The sound of a swollen
Mountain stream rapidly rushing
Makes one know
How very quickly life itself
Is pressed along its course.

~Saigyo (1118-1190)

When Elvis came to us, we realized that he was troubled.  Outward appearances are often a clue about things out of kilter within.  Elvis’ fur was a mess.  He was clean; that was not the problem.  He just had too much fur, too thick, making him look akin to a Siberian Husky who is having a bad hair day.  And his coat felt course, not soft and smooth like Kojak’s.  He had tufts of fur sticking out in odd places all over that we soon realized would pull right off when he was stroked.  His transporter said she had been working on him, trying to get some of those tufts off.  I have heard that stress can make a person’s hair fall out, so why not a pug’s?  We also noticed he had a bare spot on one of his ears as is something had hurt him there,  and he had a scab on his nose, evidence of another injury.  I don’t know what caused all of this on Elvis; we couldn’t ask him.  So, we just accepted that this is how he was. 

We knew he had some issues:  he had growled at his foster mom a couple of times when she tried to pick him up to take him outside, and he couldn’t be fed with his foster brothers and sisters because he had food aggression.  Everyone had been upfront with us about these things, giving us every opportunity to back out of the adoption if we wanted to.  We still wanted him, so we figured that these were things that could be overcome with time and patience and trust. 

In the second week that we had him, he bit our daughter on the arm when she tried to block him from getting a cookie that she dropped on the floor by accident.  It wasn’t a horrible bite, but he broke the skin and left his impression on her.  He also spent a long time later licking the wound that he had made on her; she forgave him totally.  Then a couple of weeks later, he bit the vet assistant when he went for grooming.  This time he bit at her face, and although not a bad wound, it hurt and bled a lot as facial wounds do.  Our little Kojak had never even growled at anyone before, much less bitten anyone, and we couldn’t understand Elvis’ behavior.  But each bite was related to his issues, the one at the vet because the girl was putting his harness on, and he didn’t want to put it on.  Kojak loves to put his harness on because it means he’s getting to go home with us again.  What could putting the harness on possibly mean to Elvis?  Again, we didn’t know; we just knew that was the way he was.

The second month he was with us, one cold February morning, he had a meltdown while my husband was trying to put his harness on to take him out to walk before he left to go to school.  We tried to leave the harness on Elvis as much as possible because he really didn’t like to put it on, and we didn’t like to put it on him, either.  But this particular morning, he didn’t have it on, and it had to be put on.  Jim was running late and was a little brusque with Elvis when he wasn’t cooperating, and I, trying to help, yelled at Elvis, “No!” as he was growling at Jim.  Things escalated rather quickly, in just a matter of seconds, and Jim was holding his mouth and screaming, “He bit me! Help!  He bit me!”  Blood was pouring between his fingers as he held his hand over his mouth until I could get a wet wash cloth.  The blood continued to pour, dark red puddles forming on the rug in the hallway where JIm was sitting, the front of his shirt and tie soaked in maroon.  I told Jim that he needed to go to the hospital, and so as quickly as I could get dressed, I drove him to the emergency room.  Elvis and Kojak didn’t get to go out that morning, but I did feed them before we left, knowing how long things usually take at the hospital.

On the way there, Jim, still soaking another washcloth with blood, said, “He’s got to go.  This is it.  He can’t stay here anymore.”  I just said, “I know.  I’ll take care of it.”  And I tried to.  I contacted the pug rescue and told them what had happened and explained that we couldn’t keep Elvis any longer.  They understood and apologized over and over.  It wasn’t their fault.  It wasn’t our fault.  It wasn’t Elvis’ fault.  It just was a bad situation.  They said they’d work on it and call me back.  In the meantime, we got Jim 15 stitches and some pain pills and a course of antibiotics.  It took all morning to accomplish all this.  Jim was in a lot of pain and in shock.  I was concerned first and foremost about him.  I sat with him and held his hand while the doctor first cleaned the nasty wound and then stitched and stitched.  But I could not stop thinking about Elvis and having to let him go.  We hadn’t had him long, but we both loved him.  Jim admitted that he was depressed on many levels about the situation, but he had to go.  That was it.  I began to cry.  But what else could we do?  Elvis was dangerous. 

That day seemed much longer than it actually was.  Jim’s bottom lip was horrible and he had trouble drinking and eating and talking.  Elvis acted as if nothing had happened.  He met us at the back door with his usual gusto, his tail wagging fiercely, just as fiercely as the bite he had delivered earlier that morning.  He tried to get next to Jim to comfort him, but Jim was rightly scared of Elvis and couldn’t let him up on the couch.  All I could do was nurse Jim and pet Elvis and cry.  In the afternoon, I got a call from the pug rescue, telling me that they were having trouble getting someone to take Elvis.  They asked if we could possibly keep him until the weekend when someone could drive some distance to pick him up.  Of course we could.  Elvis was his sweet self.  It didn’t even make sense that this loving dog was the same one who had so viciously attacked Jim.  But we weren’t sure when he might attack again.  I knew we had to get the harness on him to take him outside, and I knew I had to get it on him right away when the Animal Control officer called and said the hospital had reported the bite, and she was coming over to investigate.  As afraid as Jim was, he helped me distract Elvis with treats while I put the harness on him.  He growled a little, but allowed me to do it.  I had horrible visions of the animal control officer taking him away from us, and I was relieved to find out that she had no problem with him staying with us as long as we agreed to keep him on our property and let no one come in and be around him but us for ten full days.  Elvis was on house arrest!

Still later in the afternoon, we heard from the pug rescue again, assuring us that they were working on a plan to come get him.  They were most concerned that we get him on some kind of medication first, though.  So, I called my vet and told him what the situation was and how Elvis was quarantined, and he called in a prescription for amitryptoline for him.  He said he used it with dogs who were obsessive-compulsive with good results, and he thought it would work fine for Elvis to take the edge off and maybe be more relaxed, so he wouldn’t be aggressive when he was transported.  He told me that it would take a few days for it to take effect, but it should have some effect by the weekend when the transport was to take place.  He was concerned about how I was going to get Elvis to take the pill, and so was I, but I found out that Elvis took it really easily in a small piece of cheese. 

Jim and I went back to work the next day with him still in pain and looking as if he’d been in a prize fight and me an emotional wreck.  Every time I tried to say Elvis’ name, I choked up and cried.  I did not want to have to give him back, but Jim, even though he had started to pet Elvis again, was still terrified of him, and I could see how uneasy he was around him.  We both got through the day and returned home to each other and our pugs.  Jim was exhausted and went to bed before I did.  We had heard nothing from the pug rescue since the late afternoon before, but when I checked my email before heading to bed, there was a message for me about Elvis.  The bottom line was the rescue could not find a foster home willing to take him.  They admitted finally that they could not adopt him out again, knowing that he was a biter, and if they could not eventually find a foster home that would not just take him, but agree to foster him permanently, they were going to have to pick him up from us and have him euthanized.  There it was.  I calmly got up and went in to talk with Jim.  As bravely as I could, I told him about the email.  I didn’t say anything else.  I just waited, and JIm quickly replied, “Then we’ll keep him and hope that the meds work for him.”  I asked if he was sure, and he said he was.  I felt so much relief, and I knew that the meds would just have to work.  That’s all that there was to it.  They just would have to. 

Three months have passed and Elvis has mellowed out a lot.  We still leave the harness on him as much as we can.  And when it has to come off and be put back on, I do it.  Except for the time that Jim had to do it at the vet when he went to pick him up after his grooming, and the vet assistant refused to do it.  Jim was so brave that day, and Elvis was so cooperative.  Jim has mostly lost his fear of Elvis, even putting his face down against Elvis’ when he pets him, but sometimes, when Elvis does not want to let Jim hook the leash to the harness, so he flips over on his back so he can’t reach the hook, Jim will just hand me the leash, and I’ll hook it.  I’m not sure why Elvis does that.  I don’t think he’s afraid of Jim, not as he was that almost fatal day when he nearly took Jim’s lower lip off; he’s just a little hesitant or he’s teasing him if pugs can tease.  And Elvis has bitten one more time, a little nip on the chin of an overzealous teenage girl, who temporarily forgot that we are careful about trying to pick Elvis up.  But for the most part and nearly all of the time, you’d never know that we’d ever had any problem at all with Elvis.  The medication does take the compulsive edge off him without ruining his wonderfully exuberant personality.  And his fur is sleek and soft and such a pleasure to stroke.  His outside matches his much calmer inside. 

There is a Zen saying that sums up this whole situation:  “Life is weaker than death, and death is weaker than love.”  It took unabashed love for Elvis to survive this incident.  He was a goner.  Almost.  But Jim had enough love for Elvis and especially for me that he was willing to pardon Elvis and give him another chance.  Jim has a scar on his lower lip.  It’s not as noticeable as it once was, though, and no one notices it except those who know to look for it.  He has some of the feeling back in it, and hopefully with time and full healing, he will have full sensation back.  With more time, the scar will be less and less noticeable.  And one day, Jim’s lip will match his loving, caring, calmer heart.