Thanks, everybody, for your concern. It turns out that animal control in our town is really just focused on the public health aspect of a dog bite. This dog's rabies vaccinations are up to date, so they're requiring a ten-day quarantine (I use the term with reservations -- it's an honor system sort of quarantine, in which the owner agrees to keep the dog away from other people and animals) and before-and-after vet visits. They said, "We don't do the safety angle -- that's up to the police and the legal department."
That is not an adequate response, so we called the police tonight to report the incident.
Elwood wanted to talk to the neighbor before we called the police. He said the guy was very apologetic, but also a little evasive about what exactly would keep this from happening in the future. (Just typing that, I can feel my blood pressure rising. Makes me want to say, "I'll tell you what will keep this from happening in the future: a little oxycontin HAMBURGER, that's what.")
The police also talked to the neighbor after they talked to us. He told the police that it's a breed-related thing: the dog is a border collie, so he engages in herding behavior. Little nips, you know. Unfortunately, the police officer had just been at our house, viewing my husband's shredded jeans and the photos of his injured leg from last night and this morning. (The bruises that sprang up overnight! Ai yi yi, the bruises.) A herding dog that acted toward the herd like this dog acted toward my husband would quickly be a herding dog with a bullet in its head.
There will be an assessment of the dog to look for behavioral red flags. You would think that attacking a pedestrian would be red flag enough, wouldn't you? The owner told the police he was willing to keep the dog muzzled when it was outside.
That doesn't really do it for me.
Elwood says he'll go to the doctor if his leg gets infected, a decision that so incensed my mother that she called him at work to read him the riot act and called my mother-in-law so she could harangue him as well. Then she and my sister called again tonight to tell me I should take him to the doctor myself. "Tell him you're taking him for ice cream," they enjoined me, "and then pull up at the clinic instead." Alas, he doesn't like ice cream. He is a grown man, and an extraordinarily stubborn grown man to boot, so I think I'll just keep asking him to show me that it's not warm. Or red. Or streaky. Or pustulent. My mother thinks his decision is not just stubborn but another word that starts with stu--. If he winds up needing treatment over the weekend, I'll be inclined to agree.
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