Colonel and the Bush Hog

My newly acquired Brittney that I received from my brother seems to be running out of luck. This April, he celebrated his second birthday. Shortly after his first, he ran into a street in Kansas City, was hit by a car, and after a month of rehab was back on his feet. Brother decided the dog was too much for him to handle so he willed him to me.

Last Wednesday I took both of my dogs to the farm while I mowed some of the grass and weeds with my tractor. As usual, as soon as I dropped the tail gate on the truck, both dogs took off for a romp in the woods. Colonel, the Brittney, has a slick rope about 6 feet long that I snap onto his collar in an effort to make him more catchable when it comes time to go home.

Things went well for about the first half hour. The dogs showed back up in the yard while I was making rounds with a mower. All of a sudden, Colonel decides to get directly in front of the tractor. I'm yelling at him to get out of the way and so he obliged and stepped off to the side, but in the process the rope slipped under the path of the bush hog. The next thing I heard was this yelp and the rope had become entangled with the blades. Fortunately, it broke about a foot and a half from his neck. Immediately he fell over and went into a series of spasms. I'm thinking, "Oh my gosh! I've broken his neck."

Now, the dog was laying flat in the grass off to my left, I mowed another round and came back. There was no movement and I'm thinking I managed to kill my brother's dog and wondering next if I have a shovel available so I can give him a proper burial. On the third round his head lifted off the ground, but apparently he seemed to be unable to move. "Now I've crippled him and I'll have to have him put to sleep!"

Three rounds later I come back and there's no dog. Apparently he's had some sort of instant healing. As I make another trip, I see he's at the back of the pickup with his front feet on the tail gate. This is the dog that I have to catch, or I have to work at getting him to load and go home. Apparently his brush with death gave him a new appreciation of the dog box in the back of the pickup.

They say cats have nine lives. I don't know what the number is for dogs, but I can tell you for sure that Colonel has used up two of his.