She got up, briefly holding up one hind leg, and looked at me reproachfully. What had she done wrong? Well, there's hardly any way to convey 'I'm sorry' to a dog, let alone the concept of 'accident', so I get to feel like a Bad Dog Mom, especially when I notice the blood dripping on the concrete... from her mouth. Can't quite tell where.
But we go and find the toy, and indulge in a few more rounds (this time on the dirt and sans leash), because it makes her happiest. Then I remove the leash from under the truck wheel, which takes all my weight, then bait her into a well-lit spot (toy! look at the toy!) and examine her mouth while she pants.
She's bitten right through her tongue. Joy.
But she's drinking plenty of water, so at least it's still functional. Of course there's blood all over her paws, where she licks them, and I had to swap out the water dish because it was red-tinged, and there will be little dots of blood on the floor until it decides to stop bleeding, which may be the twelfth of never as far as I can tell, because how the fuck do you put a pressure bandage on the tip of a dog's tongue anyway?
Anyway, called the vet, and waiting for a call back on account of Rorschach, who will be coming home with a vet bill in excess of $1k, and I think I will strangle the next person who accuses me of dire crimes because I breed animals. (First of all, I am libertarian enough that a profit is not automatically evil, and secondly, I never learned the art of telling a vet 'no' when it came to trying to save a life.) Hell, maybe I'll just send them the latest vet bill.
And Torch had her kittens right on schedule. Two, one definitely male, the other in question right now, and she may be waiting on a third, who knows? But she is outrageously happy. It's up, it's down, it's all around. I could do with owing vets less money.