Those dogs are bad—I don’t know why they don’t stop them.” A woman at the ASPCA said, “Oh, yeah, we get complaints about him all the time.” (Just days before Bonny was attacked, the group had opened a neglect case; they’ve since opened another.) The Health Department had a report noting that Harry’s dogs had recently bitten a man.
Ralphie, my maintenance man, pointed toward a courtyard behind the building. That’s when I saw the first puddle of blood and a fist-size chunk of Bonny’s muscle on the sidewalk. “Don’t look.” I used to be a veterinary technician.
In ten years, I went from general practice to performing daily autopsies in a veterinary morgue to being an adrenaline-pumped emergency-room tech who did CPR on dying dogs.
I ran into the courtyard and saw Bonny curled in a pool of blood behind a small bush, eyes wide, intestines hanging out through a hole in her side.
I scooped her up, wrapped her in the blanket and lowered her onto a picnic table. I didn’t feel my bare feet in the snow; I didn’t feel anything.