Wendell got hopped up on sticks.
Wendell has a friend named Jack. Jack is a mostly blue heeler with a little bit of border collie. Wendell is a godawful pest as you know. Wendell and Jack have opposing philosophies on sticks.
Jack lives for someone who will throw a stick. Then he runs and gets the stick. AND HE BRINGS IT BACK.
Wendell also loves sticks. He lives for someone who will throw a stick for Jack. Then he runs and gets the stick, ripping it away from Jack if he has to, AND HE RACES OFF TO HIS SECRET STICK STASH AND THE STICK IS NEVER SEEN AGAIN.
The farmer would never consider throwing a stick for either Wendell or Jack. What a waste of energy. But when the farmer's nieces were here, the first thing they did was starting throwing sticks for Jack. Jack was in heaven until Wendell arrived and started stealing all the sticks.
Unbeknownst to anyone, Jack had been getting madder and madder about the sticks for years. And he finally snapped. The two best friends erupted into a big snarling ball that surged across the lawn.
"It will be fine, " said the farmer blandly. "They are hopped up on sticks. Just let them fight it out."
About one second later blood started spurting and Wendell gave a yelp and dropped the stick and ran to the farmer to be coddled as he always does when a trip to the emergency vet is imminent.
The farmer took him inside and wiped away the blood to see where it was coming from and it was coming from one of his eyes. His eye quickly filled up with blood, turning completely red on the inside in a matter of minutes.
Quick trip to the emergency vet, where it was a quiet day except for a lady in an Acura, who brought in a dreamy-eyed Bichon Frise who had eaten a pot brownie. Wendell was diagnosed with bloody eyeball caused by crushing injury and sent home with a pack of medicine. Bad news? No, the eyeball was unpunctured and did not deflate and after a few days it started - very slowly - to clear.
Flashback one, two, three, four, five years: young Wendell has enjoyed a lifetime of tormenting Laddy the Tennessee Walker by sneaking up behind him and nipping his heels or pulling his tail, then scurrying away laughing. Laddy has never been able to retaliate because of the skillful scurrying.
Fast Forward to the present: Wendell is out in the pasture snacking on horse poo. Our pasture is an Olive Garden of horse poo. Perhaps because of his impaired vision, he makes a critical strategic error, turning his back on Laddy who is only about 15 feet away. Laddy gets a gleam in one of his big eyes, and in one, two, three, four lightning steps, he is on Wendell before Wendell sees what is happening (Wendell's bloody eyeball is squinted almost closed.) He delivers a direct boot to the middle of Wendell's back.
Wendell gives one short yelp and drops to the ground. He allows himself to be carried into the house without even a whimper which makes everyone think he must be very seriously injured. He takes one of his eyeball pain pills. He sits on a cushion. He eats a treat and simpers. Everyone gazes at him expectantly, talking to him and about him in hushed tones. Isn't he a darling dog? Isn't it awful what happened to him? Perhaps the end is near.
It isn't. He's fine. It's a miracle, but he's fine.
Somewhat sobered, obviously, and a tad bit sore, because payback is a _ _ _ _ _. (Rhymes with hitch.)
