Phil must have eaten something that gave him a migraine from 2pm Sunday on. (I don't know what is in Subway cookies; it could have been an accumulation of too many strange foods in four days.) He would take homeopathic Nux Vomica which would put him to sleep for a few hours. He'd get up, do something like move the cows, then take another dose and sleep again.
Today, though, he was ready to work again. He caulked the base of the building and worked on putting waterproof corners on the building. And he put up four and a half panels almost single-handedly (I helped for about five minutes total). He came up with an ingenious method of tying the panel up and attaching the base first, which made general installation much easier to do on his own. Between the tie, the shim strips, and a slightly revised order of putting in screws, he's come up with a method that works efficiently with just himself. Brilliant.
Maybe four and a half more panels and he'll be done with one long side.
Today was Bitsy's day to be spayed. She had been scheduled a month ago, but when the power went out, we had to reschedule.
Praise the Lord with us—she was actually in heat (totally unknown to us). If we hadn't had this appointment now, we would have been faced with puppies again in five more months.
So that was a relief to finally be done with her. Now I just have Shadow on my mind. I was surprised to learn that girl dogs can start cycling at six months; she's six months now. I am in fervent prayer that she will not be bred before she can have her shots and surgery.
My tragic, horrible news came mid-afternoon. The SPCA will not take Socks. "Due to his chicken predation, he's simply too high risk."
This scenario had never crossed my mind, frankly. So we have again placed an ad in the local paper and have in pleas to every shelter and rescue place within two hours. Thus far, things don't seem hopeful. Rescues are overrun and underfunded.
I like to know what my options are, so I called the vet to find out about putting a dog down. I mean, if we can't keep him here because he's destroying our livelihood, and we can't find a shelter that will take him, that really restricts our options. But even the vet will only put down dogs that are terminally ill.
I know that farmers have had to kill dogs throughout history. And I suppose if it comes to that, we'll do what we have to do. Better a swift death by his people than fourteen years of life, tied up.
But this scenario is just wretched.
And what's worse is that, had we brought him up to the SPCA after he killed Tux, that would have been a single killing at eight weeks. But by giving in to the guilt of surrendering a pet, by hoping we could work with him and train him, we're stuck. Stink, stink, stink.
I have been morbidly upset about this. But when I downloaded photos of Socks, I saw pictures from today that I had completely forgotten: Isaiah came in, butterfly on his hand. "I see his proboscis! Look!"
And then it fluttered onto his face, and he grinned as its little feet gripped his nose.
I need to remember the beautiful things, because otherwise I think I would just wallow in misery perpetually.
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