The Bitch Is Back!

 I WILL SURVIVE!

Sadly, my mother, Helena, passed away this past Christmas Eve. It was a drama of CSI proportions, as were most of her 81, tumultuous, Transylvanian émigré years. Finding her deceased on Christmas day, after the sheriff was forced to kick in her door (she was too paranoid to give me a key to her house), proved to be, beyond surrealistic. She had not planned to die, so left no directives for her demise and protected her fortress with stunning effectiveness.

The Walnut Ranch in Kelseyville, CA

This past Sunday, we all drove to my parents’ walnut ranch to ceremoniously scatter her ashes. While waiting for my sister’s arrival, our dog, Quinn, who relishes the freedom of running at full-throttle and chasing squirrels and rabbits on the rural expanse, was romping with my son, Michael's  golden retriever, Millie.

The two dogs were madly chasing each other and then attempted to jump up and over a retaining wall made of stacked obsidian rock (cooled volcanic lava), which is, essentially a naturally occurring glass  and as sharp as a surgical scalpel.  As the dogs leapt toward the top of the wall, Millie, who is twice Quinn’s size, clipped her sideways, causing Quinn to lose her balance and catapult her into the rock wall with full force. As Quinn seemingly recovered and limped away, Mark thought she had hurt her leg, but soon Michael noticed that she was, indeed bleeding, and immediately tried to stop the flow with his shirt and hands. Mark then asked Michael if he could take a look at the wound and when he briefly removed his hand, the blood squirted an 8" stream from her neck.

As Michael reapplied pressure and held onto Quinn, we scrambled to find a towel to stop the bleeding. Within seconds, we found one raggedy towel in the cab of the truck. I anxiously approached Michael, but he told me not to look; that the gash was "really-really deep".  Meanwhile, my daughter, Anika, and my husband frantically tried to get a cell signal to phone a veterinarian in the area, with zero results. Being Sunday, they were told, the nearest emergency animal hospital was more than 2 hours away. I knew right then, that Quinn was not gong to make it. I crumpled to the ground, burying my face in my hands. Mark asked if I wanted to go with them, but I knew I would only make things worse with my emotional hysteria. My sister was due at any minute, with my mother's ashes and would not know what happened, so I decided to stay.  Mark

 assured me that Quinn would be OK and proceeded to carefully help load Quinn into the truck for the two-hour ride to the Rohnert Park Emergency Animal Hospital. I couldn’t look up at the truck as it pulled away. I thought I would never see Quinn alive again.

As the truck sped away, my sister, simultaneously arrived with my mother’s ashes. She must’ve wondered where they were going.  She found me squatting against the outbuilding, in the dirt, sobbing next to a bloodied toilet paper roll, which I had used to wipe the blood trickling down from Quinn’s leg. Two bunches of limp Gladiolas lay scattered next to me. Later, my sister told me that she thought I was taking my mothers death pretty hard. We both agreed that my mother was probably insulted that we brought our dog to her memorial service. That, and I was wearing blue jeans.  Not really acceptable for the burial of a queen.

Michael held the wound tightly with that same rag for the entire ride; nearly 90 miles of curvy, mountainous roads, never once releasing the pressure. Needless to say, he was saturated in blood when they arrived at their destination. Quinn underwent emergency surgery and the doctor capped her jugular vein (you have two, but need only need one).

Amazingly, Quinn had severed 270 degrees of her right jugular vein. Michael’s holding-pressure on the gaping wound for the entire, 2+hour drive saved her life! I didn't think a 39 lb dog could survive, having lost so much blood. But, in fact, she did not require a transfusion!

Update on Quinn: Mark and I picked Quinn up the next day from the emergency Animal Care Center in Rohnert Park. She playfully scampered out to meet us, full of her usual enthusiasm, her neck wrapped in a pretty cotton-candy pink bandage. The Vet said that she had never seen anything like it in her entire 15 years of practice! Her survival was nothing, short of, miraculous. I hugged, Dr. Laura Slater-perhaps a bit too hard- and thanked her for saving our Mighty Quinn. When I described the circumstances of the ordeal, I detected a slight rim of moisture in her eyes. They see a lot at these places, but this one, at least, had a very happy ending.

 Dr. Angela J. Smith post-op check-up. Petaluma Veterinary Hosptal

My mother hated most living creatures and especially Quinn, because, she claimed that, on Thanksgiving Day, after our last visit with her, Quinn took a "dump" (she had a more colorful term) in her carefully, coiled-up, garden hose...so much for the Transylvanian smiting on an innocent, helpless, shelter dog.

But, seriously, the timing of everything was simply bizarre. That evening, the temperatures were unusually warm (72º F) for mid-January. The luminous, blood-orange, full moon aptly captured the mood of a day and the lunacy of it all. My sister and I are convinced that Quinn did indeed survive the “Bitch-slap” from Hell[ena].

                          The Mighty Quinn Lives!                   Michael checks up on his little buddy a few days later