Are you freaking kidding me?!?

This afternoon, my dog got out of the backyard--I still don't know how--and was brought back to my front door by a neighbor. I noted that Maggie looked either bloody or muddy, but I dismissed it as the latter and quickly shut her in the utility room until I could further investigate the backyard breakout when Chris got home from work. After a few hours, she started whining, and I figured that she needed a potty break. I opened the door, and this is the scene that greeted me.



Yep, blood. Everywhere. I didn't even know where to start. I had fortunately grabbed ahold of Maggie by her collar. I realized that she was still bleeding too; I couldn't figure out where at first, but I soon discovered a gash on her left ear. I called Chris into the kitchen to help me. He handed me some paper towels, and I went about the business of holding pressure on Maggie's wound to stop the bleeding. That took a while, and it was further complicated by the fact that my dog is incapable of holding still. After I got the bleeding stopped, I shooed Maggie outside and got to work on the bloody mess. At least five swiffer sheets later, no exaggeration, I got the floor in the laundry room relatively cleaned up. All the while, the dog is howling at the back door, so at least I knew that she wasn't breaking out again. I crawled, yes crawled, to the bathroom, so that I could wash my bloody feet in the bathtub. Then, I decided to put the plug in the tub and give the dog a bath too.

This, and not before if you can believe it, is where the night went horribly wrong. The bath itself went relatively well, but when it was over Maggie broke open her wound while shaking the water off of herself. Blood and water went E-VER-Ywhere. I think I had to hold pressure at least two more times, but more blood got on the bathroom rugs when I let go to try to reach the first aid kit in the linen closet. That first bandaid did little to contain the blood, so more splattering occurred. (and, yes, I realize that bandaids and dogs don't exactly mix, but you do what you gotta do) All the while, my curious toddler kept opening the door to investigate, which threatened to let the dog out to bleed all over our house. Applying a second bandaid led me to think that I had solved the problem, so I let Maggie out of the bathroom (I still don't know what possessed me to do this). As I came from the back of the house, carrying the bloody towels and rugs, I spied fresh blood on the kitchen floor. I was scared to even venture into the living room, too afraid to think about what the dog might be bleeding on now. I corralled Maggie in the utility room again--the one I had just mopped, mind you--likely still bleeding, in order to clean up the carpet before the new specks of blood had time to dry. As soon as I shut the door, Jackson said, "Where Mah-gie doh, Mom-my?" over and over again, but I was caught up in cleaning and didn't respond at first. I finally snapped back, "Jackson, you just saw me put her in the laundry room, okay? Mommy just needs a few minutes." He was duly chastised and quickly replied, "Otay, Mommy, I sorry." That broke my heart. I stopped and just hugged him, telling him that I was sorry for being short with him. I think he forgave me because he hesitantly asked after the whereabouts of the dog again. I answered his question then resumed tackling the blood in the carpet. Pretty soon, Jackson got ahold of the swiffer and began waving it around in the air and, for some unknown reason, banging it on the china hutch doors. I got up, walked across the living room, took it away from him and threw it into the garage in frustration. At some point earlier in the ordeal, I had handed the baby to Chris so that he could keep him occupied. By now though, a lot of time had passed since Cooper's last feeding, so he was getting quite worked up. I'd reached a good stopping point about then, so I quit and went to feed him. There I was, bloodied pants in the washer, myself spattered with blood and smelling like swiffer solution, about to start nursing my sweet baby on the couch, when I quickly realized that the dog must have laid on the cushions long enough to soak them through. I gave up on that seating arrangement and carried my still fussing baby to the bedroom, where I saw that Jackson had begun to demolish the piles of clean clothes on the bed that I'd been in the middle of when the dog starting whining in the first place.

Somebody please get me a margarita, a big one, and fast!

♦