This email has been rated R by me for blood and gore.
Background:
When my sister moved in, she brought their dog with them. His name was Tyson.
9/15/04
Tyson was playing in the yard tonight. He was running in big circles through the yard. He ran down in front of his house, and must have got his cable wrapped around his foot. It pulled the end of his foot off. I ran down, put my arm around him, and clamped my fingers around his leg right above where his foot came off to try to stop the blood. Then I started yelling for help. The woman next door came over, and they got my mom in the house. My mom started calling vets. None were open, so she just got the answering machine. Tyson remained fairly calm during the whole ordeal - my mom said I was taking it worse than he was.
I find it amazing that no vet will take an emergency call unless they already see the animal.
I find it amazing that no vet will take an emergency call unless they already see the animal.
I find it amazing that no vet will take an emergency call unless they already see the animal.
We tied a tourniquet around the lower part of his leg to try to stop the bleeding. I kept my fingers clamped there also. The neighbor finally gets ahold of a vet in Fairmont, and told us they would stay open. My dad came home, and we loaded Tyson in the back of his truck in the lower half of his doghouse. I road to Fairmont in the bed of my dad's truck with one arm clamped around the dog's chest and the other hand clamped around his leg. By the time we got to Saltwell Road, it had been almost two hours. He was starting to rest his head on my arm. We finally arrived in Fairmont, and went in. My hands and part of my arm were covered in blood. My dad held him on the vet's table. The vet was going to stabilize him, and get him ready to amputate his leg tomorrow, but he was a stocky built dog and wouldn't have done well on three legs.
The decision was made to have him put to sleep. (I'm almost positive that he wouldn't have made it through the night, anyways - while we were still in the yard he started shaking were he was going into shock.) The vet asked if we wanted to stay in while they performed the injection. We did. I was covered in blood, had just spent the last two hours with my hand clamped around his leg, and rode in the open bed of the truck for 25 miles; I wasn't going to leave him. And so, he was put to sleep.
I remember sitting in the yard holding his leg watching him bleed to death, knowing that I couldn't wave a wand and heal him. Also hearing that none of the vets were open or would see him. I remember asking God to please let someone be open, and finally someone stayed open.
I don't know what purpose this served or why it happened, but there is one. I trust God for that.
He wasn't "my" dog, but I played with him, and I have this tendency to grow attached to animals... Well, when I say he wasn't "my" dog - I didn't buy him, but had kind of adopted him as my own. I would have been sad for awhile, if we had given him away... So, I guess in a way, he was my dog. He didn't completely bleed to death in my arms, but he didn't have much time left in this world.
Farewell Tyson, may you rest in peace.


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