Sometimes a realization comes to me by way of careful introspection and meaningful dialog. Other times these realizations strike like a thunderbolt. The latter occurred to me very recently.

You all probably know that in the past, a very long time ago if I really think about it, I had an illness that left me somewhat debilitated. When I was younger, from the mid 1980’s to the late 1990’s, I was in superb health and fitness. Never was I strong; I had always been slim instead of muscular. I had slow twitch muscles. What I gave up in power I made up for in speed, agility and endurance. When I got sick, all that changed.

At my low point I could hardly care for myself. I couldn’t walk unassisted, dress myself or hold  anything heavier than a fork in my right hand. If you have seen me in the last four years you will note that I have improved substantially. So remarkable has my recovery been that I actually fooled myself into thinking I was in decent shape physically. Boy, was I wrong and it was brought to my attention in an horrific way.

The setting for this story requires some background. In 2005 I found and adopted a stray dog that I saw wandering along the border of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He was a pit bull mix, and was in a sad condition. He was emaciated and suffering from some horrible lacerations and punctures. I named him “Luke Garou,” or “Luke” for short. (I was listening to an audio book about werewolves when I found him.)

At the time I assumed he had been injured when he was dumped, been hit by a car or attacked by other dogs, pigs, bears or who knows what? Later, I came to believe he had been used as a “training dog” for dog fighting. He was a large dog, eventually 78 pounds, but undersized to be a pro fighter. He certainly had the temperament. This was a problem having him as a pet because 99.5% of the time he was a loyal, affectionate lap dog. The remaining half percent he was a nightmare.

Luke had missed socialization in a critical period when he was a puppy and was simultaneously put into a situation of fear and threat of death during this stage of development.  What was created was a dog of sufficient power to do great harm but without the ability to control it. He was an unsound, fear aggressive dog. I was trying my best to train him out of it, but time ran out.

On New Year’s Eve, I let our pack of dogs outside and as usual they all piled out the door in a mad rush. One of the dogs, Chance, didn’t like Luke running on top of him so he turned and bite Luke in the face as they bolted down the ramp. Any dog of sound mind would have responded with a growl or a nip back, but Luke had only two speeds: idle and murder. A dog fight erupted. Well, that isn’t accurate. Luke started to kill Chance, a dog barely a third his size.

I crossed the three strides that were between me and the fight and grabbed Luke’s hind legs. My preferred method of disrupting pack violence is to pull the hind legs of one animal and swing them away to create some distance. Unfortunately, we were trapped between the railings so all I could do was drag Luke backwards into the house with the aim of closing the door to separate the dogs. Luke released his bite on Chance and I pulled him backward, I tripped on the door threshold and fell flat on my back. Normally, things would have ended there, but Chance, the idiot, ran back up the ramp and re-engaged Luke. The “fight” was on again. Luke  instantly inverted Chance and bit his throat, what would have been a fatal strike.

I was helpless. The fall had injured my back and right arm. I was physically exhausted to the point I could not regain a standing position. Fortunately, in the ten seconds that had elapsed since the fight commenced, Claire made it to the door, grabbed Luke by the collar, lifted him and hurled him into the house. Once in and distanced from the other dogs, she isolated him in a bedroom so we could attend to Chance. Chance suffered multiple punctures, lacerations and crushing trauma. Lots of stitches, staples and immobilizing devices later he appears in good health and only slightly worse for wear.

Luke, I put down immediately. It is, and I hope forever remains, the hardest thing I have ever had to do. EVER. He was a good dog who had the toughest start imaginable and was shafted by people on every level. He deserved better, but had the potential to cause immense suffering in addition to the suffering he had undergone himself. The decision was unambiguous. Nobody won in this.

The realization I mentioned early on in this Great Wall of Text comes from learning exactly what terrible shape I am in, physically. Less than ten seconds of maximum exertion and I was finished. A fall from standing height rendered me combat ineffective. It was shocking and I have not yet fully processed it. What makes it even more daunting is the concept of physical rehabilitation. My baseline for strength and endurance training is somewhere BELOW moving 50 pounds 20 feet in 10 seconds. Damn! I’m weak. And people wonder why I like carrying a gun? Obviously, I am not in a position to flee or fight without one. In fact, I should probably start bringing a whole cop when I go out.

The above missive is one reason I retreated solo to the snowy mountain lair. It is just the kind of shit that I have to process internally and alone. I already feel close to being able to rejoin polite society.