Chapter 6: The Blood on the Drywall
The true horror of Daisy's obsession hit me when I went to pull her away for the twentieth time that week. As I reached down to grab her front legs, my palms came away wet and warm.
I flipped on the overhead light. The sight made my stomach heave. The lower three inches of the nursery wall were smeared with bright, crimson streaks of blood. Daisy’s front paws were raw; the tough, black leather pads of her paws had been completely worn down to the pink, exposed flesh beneath. Several of her nails were split down to the quick, oozing blood onto the plaster dust.
Despite what had to be agonizing pain, she had not stopped digging.
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"What is wrong with you?" I sobbed, dropping to my knees and pulling the dog into my lap. She didn't whimper. She didn't lick my face. She just panted, her bloody paws leaving damp prints on my jeans, her eyes still frantically scanning the wall. "Why are you doing this to us, Daisy? We're losing our minds here."
My husband wanted to crate her in the garage or take her to an emergency veterinary behaviorist to be put on heavy sedatives. We were convinced she had suffered a neurological break—perhaps a brain tumor or an advanced case of canine cognitive dysfunction. The dog had gone completely mad, and she was turning our daughter’s room into a crime scene of blood and plaster dust.
