Post Injury Dithering and Rationalization

Cone head entertainment

Weasel was hurt at a recent tournament, and whenever one of my dogs is hurt, I go through the dithering angst:  Should I continue doing this?

The fact is, I know I am putting my dogs in danger when I do these things with them.  Every road trip could be a crash.  Every time they hit the box, something could go wrong.  I am putting them at the mercy of a hundred dogs and people I don't know, many of them dogs who are new to this and confused.  Yes, the judges are wonderful and care is taken to intervene when a dog appears to be aggressive or predatory.  But, surprises happen.  Then there is the fact that flyball is physically hard on them, with the repetitive jumping and collisions with the box, and sprinting from a dead stop to full speed, then screeching to a stop, over and over.  They would be much safer if I kept them at home and took them on hikes, or played Frisbee in the back yard.
I know I am putting my dogs in danger, yet I continue to do it.  Why?  I love them and go to great lengths to protect them and give them a good and joyful life.  I don't think flyball is the meaning to life.  It doesn't cure cancer or feed starving babies. But, it gives my dogs joy.  They love it.  All the crazy frantic obsessive-compulsiveness that drives a person crazy is transformed into a wonderful thing.  There are other sports, and my dogs dabble in those as well, but every dog sport has the potential for injury.  Dogs fall off of the equipment in agility or run into aggressive dogs ringside.  I have seen agility dogs with the broken down, over-extended front legs because of the stress of 2 on 2 off contacts.  Herding dogs are in danger of being kicked, or ground into the ground, or getting out at stock unsupervised and getting shot.  I have heard of disc dogs landing wrong and being paralyzed.  I'm not sure what the hazards would be for Dock Diving, but Spoiled One believed that water was dangerous.  Every dog sport is hazardous.  Weasel has sliced up her feet just running back and forth in the back yard playing ball.  (See metal lawn edging is evil)

Seelie at the Shelter

There is another reason I like to get my dogs out to sporting events.   Two of them are pound puppy specials.  Spoiled One had been returned to or abandoned at the pound by three different homes before I got him from Yamhill County Dog Control in Oregon.  At four months old, Weasel found herself as an owner surrender at Albuquerque Eastside Animal Control.  At that time, about half the dogs that came into the shelter didn't leave it alive.    I really want people to see these vital, enthusiastic, amazing dogs competing on the same field as dogs bred for these sports, so they can realize that there are wonderful, astounding dogs available through rescue and shelters.

So, I will continue doing flyball and other dog sports with my dogs, and, unfortunately, at some point, there will probably be another injury or accident, and I will go through the same debate with myself.  But, truth be told, they live a wonderful life, and I believe in my heart that, despite the risks, it is much better than being safely kept at home, sheltered from hazard.   

It Was the Worst of Times, It Was the Best of Times

I bought some pictures, but, alas, the cd is lost.  Too bad.  They were good pictures.

Anyway, the debut of Weasel and the Spoiled One was . . . interesting.  The drive wasn't.  Bits of it are pretty, and the scenery is kind of cool with the striped mesas and tortured geography.  It's a looooooong drive to Utah.  Fortunately the person I rode with was one of those nice, cheerful people.  Not so cheerful you want to conk them over the head with something, just the right amount of cheerful.  When I went to empty the water bowl out the window, and dropped it, and had us turn around and go cruising back down the road to find it where it had sailed off into the bushes, she didn't even swear at me.

Demon Puppy, who pees on command at home on promise of a game of tug or whatever, decided not to

Isn't she a good car puppy?

pee.  At all.  Twelve hour car trip, lots of stops.  Nacho happily watered bushes and grass shoots.  Weasel squatted and did her undignified duty.   An archeologist (a really bored one who needs to get another hobby) could track the course of our trip from evidence of Spoiled One's pee from New Mexico to Utah. But, not a drop from Demon Puppy.  After a day of this, I got rather obsessed about Demon Puppy juice.   I mean, honestly, doesn't it seem like holding it that long would rupture something?  Yes, puppies can be leery of spreading their scent, or whatever, but for more than a day?  Usually my dogs are rather too leaky for my preference.  Anyway, eventually, on the afternoon of the second day, I looked over at Demon Puppy in her crate, and she was standing on her tippy toes in one corner, looking rather sheepish. Finally.  You wouldn't believe how much that puppy peed.

Weasel watching cars

 We got to the tournament, late, (which I am sure had NOTHING to do with the adventure wandering around in the sagebrush looking for a cheap plastic water bowl that flew out of the truck.  Or then, a half hour later, retracing our route due to some missing sunglasses.  Nope.  Nothing at all.)  Anyway, we got to the tournament, at the last possible minute, ran in with Weasel and Spoiled One, lined up and ran the first race.  Then we gibbered about trying to get ready for Nacho's race, and Gracie's.  Then, I lined Weasel up for her singles race.  The first two heats were fine, a close race with a dog we knew and loved.  Then, the other dog got a little too excited, broke away from his handler and mistook Weasel for a tug toy.

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She got past him, went to the box, got her ball and came back.  I didn't realize she was hurt until she got back and I brushed at some spit in her fur and saw the gaping hole bitten into her side.  I think I was numb as I started leading her off the lanes and then fumbled around on our team table for the emergency vet number.  People said things to me, but I had no idea what they said.   The person whose dog bit her was immediately there, and drove us to the vet, paid for everything and was as shocked by it as I was.  My team had to scramble around trying to scrape together a lineup for the real racing on Saturday and Sunday, as we had just lost our young, whipper-snapper start dog to injury.  We hadn't even considered a back-up start dog.  It was a shockingly horrible start to the tournament for everybody involved. 

Spoiled One sleeping off his efforts

But, though Weasel's star was going behind a cloud, Spoiled One's star shone.  We ended up using him as the start dog for the "real" team.  For once, he got to run for real with people who know him and weren't scared of him. (Spoiled One is a 60 pound german shepherd mix who is so frenzied at the start line he foams at the mouth.  Literally.  Foams.  As in rabid dog symptom.)  He was absolutely consistent and ran perfectly, every heat, for the entire tournament.  He was so consistent, I got a .000 start with him.  My ten year old, geezer, butt of the joke flyball dog ran with the real dogs and shone.  He didn't slow down at all the entire tournament.  (He also didn't do a single box turn, but he wouldn't be my Spoiled One if he did)  We took first in our division the first day, and second in the second day.  The dogs that got to run on the pick-up team that Spoiled One vacated got a chance to shine.  Little Red Dog got to show she was FAST, and Speckled Dog learned to not cross over.  We didn't break into the newer, faster time range that I was hoping for this tournament, but we did okay, and Spoiled One had a blast.  My dog having a blast is the whole reason I do this, so it was a glorious success and  really was the best of times.

Here's hoping I recover from the flu quickly and that Weasel soon escapes the cone of shame and gets the nasty staples taken out, that I find the cd of pictures, that Demon Puppy leaks just the right amount, and that Spoiled One doesn't drive me too crazy.