When I tried to pad the crate by pinning a quilt to the sides, she ate the safety pins. If we put her in a crate, she would bang her tail against the side so hard that it would spurt blood, covering the walls like a horror film. When I walked down the driveway to get the mail, she cried hysterically as if her death was imminent. She made no distinction between house guests and intruders, so anyone daring to step onto our porch would send her into a fear-rage. Fire hydrants, flags, and statues were terrifying.
She has had very few experiences of the world, other than having far too many litters of puppies for her young age. Olive was anxious, timid, and haunted by her past abuse. But it might have been worth thinking about the implications of her little Cujo moment. Thirty minutes later, the three of us piled into the car and went home.Īnd we were happy because, since the loss of Grace more than a year earlier, we had shuffled through life with a dog-shaped hole in our hearts. Jeremy immediately dropped to the ground, palms up, and said with confidence - “it’s okay, she’ll love me in a minute.”Īnd because he knows these sorts of things, she totally did. She doesn’t really like men,” the rescue organization lady said. She said something like, “fuck you, I will kill you dead.” She initiated what we would come to affectionately call “full-on Cujo mode.” She tucked her ears back, barked and snarled while backing up.
Moments later, when my husband entered the room, she said something quite different to him. When they brought her around the corner of the rescue organization, the first thing I noticed was her protruding ribs.īut this malnourished two-year-old dog looked at me and her whole body wiggled.
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