Red in tooth and claw
We went out last night to the retirement do for one of our colleagues. He actually retired whilst we were away, but put off having a party until more than a handful of people could make it. That's got to be pretty depressing - retiring after forty years in the same company and no-one really giving a damn.
It was a good do, in a manner typical of the man. John is a keen campanologist and he made us all troop up the tower of Llanbadarn Fawr church to see the new bells they recently installed, try our hand at ringing and then be subjected to a ten-bell change of some technical prowess. Most impressive. Then we went to what passes for a good restaurant in Aberystwyth for a reasonable meal, a few drinks and much merriment. Things broke up around midnight and we were home by about half past.
The kitchen floor was covered in blood.
It looked like something from a slasher movie. There were shiny pools of dark red; endless dragging footprints where one of the dogs had wandered around the room; thick dark marks on the black footmat at the door; fine sprays on the wall to excite the CSI amateurs. The air was heavy with an iron taint. What I couldn't find was any obvious source for the carnage.
All three dogs were present and whole, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if she'd brought some beast in and then killed it in front of the dogs as some sort of evening entertainment. But for that much blood it would have had to have been something the size of a lamb - and it's the wrong time of year for lambs (at least in this hemisphere).
I worried that Buddug might herself have been in a fight. That she might have staggered in, bleeding to death, wandered about the kitchen awhile and then crawled off somewhere to die. But that worry was soon scotched when she reappeared through the cat-flap, meowling heartily and not a scratch upon her.
The mystery remained as I set about the task of cleaning up. It was only when I was nearly finished that I noticed this:
It was lying on the floor close to the cage where we normally lock Chiswick at night so that he doesn't pee everywhere, and it looked suspiciously like a Dachshund claw.
Closer inspection showed poor Macrahanish to have ripped out one of the claws on his left front foot. He must have got it caught in the wire of the cage, though I've no idea quite how. He must have been in considerable pain and distress to spread his blood all over the place like he did, it makes me shudder just thinking about it, but by the time we'd got home he was seemingly fine.
I took him to the vet first thing this morning anyway. It's a clean wound and just needs to be kept that way until it's healed. Hopefully I'll be able to keep infection out, otherwise he might end up losing some of his toe. But he won't be going for long strolls for a while.
It was a good do, in a manner typical of the man. John is a keen campanologist and he made us all troop up the tower of Llanbadarn Fawr church to see the new bells they recently installed, try our hand at ringing and then be subjected to a ten-bell change of some technical prowess. Most impressive. Then we went to what passes for a good restaurant in Aberystwyth for a reasonable meal, a few drinks and much merriment. Things broke up around midnight and we were home by about half past.
The kitchen floor was covered in blood.
It looked like something from a slasher movie. There were shiny pools of dark red; endless dragging footprints where one of the dogs had wandered around the room; thick dark marks on the black footmat at the door; fine sprays on the wall to excite the CSI amateurs. The air was heavy with an iron taint. What I couldn't find was any obvious source for the carnage.
All three dogs were present and whole, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if she'd brought some beast in and then killed it in front of the dogs as some sort of evening entertainment. But for that much blood it would have had to have been something the size of a lamb - and it's the wrong time of year for lambs (at least in this hemisphere).
I worried that Buddug might herself have been in a fight. That she might have staggered in, bleeding to death, wandered about the kitchen awhile and then crawled off somewhere to die. But that worry was soon scotched when she reappeared through the cat-flap, meowling heartily and not a scratch upon her.
The mystery remained as I set about the task of cleaning up. It was only when I was nearly finished that I noticed this:
It was lying on the floor close to the cage where we normally lock Chiswick at night so that he doesn't pee everywhere, and it looked suspiciously like a Dachshund claw.Closer inspection showed poor Macrahanish to have ripped out one of the claws on his left front foot. He must have got it caught in the wire of the cage, though I've no idea quite how. He must have been in considerable pain and distress to spread his blood all over the place like he did, it makes me shudder just thinking about it, but by the time we'd got home he was seemingly fine.
I took him to the vet first thing this morning anyway. It's a clean wound and just needs to be kept that way until it's healed. Hopefully I'll be able to keep infection out, otherwise he might end up losing some of his toe. But he won't be going for long strolls for a while.
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