I wouldn’t recommend it, but if you need to know, here it is.
From the beginning, I’ve trimmed Millie’s nails, but lately it’s not working for me. She squirms too much and mouths too much. But one Saturday late night, I looked at her nails and panicked realizing her quicks were advancing--big time. So I decided I needed to cut them no matter what, even though it was late at night, I was tired and I’d had an ugly day.
The very first nail I cut too close. She yelps and blood seeps from it saturating her hairy little paw. Her big brown eyes (green glowing at times) looked at me bewildered (or at least that's the emotion I assigned). Earlier, I'd spent time with my honey Google so I raced to him again for help. And there it was—several thousand hits on how to stop the bleeding quick of a dog.
Out of those choices, this is what I chose. In a bowl, I poured flour. In the middle of the mound of flour, I dunked her paw and watched the powder billow upward to our noses. She sneezed—then wagged her tail. I did not sneeze, nor wagged my tail. Imagine that I repeated this three more times, because I did. When I finished bathing her paw in flour, I looked at the nail and it appeared to have stopped bleeding.
I sat down in a chair all shaky. Millie didn't seem to care about my feelings and headed for the bowl to eat the flour and overturn the bowl.
The next morning when I awoke, the bed in her crate was a bloody mess. I had killed her. NOT REALLY, but that was how I spent my night—dreaming that I had killed her over and over again.
My overreaction to this incident can be blamed on information I received from 1990, the last time I purchased a pet--my boxer: Suki Aki. I was told that dogs could bleed to death if their nails were trimmed into their quicks too far.
She lived, but I tried again to kill Millie the next Wednesday. Our entire district shuts down on Wednesday--the day before the first day of school. I scheduled a new handyman service to visit that day and fix things around my house. But for the 40 millionth time he cancelled on me. The weather was beautiful so I decided to take Millie to a state park—for a day out; you know to socialize her since I've not done much of that.
She rode in the backseat, in her crate gagging a couple of times, but did well. Once we arrived in the park, we stopped first where there were pools of trout. I thought this would be a good place to start, but there were mowers mowing, children laughing and cars rumbling. These sounds made Millie nervous, wide-eyed and paralyzed. I gathered her up, got back in the car and set her in my lap to drive to another area at the far end of the park.
When we arrived, I was pleased to see that we were alone with nature, Millie and me--although, it was a little creepy.
Out of the car we went. Millie was much happier now, and she demonstrated by flipping her hair like it was a mane and her head like she was a horse, one hand high--standing. She walked beside me or in front of me and felt comfortable enough to wee on the grass. After a while, I felt she was ready to move on up to a more populated area. By this time, I really needed to use the restroom myself (in this case the fancy outhouses). I figured I could leave her in the car, in the shade for the five minutes, be in and out and no one would break out my window to save her. That was my plan until two men in a pickup rolled up the secluded driveway, ever so slowly.
You know how you get those feelings? Where your creepster meter tilts heavily? Where you need to move on? I had a feeling.
Does Millie attack and destroy the creepsters? Was Teresa overreacting again? Does Millie survive the second attack of her owner?
To be continued on Friday!
(Forgive the formatting. No matter how much I tried, the formatting was off.)