured lung.
There is no one at the vet's office after 8 pm. It was decided It was best I take him home to closely monitor his condition, and would need to rush him to a 24 hour south shore clinic.
It has been about 30 hours since we last saw the vet, and Floyd's condition is about the same. He seems to have a hard time getting comfortable and can't find his breath.. But how do you explain to a dog, that they just need to calm down and breathe deeply?
His condition will hopefully resolve itself within 72 hours, otherwise Floyd is going to have to undergo more surgeries, to release the air. The poor guy is basically a big balloon, in need of being popped. There is also the slight possibility, he may need to have a valve put into his thorax, that can be opened to release the air, not unlike that of an inflatable pool toy.
He is alert and eating and drinking. He is not interested in his bed, which is just as well since Cuca doesn't seem to want to move from it. He is back to being stuck to me like glue, and seems to settle his breathing whenever he is being shoved full of cookies. Of course I was up at 3 am, baking him cookies from scratch, suddenly understanding how quickly children become spoiled.
Hopefully, the specialist will call us tomorrow and let us know that yes indeedy, everything is going to be a-okay.