It’s All Fun and Games

‘Til Someone Starts Frothing at the Mouth

A couple of weeks ago, I stepped out into the night air and was overwhelmed by a pervasive disgusting odor. I ticked through the possibilities. Not fire. Not donkey shit. Then, I got it. Skunk. 

My conclusion was confirmed the next morning when I went out to feed the livestock and got a whiff of Rosie, one of my two Great Pyrenees guard dogs. Further confirmation came as I observed bits of dismembered Pepé Le Pew strewn in the yard, a stripey tail here, a black and white tuft there. Circle of life, thought, then continued my chores.

It took another day or two for panic to set in. Hook the Goat suddenly began acting erratically, separating himself from the flock, exhibiting great lethargy, pressing his head against the barn wall for sustained periods, and, when he did venture into the open, pacing in large circles. 

I did what I always do when an animal or my own body suggests something ain’t right. I took to The Google to research. I think we all know what a very bad idea this can be. And yet I persisted, settling on a pair of worst case scenarios and toggling between them, working myself into a frenzy. 

It seemed like listeriosis— typically deadly—was the most likely culprit. Which is why I settled on rabies instead. Rabies, you see, though far more unlikely, was the more dramatic option and I was trained from birth to always and only ever conclude that, given a choice between Very Bad and Terrifyingly Awful, one must immediately eliminate the former and embrace the latter. Which led me to create a little movie in my mind that played on an endless loop. 

In this cinematic masterpiece, a rabid skunk wanders into the livestock yard, viciously attacks the goat, and then is dispatched by the dogs who, in the process, gulp down mouthfuls of rabid skunk brain. The movie concludes with all of us dying, because yes, in this non stop film, somehow, despite not having been myself bitten, not having any open wounds, and not being in contact with any dog or goat saliva, I, too succumb, all of us frothing at the mouth and writhing on the ground until we’re good and dead. 

The panic felt very real. I became of two minds, my possibly rabid brain arguing with itself both that I was being totally irrational and also that I had very little time left on this earth and should get my things in order. It didn’t take long for You’re gonna die to outpace and overshadow You’re overreacting again.

I was briefly visited by The Silver Lining of Amusement. As I have documented frequently, I live with a damaged mind, one that is in the sorry habit of trying to convince me, when I am seized by yet another bout of clinical depression, to off myself. Anytime I am jolted into thinking actual death is imminent, I suddenly find an overwhelming zest for life that manifests as a flashing neon sign: I DON’T WANT TO DIE. While I never appreciate the dire sources of this message, I do find the message itself quite refreshing.

(Rosie)

An email to my regular visiting vet for advice netted me the reply that I needed to contact the county regarding an incident with possibly rabid wildlife. After leaving a voicemail with the rabies hotline in which I attempted to sound calm, I decided to kill time waiting for a callback by digging deeper into this rabies theory. As it turns out, once a human exhibits symptoms, it is too late to do anything. I wondered if I should get the rabies shots to be on the safe side. Which led me to call my healthcare provider. Which led me to leave another rambling panicky message, more poorly feigned nonchalance. 

Eventually people started calling me back. When I heard from the nurse, I reiterated what I’d said in my message: I understood it was my anxiety disorder, far more than the actual risk of rabies, that prompted my call. The nurse was incredibly patient and kind, relating her own battles with anxiety. She said she likes to go into her brain with a flashlight and shine it into the darkest corners until she can settle on some something in the far recesses, a mental object of distress suitable for fixating upon. She also said she was pretty sure I didn’t have rabies. 

Next came the callback from the county. The expert delivered a blur of information regarding protocol. This included the manageable task of getting the dogs rabies booster shots and the no-fucking-way-am-I-doing-that option of collecting the skunk’s head in a bag and turning it over for lab analysis. We agreed that since I couldn’t even be sure the head was one of the bits I’d seen in the yard, and since the skunk had been dead and out in the heat for days, an accurate reading was unlikely. 

During this time, Hook the goat kept leaning, dragging his ass, and walking in circles. Circling the drain thought I. On the one hand, I was happy he was still alive. On the other hand, I worried he was suffering. And on the third hand, I was confused because the all-knowing internet had suggested that, regardless of the cause, a goat that is circling is a goat that will be dead inside of three days.

I also thought about Bob, and how he always told me never to get goats. Once, when I caught a goat dancing on top of a car, I figured this was what Bob meant. Now it occurred to me that maybe he meant something else. Don’t get me wrong—I love living with goats. But they are prone to all sorts of issues from dewormer resistance to coyote attacks to contagious disease. Plus, if you’re not careful, you can get a big fat head butt to your butt butt. 

My regular mobile vet was booked weeks out, sending me on the hunt for someone who could make the drive out here to give the dogs shots. Unlike the inside dogs, Rosie and Bison have no clue what a leash is or how to ride in the truck. When Rosie was spayed by a mobile vet, I confined her to an inside bedroom to heal. In short order, and despite the logistical impossibility, she—sixty pounds then—pushed out the accordion spacer holding a window unit a/c in place and squeezed through a six-inch opening. Even with residual anesthesia in her system she did not want to be away from her charges. No way could I get her to town. 

I looked up the number for the legendary Dr. Michael Mullen, an Austin local celebrity if ever there was one. I made a plan to call him the following day. And then, that very night, scrolling on Instagram, I discovered the New Yorker had just released a short documentary about him and how he is an Angel of Mercy, dedicating much of his practice to at-home euthanasia. When I reached him, he had bad news and good news. The bad news was he had no time to see me. The good news was that since the skunk attack happened at night, he informed me that odds were good the skunk wasn’t rabid.

 (Lazarus—center—snorting coke with his buddies. Actually that’s baking soda.)

Now that was an angle I hadn’t considered, a puzzle piece I didn’t know I’d been searching for, and it brought me much relief. As did the fact that one of the other vets he recommended is able to come out and see to the dogs. Yes, this is going to run me somewhere in the neighborhood of $500. Peter is definitely going to have to rob Paul to make this happen. But really, can you put a price on peace of mind?

In the meantime, Hook is back to his usual frisky self, eating and drinking and play-fighting with his peers. I’ve nicknamed him Lazarus. And I’ve let go, for now, of the fantasy of packing it all in, selling the ranch, leaving all the risks here behind, and moving into an hermetically sealed condo, a variation of that John Travolta classic, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble, where I am safe from everything. Except, of course, my own mind. 

What about y’all? Prone to panic? What do your mind movies look like when you get wound up? 

NOTES:

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