A Funeral and a Dog Bite

We fished the Colorado River for 4 days and 3 nights and caught fish until we couldn't stand it anymore.  Unbelievably great trip, with one exception.  At 3:36 Thursday morning, the day we left town, our friend Charlie gave up his battle with glioblastoma multiforme.  Eleven months after diagnosis, he went to sleep and never woke.  All 5 of us who were at the river are good friends of Charlie, and we were far more low-key than usual on a trip like this.  Since the funeral was yesterday, we returned one day early to attend.

We met Charlie through our close-knit biker community back in the early '90's.  We've traveled across the country with him more than once.  Matter of fact, only a few weeks before his diagnosis and death sentence he completed his goal of riding his Harley in all 50 states.  He never had the chance to ride his bike again.

All of the bikers in town rode to the funeral home as a pack, and I suspect the funeral directors were a bit scared of us at first.  LOL!   The chapel was completely filled with bikers, neighbors, family and co-workers.  When a person dies at the age of 48, there are plenty of people left to mourn him.  It was an amazing sight.  What a celebration of life and affirmation of Charlie's character: he never met a person he wasn't prepared to befriend.  

The police-escorted funeral procession to the gravesite caused a great deal of attention in traffic.  Charlie's body was carried in a Hog Hearse.  If you've never seen one, they're reminiscent of the old 19th century carriage hearses that were glassed in leaving the casket visible.  Instead of horses, the hearse is pulled with an iron horse: a Harley trike.   The words, "The Last Rally" are etched into the windows of the trailer.  Charlie saw one at a rally a few years ago and was fascinated with it.  In this urban part of the world, too many people don't understand the rules of ettiquette where a funeral procession is concerned.  This one was so impressive that most folks minded their manners and pulled to the side of the road.  Oncoming bikers actually dismounted their bikes and stood respectfully until we passed.  People in cars pulled to the shoulder until we passed.  My eyes leaked the entire way to the grave site.

Charlie was interred in a brand new cemetery, and he is the first burial there.  Jo picked out a simply gorgeous spot under a stand of old live oaks.  As the cemetery's landscapes are established, it will be an even more beautiful place to visit over time.

I almost didn't make the funeral.  Yesterday morning I woke up to Doc (our Dalmation) barking in the back yard.  Turns out that one of a roaming pack of dachschunds had worked his way into our yard.  Doc chased him around and the doxie either fell or jumped into the pool to get away from him.  Doxie's aren't exactly great swimmers and he wouldn't come to where I was calling him by the steps.  Nope.  He swam to the deep end, panicked, went vertical and went under.  So what do I do?  Go over and try to pull him out by the scruff of his neck.  What does the little shite do?  Clamp down on my right index finger like a freakin' trout on a fly.  He wouldn't let go so I lifted him out of the water hanging by my finger.  As he slid off, he shredded it from the second knuckle to the tip.  HE had the nerve to squeal at ME and run back under the fence through the hole he dug to get inside the yard.

The sight of blood doesn't bother me, but the smell does.  It flowed down my hand and arm and splashed all over the pool deck.  I almost splashed some stomach fluids when the smell hit me.  No doubt my eyes were bugging out of my head at the sight.  So what do I do?  Go screaming out to the front to try to make a football out of a doxie.  He had rejoined his compandres and they were an inch away from shredding a neighbor's cat.

These dogs are owned by illegal Mexicans in a house across the cul-de-sac.  True to their culture, they never have their dogs altered, never provide vet care of any kind, and despite laws to the contrary, see nothing wrong with allowing them to roam freely about the neighborhood as a pack while terrorizing other animals and small children.  The complaints lodged about them are too many to count.  When a neighbor, animal control or the police knock on their door with yet another dog issue, they deny ownership and slam the door.  Not this time.

My husband pounded on the door until Andrew the boyfriend answered.  All he said was, "Where are they?" and that was the end of that.  Or so he thought.  I called the police and they issued several tickets: 3 counts each for no shot records (he said he bought the medicines on the internet but couldn't provide records) and 3 counts for having unrestrained animals.  That is all the law can do.  Animal Control was supposed to pick them up and quarantine them until it can be determined they don't have rabies.  Since the funeral was an all-day affair, I don't yet know if that happened.  If these peope want their dogs back, they're going to have to pony up some stout fines and pay for vaccinations and county registration.  Not one person in that house even asked if I was OK or made an effort at helping.  If they get the dogs back, they'll lay low for a couple weeks and keep them inside and then it will be back to the same old thing.  Either that or they'll just start a new pack with a litter of puppies.

That dog bit the wrong person.  The sleeping Nordic Giant has been awakened and if I have to trap the little shites and take them to a shelter I'll do it.  Enough is enough.  It's not the dogs' fault.  It's the owners fault that they're unsocialized little terrors, but I'll be d a m n ed if they're going to bite anyone else.

A couple of wounds on this finger probably should have been stitched, but there wasn't time for it yesterday and the edges are too dry to bother with now.  Nothing was going to keep me from that funeral.  I just soaked it in a bowl of peroxide and bandaged it up for the day.  By the way, Tegaderm is a fabulous waterproof and sweatproof material that actually stays put on moving parts of the body - not that I'm doing much finger wagging at the moment.  Typing isn't real fun either.  I'm down to about 20 wpm from my usual 120.

Guess it's time to call the doctor and at least get a tetanus booster.  If nothing else, there will be a medical record of the bite if things get dicey in the future.  Ya think they'll pony up the medical bills?  NOT.