Love Bites (and apparently so do anxious Australian Cattle Dogs)

I was never a huge Def Leppard fan (80s glam rock band), but in my experience, they got this one right: Love Bites. This is the story of why I still have (and love) the dog who literally bit the hand that feeds him.

I often struggle to explain to people why we have Boomerang (Boomer), our Australian Cattle Dog (aka Red Heeler). First, he just isn’t nice. He doesn’t particularly enjoy being petted, he is convinced every new person walking through our door is a vile criminal and he has no interest in playing with other animals.

He is a big baby about any perceived potential pain – he yelps before you shut the door if he thinks you might bump him with it. In his mind, his life will probably end if he is not within ten feet of me at all times. So if we have been separated by things like errand running, social obligations or even his own spontaneous naps, I’m greeted with jumping, running in circles and small but painful nips.

His anxiety is often visible to strangers. People comment about seeing the whites of his eyes all the way around, or how his ears are completely flat on his head when he has to not bark at them or tolerate a kitten getting too close to him.

The guilt (some dog experts say it’s not guilt, but it sure looks like guilt to me) he feels is also glaringly obvious whenever he has made poor choices about things like whether the garbage should stay in the garbage can or whether he should lie in his bed or mine. Post mistake, we usually find him lying on his side with his eyes squinted tightly shut and his tail wagging very hard. But he is happy to stay “in his room” when we have guests or grandkids over, so all of these little Boomerisms are manageable and he has been with us a long time.

We got the cattle dog when cattle were just a daydream. It was the summer of 2017 and we were in a tough season as a family. We had blended two households a few years prior and had added two new children. So there were six teen/tweens and two littles. One of my older ones (The Rerun) was following in my rebellious, teenage footsteps rather than my rules and guidance (hence the name Rerun). She had announced that she was going to be living with her dad for a while. I did not handle that well. I didn’t rely on my faith or turn to God for comfort. I sulked and wallowed and why-me’d.

In an effort to cheer me up, my sweet husband, Ace, gathered up the other children and we piled into the minivan for an impulsive trip to the animal shelter (I hear some women get chocolate and roses…). After a day of combing shelters and “needs-a-home” listings, we found him. He was the only cattle dog off to the side in a pen with a wrestling pile of pit bull puppies. He was shy and scared and we just couldn’t leave him there.

We made sure Boomer had a lot of training and socialization, but nothing cured his anxiety or shyness. He excelled at his sheep herding lessons and learned quickly, but ignored the other dogs and people; just fixated on the sheep. He walked beautifully on a leash through our busy neighborhood, but he preferred to be in his privacy-fenced backyard. We had two other dogs and a cat, all of which he tolerated, barely and usually with a ridiculous expression on his face. He was so high strung.

But when we got to the farm, he was in heaven! I think he would chase his livestock ball around the field until he dropped dead if I’d let him.

His “brother,” Sherman (an English Bulldog – ironically we had a bulldog before we had bulls too) had gotten very geriatric by the time we moved to the farm. Sherman was toothless, mostly blind, had lost any sense of personal space and was no longer reliable about controlling bodily fluids. In the early days, Boomer and Sherman could be found curled up on the same pillow.

But now Sherman drove Boomer crazy. The fights began. I researched and watched Cesar 911 and separated them when we weren’t home. I had broken up a few of these episodes – very upsetting, but few and far between. Then, in the spring of 2024, I went away for a Christian Women’s Conference weekend.

My family was at the grocery store when my friend pulled into the driveway to drop me off. It had been a fantastic weekend, but I was exhausted and emotionally drained. It was one of those getaways that just isn’t long enough to make you want to come back to real life. And confession time – I was annoyed that my family wasn’t there to greet me – didn’t they miss me? I’d spent a weekend basking in God’s comfort, and now I expected my family to provide even more.

Boomer came out through the dog door a million miles an hour frantically barking. Embarrassing in front of my friend and not the greeting I wanted. He was intent on protecting his household from this strange car while Ace was away. I knew he was beyond stressed and I should have taken a moment to calm him and reassure him. I didn’t.

I shouted at him (mistake number 649) to stop barking and barged into the house aggressively dragging my bag (mistake number 650). Boomer immediately went after Sherman, who was soundlessly barking at who knew what. I tried to break up the fight the way I usually did – getting Boomer to let go – but after a quick release, Boomer re-gripped and my hands were in the way (you may have seen the short version in Radio Silence).

Boomer realized the mistake an instant too late. He ran to his bed (where he proceeded to lie on his side and squint his eyes and bang his tail furiously on the floor). Sherman was uninjured in that incident, but I was not so lucky. I know I have felt pain before, but that moment was a different level. For the next 10 days I tried to treat my injuries at home – comfrey on the wounds, honey, ginger and turmeric applied and ingested. My right hand was healing and usable, my left hand not so much.

So, I booked an appointment with an orthopedic specialist. The guy wasn’t sure what to think. He just kept saying “this happened 10 days ago?” and then he said “revision amputation.” Ummm… I explained that I needed my index finger, that people expect me to have all of my fingers, that my daughter’s wedding was 10 days away and that I was planning to have a manicure. He explained that the fingertip was already amputated and that bone was exposed and prone to infection.

Eventually I negotiated with the surgeon that they brought in that my crunchy self would take a LOT of antibiotics faithfully if we could try reattaching my fingertip.

I looked a little crazy at my daughter’s wedding (the Crafty One) because my hand was bandaged and I had to keep it pointing up so it wouldn’t throb unbearably. But the bone never got infected – most would credit the heavy antibiotics that I, in fact, faithfully took, but I also credit the honey, ginger and turmeric. So, I still have a finger. The nerves have not recovered and the bones will always be a crushed pile of pebbles in there making it not so usable, but it’s attached.

So why do we still have Boomer? Because he isn’t a vicious attack dog that set out to rip my finger off. He is an anxious guy who matched my energy. There I was putting my letdown and stress on someone I knew couldn’t take it.

That misplaced bite taught me that when I go looking for comfort from people (or pets) instead of God, I tend to hurt the ones that I expect to comfort me. I can still hold up my finger and say “Did you do that?” and Boomer runs for his bed, squint-eyed and tail frantic. God is our Comforter – His grace is sufficient. Next time I need comforting, I’ll turn to my Bible (and ask for chocolate and roses).