As far as summer evenings in Georgia go, this particular night was a beaut. As we pulled out of the driveway on our golf cart for our nightly family cruise, the four of us soaked up all the summer feels.
With the humid summer breeze on our faces, we hung a left and slowly rolled down a steep neighboring street. I noticed our neighbor in the distance walking his small dog – and clearly battling to keep all 10 pounds of her under control.
That’s when it figuratively went down hill.
As we approached and I began to lift my hand to wave, suddenly, a blur of fur flashed in front of me…instantly followed by a ‘thump’…’thump’…
O. M. G.
I’m not a betting man, but I would’ve bet it all on a complete and total dogicide. Second-degree-dogicide. Kids-traumatized-for-life-dogicide. Call-the-realtor, pack-up-the-house, put-a-sign-in-the-yard-dogicide. It was that bad, really bad.
But when we turned around, she was alive! She was obviously hurt, but dadgum alive!
Our neighbors rushed her to a local emergency vet. I was stunned and torn up about it. That night, I replayed it over, and over again in my mind. There was nothing I could have done differently, but the persistent knot in my stomach kept trying to convince me otherwise.
The prognosis wasn’t good. X-rays revealed that she had extensive internal injuries and complicated, expensive, surgery was the only option.
To be continued…