Warning: if you have an ounce of humanity in you, this post will piss you off and gross you out.
Last night I picked The Kid up from his dad's. When the front door went unanswered, I wandered around back. And there she was, pacing in her small pen, her black coat gray with dirt and mottled with patches of raw weeping doggie flesh.
And her eyes, black and dull and broken.
The debate ended immediately, right there on that uneven patch of grass. She would be coming home with me. I poked my fingers through the chicken wire fencing to rub her nose, and I trembled with fury.
Arrangements were made with The Ex later in the night, and she was delivered to me this evening.
Accustomed to being yelled at, she is now timid, uncertain, almost cowering. She spent the evening slinking along behind me with her lithe, cat-like gait, but stayed at a safe distance. And then the leash came out, and a walk ensued, and now I can't get her to stop resting her head in my lap whenever I sit down.
And now, if you're ready, the photos.
They are not pleasant.
Stop now if you're not sure you want to see.
If you're still here, I'm assuming you want to see these.
Don't blame me if you don't. I've given you plenty of time to turn around.
Here they are.
She has these matted scabby things all over (that gray area to the right of her tail) and hairless, bloody patches (you can see a bit of one on her back, right above her tail).
The bloody spots are everywhere: her belly, her neck, her lips. The worst spots are in her left armpit (if dogs had armpits) and this one on her back:
Her back is the same color as the red carpet and blanket she's sleeping on.
And it looks so much worse in real life than in these photos. It hurts me to look at her.
And her eyes. Still so sad.