Late last week we headed off to bed but couldn't find the dog anywhere. So we called for him outside. He came, but. . . Pepe was alive, but it was obvious he'd had a run-in with some sort of wild beast out in the yard. Bite wounds on his head, claw marks on his side and belly, one leg hanging limp.
Thankfully we had a friend spending the night, so we could make the midnight run to the 'local' emergency vet (and by 'local,' I mean 30 minutes away in Tacoma). I expected him to be dead by the time we got there. But he made it. The vet took him in the back, then met with us to talk about process. And by process, I mostly mean how much it all would cost. All the time she talked we could hear Pepe yelping in the back as the technicians attempted to diagnose the extent of his wounds. (We'd later see on the admittance form where they wrote "unable to diagnose right front leg - he tried to kill us." Which, if you know our dog, you have to admit is kind of funny.)
He spent the night there, and once they sedated him they were able to figure out that it really wasn't all that bad - just a lot of surface wounds, cuts, bite marks, claw marks. He came home 1/2-shaved and with drugs, so he's kind of a punk dog right now. And all in all, it didn't cost as much as it could have, so we have that to be thankful for.
We still don't know what it was that got to him - we have raccoons in the yard, and I saw a fox run across our driveway the next day. I suppose he's lucky to be alive, considering how much this beast scarred him up. And we're lucky, too; I didn't want to deal with a dead dog right before Christmas. I wasn't too happy with him at first, but I guess I have to be proud of him, now. Our little Pepe scrapped with a ferocious beast and came out alive. I just hope it doesn't turn into a habit.