A dog in heat sparked a weird chain of events last week. Our dog, Mee, to be precise.
Mee came to us second hand from a lady down the road. We were told that she was sterilized, and for the nearly three years we've had her she's been leading a nice, quiet, sterile life. Then suddenly one day we had one dog, two dogs, and eventually five dogs scratching and snorting and digging and leaping, and finding their way onto our heavily fortified property.
Male dogs. Looking for some action. With Mee.
There were vicious, snarling fights. Mee was clutched and pawed and bitten and pounced on. We tried blocking the wall breaches with rope (bitten through), heavy stones (pushed aside), barbed wire (jumped through). A concrete panel on our gate was smashed in half from all the lunging and clawing. Nothing would stop these dogs.
Turns out that the birth control was done with regular shots by the neighbour, the original owner, and she had decided to stop doing it but had forgotten to mention that to us. So I guess it wore off and our sweet, black, jolly Mee transformed overnight into the village slut.
Needless to say, the dog infestation caused our three cats some, errr, concern, and they sought refuge in the forgotten corners or the high places around our yard, or inside. Our newest addition, Sam (which means "Three" in Thai -- she's missing a hind leg), tried to sneak out into another neighbour's yard.
Bad decision. This would be the neighbour with the five bulldogs. Five angry bulldogs. Five bulldogs that are so territorial and hateful that they bark and jump at passersby 24 hours a day. This happened late at night so thankfully I didn't witness it. Sam had been missing for a day when my hubby talked to the neighbour, who told him that she'd seen one of her dogs bite Sam after he jumped into her yard. The cat ran off so she didn't see how badly she'd been injured.
Sam remained missing for another day. Then one morning late last week we were eating breakfast and I caught a whiff of something. I looked out behind the house and there she was, dead. On the damp ground below the nook that she liked to crawl into for naps. My husband hauled her off in the back of his truck to put her in a "better place" -- I didn't ask where, don't want to know -- and I burned three sticks of incense at the spot where I found her.
Too bad. Sad. She will be missed, especially by Justin who liked to carry her around, and she was kind enough to let him. (When he saw the dead cat, he said, "Cat fall down." Yes, cat fall down, I said. It's okay, she's not hurt any more, I said, to his little skeptical eyes.) Her little purple food dish is still sitting on the front steps -- haven't had the heart to take it in yet.
This morning I was out in the yard and our neighbour (the bulldog owner) asked, over the fence, if I'd seen Sam yet. I told her Sam had died. Before I could say more, she grabbed a stick, ran over to her dogs, who were all in a room at the back of her house, and in full view of me and my children, began beating them savagely while "telling" them that my cat had died, and it was all their fault. A nice little bookend to a week of horror and carnage.
Such was my shock, I said nothing and high-tailed it inside, not that she noticed, so busy she was teaching her dogs how to behave (violently).
If karma is to be believed, then this woman will be reborn in perpetuity as a Thai dog. Or as a three-legged cat trapped inside a yard full of raging bulldogs.
Anyway, Mee made a reluctant trip to the vet, and is now sporting a stylish large bandage across her belly, and all is quiet again.
And Sam, sweet Sam, may you rest in peace in a dog (and human) free heaven.
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