When it rains...

I'm in Texas. Which means, by obligation of the pack, Rosco (my boxer) is in Texas. He was born here. But he's not from here. He's a New Yorker. He loves the snow. He loves hating NYC rats in Washington Square Park. He's a 75lb brown boxer from New York.

He's been in Texas about 3 weeks now, and Texas, slowly but surely, is killing him. It's rained damn-near every hour we've been here. Unheard of for Texas summer, the mosquitoes are unreal. The first week we were here, Rosco was drinking the bright blue water from my parents' swimming pool, and his front paws slipped forward, sending him head first in a hilariously clumsy dive into 3 feet of water. In that moment (I was in the pool at the time) I realized that he both (a) had never swam before, and (b) had scraped his stomach from the brick side of the pool, and left a nasty 5 inch gash straight down his sternum.

The next day, I was treating his new wound with peroxide when I noticed him limping. Somehow, he'd cut his back right paw about 1/4 inch deep and wide, and had gotten it filthy in the pin where he's currently dwelling. I took him to the vet 2 days after that, when I noticed that a few random bumps that had popped up around his body had presently swollen into full-scale boils all over him. He'd scratched one on the side of his face to the status of open wound, looking like something had just scraped the skin right off the left side of his face. The vet gave him a shot of Cortisone and some antibiotics to be taken daily. Also, some antiseptic spray, which he hates.

The bumps went down, but not before they had been rubbed completely raw, and become open sores. Hairless, gross, open sores. About 50 or so of them. All over his body.

About an hour ago, he scratched on the back door of my parent's bedroom, where I'm stationed at the desk while they're away. I opened the door to find him nursing a fresh wound on the aforementioned paw, this time up near the "elbow" joint, and chopped, down to the bone.

I have absolutely no idea what is causing all this shit, or if he's just not used to his surroundings and is constantly finding new things to hurt himself. I just wish it'd stop. While I was cleaning the latest injury (peroxide, neosporin, gauze, tape, etc...), I had the distinct feeling that I needed to decide if I could afford to treat him any further. The simple answer to that question, without hesitation, was a resounding no.

My parents return home from Africa tomorrow. It should be a joyous day. I may have to give up my dog... or worse.

Fuck.