Emmie
It was dark, nearly 11 p.m. tonight. I heard the pitbull before I saw it. Its paws dug aggressively into the dirt road. In a flash I realized it was going for our old little beagle, Emmie, who was tethered to my husband by the leash.
Upon impact, Emmie gave off high-pitched squeals like metal being crushed. The pitbull veered, then wheeled on back. My husband tried to pull Emmie away, but the pi…tbull clamped onto her with its jaws, making growling noises from the back of its throat.
“Get off! Get off!” I said, my voice rising hysterically as I kicked its backside several times. When the pitbull ramped up its attack, I screamed. The owners finally reached their dog and yanked it off ours.
Emmie lay on her side, her eyes wild, her breathing ragged, her ear torn and bleeding. My husband tried to carry her in a towel in his arms, but she turned on him, biting his hand. After a few minutes, he stopped trying and just let her walk home. Surprisingly, she did so vigorously, albeit lopsided and bleeding, as though to say, “Let’s get out of here.”
I won’t post an after-attack picture; it’s too gruesome. Thankfully, my husband is a vet and will take her to work tomorrow. He cut off one of my stocking legs and put it over her head so she doesn’t shake her ear wound open. She also has a bad cut on her leg.
As some of you might know, I refer to Emmie as my favorite beagle. My writing buddy. She lies at my feet when I go into the office and gets up to follow me around the house. I love her dearly. Favor…please send warm thoughts Emmie’s way so she can recover quickly.
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