This has been a sad week for those of us who love our dogs and also the wild animals whose space we share. It’s also been a week of revelation for me. I’m so proud of my strong, responsible, well-informed kids, who, when the going gets really tough, just dig in and do the right thing no matter how awful that may be.
The other side of the revelation is learning that we haven’t done nearly enough to get to know our few neighbors, which might have prevented a lot of nastiness. Had we taken time to cultivate their friendships, the worst reaction to this tragic incident might never have happened.
It began last Wednesday with a panic call from my son, Bobby, to his sister, Susan, who was still at work. “You’ve got to come home now. I need help. I can’t do this,” he said.
This is so unlike my son. He’s the one we call for help. The one who always knows just what to do and how to do it. He regularly does the tough stuff that saves our behinds.
Isobel, a dog he raised and trained to work cattle, the one who rode in his truck to work with him every day until she broke her leg, had gone raving mad.
She had been following him around all morning while he did chores, happy, playful and apparently normal. All of a sudden, Bobby noticed she was panting really hard. He filled a bowl with water, but when he reached down to give it to her, she freaked out and lunged at him, obviously confused, then began flipping her head around snapping at the air. That’s when he called Susan.
By the time she got there, Isobel was ataxic, staggering stiff legged, her pupils so dilated her amber eyes were totally black. They called two vets they know and respect, neither of whom could come out. Both said these were classic symptoms of rabies, the sudden onset, often many weeks after exposure to a rabid bat, squirrel, raccoon, skunk or possum. The vets, who know and trust Bobby, told him Animal Control wouldn’t respond in less than two hours, usually four or more, and that the dog could seriously harm them, the neighbors and the other dogs.
“Do what you know you have to,” they told him. “And be careful. Don’t even think about trying to touch her.”
After she hurt her leg, Isobel had became a faithful companion to George, our longtime stable man, whose other dog had recently died of old age. It was perfect for both of them. She followed him around all day as he irrigated the fruit trees and fed the horses. She slept at the foot of his bed at night. When George was diagnosed with a brain tumor and moved to the VA hospital, Isobel went back to being Bobby’s dog, but she couldn’t go with him in his truck on the days he had to work cattle on Tejon Ranch. That’s when she started visiting the neighbors, who were so fond of George. They thought they were doing something for him by feeding treats to his dog, giving her the attention they thought she was missing. They even took her on a three-day trip to the Sequoias, without telling us, not realizing we would spend three anxious days looking for her. They didn’t know that Bobby loved Isobel and was caring for her, too.
And they weren’t there to see her suffering on that dark afternoon.
When she began staggering sideways and falling down, struggling to get up, her tongue hanging out, white foamy saliva covering her neck, Susan told Bobby to get his rifle. She said, “If you can’t do it, I will. We can’t wait for Animal Control.” Bobby did what he knew he had to do. Then he threw the gun down and wept. When Animal Control showed up four hours later, they said the brain tissue would be tested and the results would take 48 hours. They would call. They didn’t.
One neighbor returned home and called me to see what had happened. I spent 25 minutes explaining to him why Isobel had to be put down. His first response was, “How am I going to tell my wife?” That’s when I realized I didn’t know him at all.
Less than 24 hours later, he called Animal Control and was told the test was negative for rabies. He flipped out. He spray painted three huge signs and tied them to his fence on our road. “Bobby is a Dog Killer!” and “Shame on You, Bobby!”
My son-in-law, Pete, saw them first. Bless him for his cool, level-headedness. My first reaction, and Susan’s, are unprintable here. Pete took pictures of the signs, and told Bobby, who was at the barn and hadn’t seen them yet. Then he went to talk to the neighbor. Calmly, unemotionally. Then he told our other neighbor, Harriet, what had happened. She didn’t quite know whom to believe.
I didn’t trust myself to talk to any of them. It fell to Susan to tell George his dog was gone, but nothing about what the neighbor had done.
Bobby was okay with it. “It’s just ignorance,” he said. He had told the vet and the other cowboys at work what he did, and they all told him he’d done the only possible thing.
Next day, Susan got on the phone to Animal Control and told them she wanted the test report and the carcass. They hemmed and hawed, circled the wagons and generally tried to cover their backsides. They didn’t even know if someone had been bitten. If the head hadn’t been sent for testing before disposal of the carcass and animal control officers said the test was negative, they’d put everyone at risk and set off this whole miserable reaction.
Susan and I are still trying to ferret out the truth, but I’m not angry anymore. I never did care that I was called a liar, but when someone slanders my son, who was already in a world of hurt, that’s beyond my understanding. If only we’d known our neighbors better.
Usually, I’m able to forgive behavior that I can’t fathom. I just figure it’s their problem, not mine. But when they make it my kids’ problem, that’s somehow different.
I’m still working on that.