It seems as if the Angel of Animal Death has visited our house over the past week.
For starters it's rained for the past 7 days straight. I don't think I've ever truly seen the like in my life. At least not in this intensity. It is the harbinger of doom.
First off, Blondie was killed. Yes, the Attack Dogs got to her after all. It was tragic. Not only did they brutally slay her but they dug up her remains and had a veritable "goat feast". I admit, I was a tad envious.
Secondly, a cat was mauled.
Next, a baby kitten was eaten.
Lastly, one of said Attack Dogs had puppies. (We didn't know this till we found the puppies.) But sadly, infection set in and two of the little tykes didn't make it. The mother was/is in a bad way. As I speak, she's laying completely motionless, her fate still to be decided.
Seeing as we didn't want mini-Attack-Dog#3 to share the same fate, we took it and put it in a separate box.
I'm never too smooshy with animals. I find that they tend to not live even half as long as I so far have, and as such, I shouldn't create such bonds with them as would put undo strain on my tender heart. (I'm planning on living for at least another 12 years..you can quote me on that)
But this wee pup was different. He was blind, hungry and motherless. It wrenched every single maternal nerve in me and I was helpless. Up to my room it went, swathed in blankets. It got a heating pad, I made it substitue formula of powdered milk and egg yolk, walked a half mile in 5inch deep mud for ingredients, cradled him, gently massaged it's genitalia with a warm cloth to encourage waste, placed a ticking clock in his box to imitate the sound of his mothers' heartbeat. No mother in the wild was more concerned than I for her fragile young.
I pleaded on his behalf for him to be taken to the vet, I fretted, I fed him gently with a sterile syringe, stroked him when he cried out with a soulful wail, woke every 3 hours at night to feed and potty him.
Finally, he was safely asleep in his box, surrounded by warmth, love, and stuffies. I went into the next room to be a guiding educator to some small fry when I heard the little puppy cry out. "Mew", says he. "What is it?" says I.
But too late I arrive to find my little adoptee is dead. Dead. Dead. He has ceased to exist. His spirit soars beyond and my motherly heart flop-flops. I nudge him gently, daring him to move. His little white tongue lolls heavily from his tiny lips. I pull his pink swadling towel gentle over his little black head and say a prayer for his soul.
Happy Hunting Grounds, little guy. I'm happy for you.