There were cat fights and dog fights in our house last night.
Not literal cat fights, we don't even have cats.
Mom and I yelled at each other, because that seems to prelude meaningful conversation, not every one, but some, and last night was one of them. Main reason, if you must know, is that sometimes I can be harsh, rude, and a bitch. We're working on it.
The dog fight was much more intense, and it was over dog food, and the fact that my dog can't take mild correction from the patriarch of the family who kindly asked her to stay out of the dish.
She said, "Hell, no," and the fight ensued.
It happened in a tight(er) space, and in the commotion the dog food dish spilled its contents (food and hot water) onto the floor, which made it difficult to gain footing. While they grappled for each other's throats, they didn't have a problem. I, however, did.
Dog fights are frightening for humans, because there's little that can be done. And in that moment of panic, I, apparently do things like:
yell for help
jump over fighting dogs
It also seems to last forever.
There was a point in the foray when the fight shifted from fighting to Skye-beating-the-shit-out-of-Zeb. He wasn't even trying anymore. He was under her, and she went in for the death grip on his throat, shaking, shaking, shaking.
The last thing that was going to happen was me watching my dog kill our dog. The fact that I'd hit her, kicked her, pulled at her collar, yelled and screamed hadn't mattered up to this point, so while Mom tried to pull Zeb away, I went in for my kill.
I grabbed Skye's mouth, and half-pried it open, and half-slid my left hand into her mouth and throat. Her mollers crunched my fingers, but she let go just long enough for me to grab her collar with my right hand and pull her back.
Zeb got up and walked away. The house reeked of wet dog food.
"I'm bleeding," I said, because that's what you're supposed to at moments like that. "I'm not sure how bad it is."
But before I paid too much attention to it, we needed to make sure Zeb was okay. And he was. He wasn't bleeding, just a tad sore.
I drug Skye outside and into the garage, before I rinsed my finger off and took a look at it.
I'll live. Not even stitches required.
I did almost faint, though. After it was all over, and my finger was clean, and the massive amount of adrenaline had left my body, I had to lay down for 2 minutes and regain my equilibrium.
Important things to note are:
Zeb is okay.
I am okay.
Skye is a bitch, and is not a house favorite right now.