It is heartbreaking to hear that a dog was impaled by a stick. The animal had to go through tremendous agony and suffering before being saved. However, the road to recovery can be beautiful, and the dog can recover completely with proper care and attention.
When a dog gets impaled by a rod, the first goal is to get the item out of the dog’s way as soon and safely as possible. This may need surgery or other medical intervention, and it is critical to seek emergency veterinarian care to maintain the animal’s stability and safety.
After the dog’s immediate medical needs have been met, it is critical to concentrate on his long-term recovery. This may include giving patients pain relievers, wound care, and other medical treatments as required.
Additionally, to help the dog cope with the trauma of the experience, it is critical to provide emotional support and care. Following such a traumatic event, dogs may experience anxiety, fear, and other emotional distress, and it is critical to provide them with a calm and nurturing environment to help them feel safe and secure.
Professional assistance from a trained dog trainer or behaviorist may also be required to assist the dog in overcoming emotional trauma and rebuilding trust in people. Positive reinforcement training approaches might make the dog feel more secure and comfortable.
It’s essential to note that recovering from such a traumatic incident takes time and patience, but with the right care and attention, dogs like the one that was poked may make a full recovery. They may rediscover the ability to trust and love, and live happy and full lives with their new families.
The pet I’ll never forget: Ella the puppy threw up on me, snubbed me and after 10 years decided to love me
Mum, Dad, my brother Michael: everyone in the family got more affection from our ridgeback-staffie cross. And guess whose bed she used to poo on…
I think the tone was set when Ella threw up over me on the way back from the Dogs Trust. She was three months old, rolling around on the back seat between me and my twin brother, Michael (we’d just turned seven), and wasn’t enjoying her first trip in a car. She could have been sick anywhere – over the seat, over the floor – but for some reason she decided to climb on to me first.
It was the start of a beautiful but strangely one-sided friendship. Ella, a ridgeback-staffie cross, was the perfect dog: playful, energetic, naughty and tolerant. She would let us poke and prod her without complaint, turn her ears inside-out or dress her up in T-shirts or the thick woollen poncho my Greek Cypriot grandma knitted her for the British winter. And she was endlessly loving, at least to the other members of the family. Me? Too often it was as if I didn’t exist. If Michael and I were sitting on the sofa, she’d bound up to him. If I came home after a day out with my dad, he was the one she’d jump at. If I tried to take her for a walk by myself, she’d drag her feet and insist that I fetch my brother.
To add insult to injury, about once a year she would do a poo in the house. Not just anywhere, though: she’d climb the stairs to my room and leave it in a neat pile on top of my bed.
I can’t pretend I wasn’t offended by Ella’s attitude – I loved her just as much as anyone. But it took me a while to realise that in her eyes we were both bitches fighting for our place in the pack. I read that dogs are 98.8% wolf, even yappy little chihuahuas. Ella was a definite she-wolf and my mother (she who opened the tin of dog food every night) was the undisputed alpha female. Ella could handle that fact, but she didn’t want to be the omega female. That was me.
Working out the reasons for Ella’s lack of sisterhood, understanding that her indifference was atavistic and not just casual, didn’t make me any less jealous of my brother, who always took great pleasure in the fact that Ella seemed to prefer him. But I resigned myself to the situation. And then one day (happy ending, anyone?) everything changed. I must have been 16 or 17, we’d been away for a fortnight in France, and when we got back it was me she ran up to first, whining and twisting with pleasure at seeing me again. After that it was like all those years of competition had never happened. We were best friends for ever, or at least for the couple of years she had left. Ella finally loved me.
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