The Trauma

When Java was just over a year old, he started going mountain biking with me. Actually, I did the biking, he just ran along. He couldn’t get the whole pedal thing. We had become permanent fixtures at this huge wooded area that was popular with the rocks and roots crowd. There was a river winding through it, some pretty gnarly technical trails and even some man made obstacles that kept me honest and gravity guessing. That day, it was pretty wet and muddy as it had rained heavily the night before. But I was excited to get on my new bike. I remember the time I first brought Java to the head of the trail into this place. He was only six months old. Ears flat to his head, tail tucked in, he was terrified by the dark, foreboding tunnel disappearing into the forest with its thick canopy.

I enjoyed watching him bolt this way and that, into the river and out again, climbing the steep bank through sheer will. He would be ahead of me on the trail and as I passed him, he wouldn’t let me get too far before he would stop what he was doing and run after me. Whether he was ahead or behind me, when I made a turn onto another trail, I would yell “this way” and he would make the indicated course correction. To this day, when I want him to go in another direction, I stretch out my arm, point and say it, he usually takes the hint.

As usual, this day I was riding over rock walls, 2’ wide trees fallen across the trail, waterfalls, and anything else in the way. And mud. Lots of mud. I could feel the wet six inch stripe up my back from where my ass met the seat to my helmet. Java was in his usual position as tail gunner. I heard him let out quite a yelp. I braked hard, popped out of the pedals and dropped the bike. He was sitting in the middle of the trail holding his left front paw up in the air. Initially I thought he injured his paw or his leg. He just sat there, his look saying “Now what do I do? What is this badness?” My first thought was he had opened a gash across his pads. Before I could take the two steps to him, he began to bleed from his chest. Oh shit. WTF did you do, buddy? OH SHIT! Holy shee-it. This isnt good.

As I looked around to see if there was anyone nearby to help, several thoughts blistered through my mind. Java’s life depended on an emergency surgical intervention. He was losing blood fast. It’s almost 2 miles back to the car. Oh, and while I’m at it, try not to piss myself. I actually yelled “Help! Somebody help!” That was useless and retrospectively, more than a little embarrassing. Like I was Nell Fenwick lashed to the railroad tracks, calling out for Dudley Do-Right. Unfortunately, Java was the only witness to my sissy boy impression.

Java wasn’t walking anywhere and I wasn’t riding anywhere. That left only one mode of transportation- I had to carry him out. I knelt down in the mud and put one arm around his chest and the other around his hind quarters. OK, Einstein, try standing up now. Not that it was too difficult standing up with 75 lbs of dog in my arms, the hard part was going to be the 2 mile “walk” holding him out in front of me while he slowly bled to death. Putting Java down along the way while my arms recovered wasn’t really an option. There had to be a better way to do this. If I could just get him up on my shoulders, that would work. Try getting a large dog up on your shoulders like a mink stole. Aint gonna happen. In addition to bike shoes and sunglasses, I was wearing a t shirt, black spandex bike shorts and a bandana. I removed my t shirt and turned it upside down-neck down/waist up, and put Java into it through the waist with his hind legs sticking out of the sleaves. Then I pulled the waist up around him like a sack. I lifted him up in front of me with a handful of t shirt in one hand and a handful of collar and neck in the other. In a move that would have made any Yogamaharishi proud, I managed to get him around up onto my back and then onto my shoulders, kinda like a mink stole. I took my bandana off, balled it up and stuffed it between my back and Java’s chest, right on the wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. I left my new $2400 bike in the mud where it fell without a thought and started making my way back to the car.

Java. You gotta love him. I sure do. He’s just had a stick jammed into his chest, he’s slowly bleeding to death, he’s almost 6 feet up in the air and he’s licking my face as if nothing is wrong. Or, he is saying ”yes daddy, I love you and I know you are trying to save my life, but please hurry, it hurts, why does it hurt…” We passed a few people on the trail. We must have been quite a site- a half naked, tattooed man with blood pouring down his chest and a large dog in some sort of bundle around his neck. Surprisingly, or not, all looked but didn’t offer any help or even say anything. A guy riding in on a bike stopped. “Holy shit, you need some help?” “Yeah, my car is down in the lot. Can you take my key and drive it up to the head of the trail?” The key to my Subaru wagon was on a bead chain around my neck. “Just pull it off!” He yanked the key and jumped back on his bike. “Leave the key under the mat.” I shouted as he rode away. That would save us half a mile.

Java’s gums were getting gray, a sign that he was going into shock. I was walking as fast as I could. Running pounded him too much. We finally reached the trail head. As I heard my cleats hit pavement, the car came into view, parked on the street. I finagled the door open and laid Java down on the back seat. One of the old blankets was on the seat where I had tossed it the day before. Needless to say, I ignored all traffic laws on the way to the vet. During the 4 mile trip, I thought about what had happened. Like a car going too fast to successfully negotiate a curve on wet pavement, Java had slid into an 18” long branch that was sticking out from an old tree that was lying at the side of the trail. It had quite a point on it. OUCH! Like on people ambulances, I called the animal hospital while en route and advised them what had happened and that I was coming in with a dog that probably had a pnuemothorax and was in shock.

3 days (and $1800) later, Java was good to go. And I mean go. Nobody would know from watching him go tearing around that he was just released from the hospital after surgery for a punctured lung. You go boy!