Writ & Whimsy

Cats, as you probably know, are weird creatures. My parents’ cat shares the name Candace with a first century queen, honorably mentioned, in the biblical book of Acts. I think maybe she knows this because she certainly puts on royal airs. In keeping with her nature, she enjoys hiding under the bed in order to bat at the ankles or bite the toes of unsuspecting victims when they commit the indecency of thinking about something other than cats. Admittedly, inbreeding may be a factor in her disposition, but that is a risk you take with royal bloodlines.

Dogs are, generally speaking, less pretentious and more noble than cats. Ours is named Zipper. He is sweet, needy, endlessly hopeful, and willing to risk life and limb for smelly food. In this case, I refer to Candace’s cat food which lives on a paper plate in my parents’ laundry room. Often when we visit my parents, I’ve got an armful of stuff and I’m trying to get the toddler inside to use the bathroom after a three-hour car ride and he weasels his way around my legs and into the front door, bolting for the laundry room like a little black streak to indulge in the glory of forbidden cat food.

Since Candace is usually hiding somewhere waiting for an unsuspecting foot, she stays clear of the dog. On this occasion, however, she decided that her royal highness would deign to eat some of her own food at the exact moment that Zipper seized an opportunity to forage. A Clash Of Titans ensued. The hissing and yowling that emerged from the back of the house made everybody jump. Due to the lightning reflexes of my husband, we were able to separate the opposing parties fairly quickly. Zipper then had his oblivious rear hauled out to the back porch so that the humans could get over the panic induced stroke they just collectively experienced.

Just as we were catching our breath, and thanking the Lord that the cat didn’t seem seriously harmed, we made a discovery. Candace, far from being a helpless victim had, with a surprising amount of precision, scratched a hole in the very tip of Zipper’s left ear. Like an ancient priest liberally casting sacrificial blood on the four corners of the altar, every shake of the dog’s head now anointed the back porch and surrounding spectators with a spray of crimson.

What you may not know about the tip of a dog’s ear is this: it is very vascular. What that means is that it will bleed and bleed and bleed and it is very hard to get it to stop, especially when every time you stop putting pressure on the wound your dog thinks “Ow that hurts!” and shakes his head like he just got out of the bath, flinging the wound wide open again and covering anyone in the vicinity with a literal shower of gushing blood.

After at least an hour of various attempts to stop the bleeding, and noticing that my husband’s bloody jeans were starting to resemble those of an ax murderer, I realized we needed some assistance. It was a holiday weekend, so the veterinary options were slim. Despite the dramatic presentation, this was more of a mess than an actual emergency. I called my cousin who used to be a vet tech to see if she had any advice.

Following my cousin’s instructions, my Dad and I set out for the local Tractor Supply Co. Our trip yielded some kind of powder that is supposed to help blood clot when applied to a wound and 3 partially- to non-functioning rider mowers that I’m sure my dad got a great deal on. He only had to negotiate for about an hour while I sat on a box next to the baby ducks and chicks hoping I didn’t run into anyone I knew from high school.

Armed with this mystery physic and garbed in an old medical lab coat that belonged to my grandfather in an attempt to protect his clothes, my husband applied the powder to the dog’s ear. He then unsuccessfully tried to wrap it with an ace bandage.  After multiple attempts we had to concede that the powder wasn’t working, and it was getting dark. This presented a new problem. We couldn’t leave Zipper outside overnight like some kind of dripping chum for the wild critters, but we were at a loss as to how to bring him inside without turning the house into a crime scene.

After some googling and experimenting with the ace bandage we figured out that if you folded the ear up over the top of his head and then wrapped the ace bandage all the way around his head like a snood it would stay in place – as long as he didn’t mess with it…which of course he did. Then my brothers helpfully remembered that one of their friends had a cone that their dog no longer needed, and offered to drive the hour-long round trip to retrieve it for us. It was about ten o’clock at night at this point. I blessed them profusely and sent them on their mission.

When we finally got the cone and the bandage adjusted so that it would stay in place, Zipper slumped on the oriental rug with an air of shameful resignation. We slumped on the couch with the tension of hopeful caution. When we tentatively removed the bandage a day later to discover that the bleeding had finally stopped, we were flooded with relief.

We hope that Zipper and Candace have learned their respective lessons, but we have certainly learned ours. May the two kingdoms never meet again.