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Wednesday 16 December 2009
One of the nine dogs I was dogsitting this past weekend was mauled to death by another one of the nine. The dead dog was a typically enthusiastic beagle named Petey. The survivor was a much larger mixed breen mutt named Buster. The cause of their final encounter remains unknown: the two had long been affable kennelmates, and I didn't come upon the scene until minutes after the fatal event. I was able to get Petey to the animal hospital alive, but surgery was unable to save him from his extensive internal injuries. Petey died several hours later, alone in a cage. Buster was and remains confined to a lonely 5-ft by 10-ft kennel pending evaluation.
I mention this because it sucks to have a limp and wheezing puppy in your arms for Christmas. It does, however, adequately illustrate my general indisposition about the never-ending Christmas season: you know the dog is going to die, and there is nothing that you can do about it but wait it out. This situation is not significantly improved by the possibility that If you're judged "nice," you'll get a new shirt to replace the one ruined by all the blood.