I went to my lakehouse. I was sick.
DAY 1:
I wake up, ill. I cannot speak properly, because I am losing my voice. I go through at least two boxes of tissue paper in an hour.
I sit on the couch, sniffling, and my mother and my friend Amanda decide to go walking. I let my dog out a few minutes afterwards, knowing he'll catch up with them and go walking.
My dog is a miniature daschund, and not very big at all. He's very sweet and has never bitten anybody in his life. While trotting a long with my mother and friend, two feral dogs approached Beethovan (the dog) and one attacked him. She picked him up in her mouth, and shook him, leaving a gash that was at least eight inches long. It was right across his back, and stretched from his shoulders to his leg. The dog then proceded to pick him up, AGAIN, and continued shaking him. My mother had been running over during this period of time and finally got the dog off of mine. She picked my dog up and ran all the way home with Amanda in tow.

Now, imagine being me. I have no idea what is going on, when all of a sudden my friend Amanda bursts in the door yelling apologies, and my mother follows after and tells me to get dressed, my dog has been bitten by a wild dog. I didn't really see my dog, and I didn't think it would be too bad.
I get in the car, and my mom hands me the dog. I look down at his shoulders, and I can see all of his muscles sliding around under an unprotected layer of fat. My immediate reaction is to cry, simply because I'm afraid my dog, which has been in my life since I was seven, is going to die. I'm too mesmerized with his wound to notice and of the other puncture wounds and gashes. I stare at it the entire screeching car ride there. Every time we take a turn, the wound pulls apart, sending Beethovan into a howling frenzy, in which he would attempt to tear away from my arms, which only worsened the problem at hand.
When we finally arrive at the Vet's office, the Vet in charge is IN SURGERY. So they ask us to leave the dog and come back for him later. I hold my dog for about ten minutes while my mother fills out information, and I slowly feel the blood draining from my face as I prepare to pass out.
We leave the dog, and then I go home. They don't call us the entire day, and just let us wait.
Around eleven o'clock, my friend wants to get out on the Jet Ski to take our minds off things.
Now mind you, I'm not feeling too well anyway, and the stress of my lifelong pet getting torn into pieces is kind of wearing away at me, but I decide to gut it out and go drive her around while she skis.
Of course, I was preoccupied, and while straightening out the rope, it get's caught in the intake grate. Wonderful.
We pull the Jet Ski into shore, and I spend the next three hours submerged underwater cutting and hacking away at the inside of a boat. I fixed it, yes, but it still sucked.

Around four o'clock, I got my dog back. He was drugged up and didn't really understand where he was. He has at least sixty stitches, but is doing fine now.

Yup.