Good Boy

I'd heard him scuttling across the floor of my bedroom all that morning, his claws tapping on the hardwood each time he came over to check if I was awake. He wanted to go on a walk and I was, in his opinion, rested enough. As I slid my legs off the bed and pushed myself upright he became excited and started doing little figure 8's by the door. I pulled myself into my pants and shirt and we headed outside.

While we were walking I noticed his claws were still making the same clicking sound and I decided to cut his nails when we got
inside. We returned up the stairs and he looked at me expectantly, waiting for his treat. Normally I just drop it on the floor, but this time I made him come get it out of my hand so I could snatch his collar. He crouched and backed away, but I was too fast. I dragged him into the kitchen and got the clippers.

I'd just started on the third leg when it happened. I misjudged the length of the nail and he yelped and jerked his paw from my hand. As the thick red liquid started bubbling from the wound I flinched and reached for the dishtowel hanging on the oven door. The blood was spilling on his chest and I tried to apologize as I wiped it from his fur, but he just looked at me and began to shake. I wrapped the dishtowel over the wound, hastily finished the job and freed him from my embrace.

He stood on the foot well and didn't appear to be in pain, but something would have to be done to stop the bleeding. He sat down and started licking his foot and I got some gauze and tape, competing with his tongue as I secured the bandage. He followed me into the living room, seemingly ok with his new footwear, and plopped down on his blanket next to the couch.

Later that day he got up and started across the room. I looked up from my book and noticed that the bandage was now completely red, so I rose and followed the little trail of paw prints he left on the floor from his bed to his water dish. I watched as he casually lapped up the water, ignoring the growing pool of red liquid forming around his foot. I reached down to lift his leg and the soaked bandage came off easily in my hand. As I secured a new larger bandage around his paw he continued to drink, annoyed at my interference. I cleaned the prints off the floor and left the house for the afternoon.

When I returned later that evening, I again found the room covered in small red footprints. I followed them into the kitchen and then into the living room, where the footprints were concentrated around my dog, asleep on his blanket. I changed his bandage once more and cleaned the floors, but the bleeding continued throughout the night and by morning I was worried.

I phoned the veterinarian and she suggested we come in, so I loaded him in the car, the blood pooling around him on the seat. I apologized to the Vet for the mess we'd made in the waiting room, but she was kind and said not to worry, that sort of thing happened all the time. She cauterized the wound and sent us off, but by the time we got home it was bleeding again. I took him back that evening, but that time only an hour or two passed before it opened up again. We repeated this many times over the next few days, until I finally convinced her to teach me how to cauterize the wound at home. It seemed to work for a while, but after some time the effect of my repeated soldering dwindled to nothing.

As the weeks passed I became increasingly consumed with his care, but no matter what I tried his condition remained the same. I made him a series of washable bandages that I changed many times a day, but he still bled through them while I was at work or sleeping. I spent most of my free time cleaning up the marks and stains he'd leave in the apartment, eventually buying scraps from carpet stores to cover the areas with the heaviest traffic. At night he slept in the bathtub on a little pile of blankets, a small river of blood flowing steadily down the drain.

The first few months were hard, but I'm getting used to it now. When we walk around the neighborhood he leaves a trail of footprints that becomes almost a solid line if it doesn't rain for a while. Everyone knows about us, and most cross the street when they see us coming. It feels as though every surface in our apartment is saturated with his blood, but I no longer mind. I've stopped scrubbing the floors, I've stopped changing the carpet scraps, and I've stopped making him sleep in the tub. I let him sleep in the bed with me now.