How to Save a Life

How to Save a Life

Peter McKay Peter Mckay – Tue May 26, 3:00 am ET



Creators Syndicate – For the past five years, my family has struggled with an aging, smelly, ill-tempered West Highland Terrier named Harry. Harry was an older, decrepit animal when we got him, kind of sluggish and ornery, at times reeking like spoiled lunchmeat. Think of a tiny Abe Vigoda in a little, smelly white fur coat.
I really shouldn't say that "we" struggled to adapt, as it was more my struggle. Harry was fine with the other family members but took an instant dislike to me. He sidled up to my wife and kids whenever he could, but every time I called to him, he rolled his eyes (before Harry, I didn't realize a dog could do that), shook his head and walked away.
In recent years, though, Harry has gotten more and more worn out, until he spends most of his time on the floor without moving. Think of a tiny, smelly white fur coat, with nothing in it. Once in a while I stop and stare, waiting to see if he's still breathing.
So this spring, my wife came up with an idea. (I use the word idea loosely. An idea brings to mind something neat and new, like the invention of the light bulb) Her notion: Why not get a new dog to liven things up?
My reaction to this was no reaction at all. I have learned over the years that when something comes up that I don't want to happen, the best strategy is to agree and then change the subject. I have used this technique to successfully put off installing crown molding in our living room for over 16 years.
This time, however, my wife got in touch with a group of folks who dedicate themselves to finding new homes for used Westies. My wife was convinced: A second, younger dog would give the kids something to play with, and might, just might, put a little life back in Harry. I was skeptical. If Harry understood one word of what we were talking about, he would be, too.
We ended up with a 2-year old Westie I will call "Abe" who'd been found wandering, collarless, in a nearby town and, after the requisite number of days without anyone claiming him, needed a home.
Abe was cute as a button. He was lively, smart and, unlike Harry, did not seem to be burdened with any major defects. We had Abe and Harry meet at a local park, and they seemed to get along fine. It was hard to tell them apart unless you got close enough to sniff.
The first night home, though, we got a surprise. When my daughters and I walked in the door, Abe came tearing across the hall at us, a snarling ball of fur and snapping white teeth. It was all I could do to hold my daughters in front of me like a couple of human shields. They tried to complain, but I couldn't hear anything over my own shrieking.
And Abe managed to terrorize Harry every chance he got. The first few run-ins, Harry put up a fight, but soon it started to look like a mugging on the installment plan: Every time Harry tried to cross the room, Abe was on him like white on rice. When I tried to protect poor old Harry, Abe would turn on me with a deep and surprisingly menacing growl.
By the third day, I wasn't sure who was more scared — me or Harry. Harry spent all his time shivering in his bed, and I was on the couch, curled up with a cold beer, which could be used both medicinally and, in a pinch, as a weapon.
On the fourth day, I noticed Abe on the floor in front of the couch. He looked so cute sitting there. Maybe, just maybe, I'd misjudged this poor little stray. Careful not to surprise him, I leaned down and softly called out his name.
Within a half a second, he was on me, climbing my chest, claws scraping my arms, sharp teeth snapping at rapid-fire velocity, aiming, I realized, at my jugular vein. I'm not really all that good at hand-to-hand combat, and ended up with a few nicks on my neck, and a huge circular bite mark on my jaw before I could pull the possessed furball off me.
That night, I grabbed Harry and confronted my wife. Abe had to go back, I said. Poor Harry, I said, was too scared to leave his bed. My wife sadly agreed. As she went to get the number of the dog people, I turned to Harry.



source: news.yahoo.com