Only to me...

I wanted someone to remember.  Funny that.  I cannot come up with a single good reason why.  I just did not want to be alone with the day.  No one did.

Amos and I were so utterly changed the day that pit bull attacked us.  In some ways, we are both better.  In other ways, we are not.

At his appointment in May for his annual shots, the vet spent some time just studying Amos, in his fear and trembling.  She always has the same tech work with him and Amos does seem to remember them both.  She also gave us the final appointment of the day (7:00 PM) because she remembered how traumatized he was the last time we were there and other dogs filled the waiting room.  Amos literally had to be dragged from my shoulders.

That day, the moment I spotted the pit bull, I picked up Amos and put his very small, seven-month-old body on my shoulders, hoping it would save him from being attacked.  Time slowed between spotting the pit bull and looking about for any place of safety I might get the two of us to before the dog noticed us.  Even though I was still walking about then, there was nowhere I could get us to before the dog would reach us.  So, I put Amos on my shoulders and stood my ground.  I hoped the dog would not notice us, but the moment he spotted us, he broke into a run.

That was the first time Amos was on my shoulders.  They remain his place of safety, even though he was not protected by them.  When he is afraid, he can manage to scramble up my body to my shoulders almost before I am aware of his intension.  The last visit, it took the two of them to drag my puppy off of my shoulders—or rather the three of us. Amos was so scared.

His vet asked about his behavior and his gains and losses.  What strikes me the most is that his startle response is even greater than last year.  The slightest noise will send him running from the back sidewalk or flowerbed to my shoulders.  The slightest noise indoors will send him racing to the couch to defend the homestead.  He jerks and leaps and ducks and trembles from nose to tail.  Even when it is I who made the noise.

It was ... odd ... watching the vet study Amos.  She would touch him briefly.  She would stroke his body.  She would keep her hand still.  When she set him back down on the floor, Amos darted for my shoulders and settled down.  The vet watched us.  She watched us in silence until Amos relaxed his body against mine as he is wont to do.  It was then that his vet told me that she no longer believed that he might outgrow his fears.  She believes the combination of his age at the time of the attack and his nature is not something he will ever really overcome.

I weep, sometimes, when I see Amos so frightened.  I want a better life for him.  And I wonder if I had been stronger if I could have gotten us from the street corner to my back yard, if I could have darted down the street and into my alley before the pit bill ran the two blocks between us and him.  I weep, sometimes, when I cut his hair, because then I can see the scars his longer curls hide from view.  I weep, sometimes, when I watch Amos fight this immense battle with his fears to remain outdoors long enough to do his business when there are others about.  I weep, sometimes, in the dead of night and I watch how at peace Amos is outdoors then.

My startle response is better than his now.  Or is it?  I have created a firm boundary around me, to stop the involuntary responses I hate so very much.  No hugs or handshakes.  No touching.  Stand off from me, unless I am the one who draws near.  I used to feel rather guilty about drawing this line of safety about me.  I fell victim to those who told me I was selfish and unhealthy to not engage with social conventions such as handshakes and hugs.  Not anymore.  The peace I have achieved by not having to face the instant fear, the wild reaction, the shame, the failings of how I react with others touch me in any fashion means more to me than what anyone thinks of me anymore.

My own scars have faded somewhat.  I still have trouble with my knee, if I move it in a certain fashion or have weight on it at a circle angle.  Now that I have Medicare insurance, I have thought about trying to have the problem addressed, but I am not sure I am strong enough.  By this I mean, I have constant tendonitis in my right elbow.  My doctor told me that my muscles are too weak for the physical therapy that would help.  So, when I clean or do anything of a repetitive motion of any level of effort, the pain flares and lasts days and even weeks.  Giving Amos a bath is an example of an activity I cannot escape that causes a flair.  That is why I am doubtful that my knee would get better if I had surgery to repair the torn ligament.  Plus, waking up from anesthesia was increasingly difficult the last several times I as put to sleep for a procedure.  I admit I am rather fearful that would be even worse now.

Something that is very difficult for me is the memory of that day.

I never recaptured my memory of how we were recused.  The last memory I had was the final time I struggled back to my feet, playing tug-of-war with Amos' body, knowing that once the pit bull pulled us down to the ground again I would not be getting up.  I believe that if I could remember the end of the attack, I could know that it is over.  But my mind left my body during that last terrifying battle to regain my footing.  So, in my mind, there was no ending.  There was no rescue. There was no peace.

Now, I cannot remember most of the attack.  I cannot remember most of that summer. I cannot remember even most of last month.  So very much of my life is slipping from my conscious memory.  Would that it were the feelings of those moments would slip away as well.  They have not.

The truth is that I cannot bear to be near a large dog.  To do so, even with a new friend's dog, is a constant battle not to run and scream and weep and tremble.  So much of me is concentrating on not breaking down that it is hard to focus on anything else.  If there is a large dog walking by when I have pulled up in my car somewhere, I will remain behind a locked door until the dog is far, far away.  And the sight of a pit bull strikes terror within me, triggering trembling, nausea, and a certain level of insensibility.

I wonder if I would have been better had I had any help or any justice that day and following it.  The court found the owner guilty and required her to pay fines and recompense for treatment for Amos and I, but she refused to pay a single penny.  When I stopped showing up in court week after week, her case was dropped.  She faced no consequence for what her dog did or for hiding the dog from Animal Control so that he could be tested and examined for evidence of other attacks.

Both in the ambulance and in the hospital, I could not stop shaking or weeping.  I was terrified of every moment and everything around me just heightened that terror.  Having since studied the brain's physiological response to trauma, I now understand what was happening to my mind and my body.  How I was makes perfect sense.  And how I was was out of my control.  But the medical staff treated me as a bother and someone who just needed to get ahold of herself and calm down.  It was a horrible time for me.  Both for how I was treated and for wondering if Amos were still alive.

So, July 12th remains a difficult day for me.  It is an ending and a beginning I would rather not have in my life or that of my puppy's.  It represents one more long-term battle I have to endure.  And it is the epitome of just how alone I am in those battles.

In the days and weeks and months that followed, as I struggled to heal, few thought of the absolute violence of that day or its impact on us.  On me.

If you have ever been in a car accident, you might understand what I am saying.  There is this ... thud ... that happens.  The moment of impact.  That impact can reverberate in your life.  But it is a sound and a feeling that is unique.  I know. I have been in several car accidents.

The violence of a pit bull attack is unique amongst all the violence I have experienced in my life.  The moments that stretch out into eternity.  The futility and certitude of impending death.  The pain.  The terror.  The loneliness.  An ineffable maelstrom that still rages deep within.

Afterwards, there was no comfort for me.  There was a crowd of people and the owner's boyfriend inches from my face, threatening me to keep silent when the police arrived.  There was a bloody puppy who dragged himself into my lap but tried to bite me each time I tried to touch him.  A cacophony of chaos and pain and blood.  But no comfort.  No solace.  No place of safety.

Hiding in the Psalter as much as I do, I have found the words to cry out to God when the maelstrom threatens to overwhelm me.  I know. I know that the Holy Spirit takes my pleas to God and He hears them.  I know that ... eventually ... all will be quiet within me and all scars will be healed to the point of not a single blemish remaining.  But until then I am alone in remembering, in reliving though I remember not, in battling the lingering violence, terror, loss, and grief of that day.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!