February 27, 2005

• Some Subtle Signs of PTSD

  My mind no longer replays the scene of the moose stomping Koji, as it
  did incessantly for a few days after the attack.  After a few
  days, Koji stopped thrashing around in his sleep, yelping and
  whimpering. 

  The onset of Doug’s reaction after having shot the moose was delayed
  compared to mine and the dog’s.  The next day after the incident,
  he started pausing occasionally, getting a distant look in his eyes,
  and saying, “I killed a moose,” or, “one shot through the lungs, and
  one to the head.”  That behavior stopped after two or three days.

  Those are all manifestations of traumatic stress.  The crisis
  imprinted itself on our consciousness and we expressed it in different
  ways.  That was four weeks ago.  Now I recognize in each of
  us some reflections of the stress we experienced then.

  Koji, for example, has never been deprived of food or water.  HIs
  feeding station is in a central location here in the front part of the
  trailer, the part he inhabits.  HIs kibble dish is refilled when
  he empties it because he has never shown any tendency to overeat. 
  The water bottle that feeds fresh water into the bowl as he drinks is
  also kept filled.

  The cats have their own feeding station in the hallway beyond the gate
  that keeps Koji out of the back portion of the house.  They can
  sail over the gate or squeeze through a small hole in the pantry wall
  if I leave its door ajar.  Often, they choose to drink from Koji’s
  dish instead of making the trip back to their own.  Occasionally,
  one of them will also snack on a little of his kibble.

  From puppyhood, Koji has watched them eat his food and drink his water
  without reaction.  Since the moose attack, he jealously guards his
  feeding station.  His habitual resting place is in the middle of my
  bed in the far corner of the front room, out of sight of his
  dish.  If he hears the crunch of kibble or the gurgle of water
  from his water bottle now, he will leap off the bed and charge over
  there.  Then we hear the hiss of a startled cat and the scrabble
  of cat feet and dog toenails across the kitchen floor, followed by the
  rattle and thump of a cat leaping the gate and the sounds of Koji’s
  sliding to a halt.

  There doesn’t seem to be any connection between a moose in the yard and
  a cat at his feeding station, but the change in his behavior came in
  the aftermath of the attack.  It’s too much of a coincidence for
  me to credit.  Post-traumatic stress disorder often manifests in
  generalized or displaced aggression.

  Anxiety is another common manifestation of PTSD.  That one is
  where I’m at.  It has never before bothered me that our door
  doesn’t latch.  Before we moved in here, snow sliding off the roof
  of the little cabin beside the trailer had burst in the door and torn
  away the part of the frame that held the latching mechanism.  A
  subsequent avalanche had torn away the makeshift repair Mark had done,
  and I never fixed it. 
  Alaskans pride themselves on not locking their doors.  Having a
  door that won’t latch, that the cats can push open, put me one up on my
  neighbors.  That was before I started thinking about bears
  awakening from hibernation and being attracted to the moose blood in
  the snow out there.

  Yesterday, I barred the door.  Something was out there.  Koji
  caught scent of something,  He snuffled at the bottom of the door,
  hackles up, growling.  I started thinking about piling furniture
  in front of the door.  Then I noticed the bunjis dangling beside
  the door.  During a recent spate of housecleaning, each time I
  found a bunji cord, I hung it from the hook beside the door frame,
  marshalling them to be moved out to the car where I have the most
  frequent use for them.  It’s a sturdy hook, to which we attached
  the cords that anchor one end of the shelf unit that holds our stero
  and most of our rock collection — an earthquake precaution.

  About a foot and a half higher and on the opposite side of the door is
  another sturdy hook.  It holds the line to which we tether Koji
  when I want to keep him out of my way or when he just needs a calming
  time out.  I stretched half a dozen sturdy elastic bunji cords
  between the hooks.  I’m thinking it would be even more secure than
  a solid bar with anchors bolted to the wall.  The elastic will
  absorb impacts that might otherwise tear the anchors from the
  walls.  I know it doesn’t address the issue of the three picture
  windows in the room, but at least it’s going to take more than a nudge
  from a bear’s nose to get in here now.

  When I discussed the bear and blood issue with Greyfox, he suggested I
  keep the shotgun handy.  I keep it leaning safely in the corner
  behind my worktable.  Getting to it and getting it out would take
  a minute or two.  I’ve been thinking off and on about where I
  might keep it where it would be just as safe but more accessible. 
  I still haven’t found the right spot, and it’s not a high priority for
  me.  Shooting first seems to be the guys’ preferred
  strategy.  When I think about dealing with a dead bear in the
  house, I think I’d rather keep it out in the first place.

  A couple of weeks ago, one morning when I woke up, Doug explained that
  he had moved the .44 magnum from its usual place back in the hallway
  and put it in the box beside the door where we keep hats and
  gloves.  That night while I slept, Koji had been snuffling at the
  door and growling at something out there, and when Doug went out to get
  firewood he had seen a young moose.

  Doug, Greyfox and I all collect weapons but we aren’t much inclined to
  use them.  Our collections of knives and swords are primarily
  decorative.  We three have diverse tastes in just about everything
  including armament, but one trait we share is an interest in
  weapons.  Doug goes mostly for swords and fantasy knives. 
  Greyfox covets guns.  I like to look at wild fantasy knives but
  the ones I collect are the sleek and elegant tactical kind or traditional designs.  The
  two firearms I have are practical tools of self-defense:  a .357
  magnum Ruger revolver and a 12 gauge Remington pump shotgun.  I
  don’t hunt and I have never fired my shotgun.  A scattergun is not
  something for which one needs to practice marksmanship.  They’re
  noisy and they kick and I’d rather save it for when I need it.

  Last year, Doug had asked Greyfox to keep an eye out at the gun shows
  for a good deal on a handgun for him.  He has a blowgun and a .22
  Marlin rifle his dad gave him when he graduated from high school. 
  He has done target practice with both of them, but he’s not a hunter,
  either.  They’d become survival tools if our supplies of groceries
  were ever cut off. 

  I don’t know what urge prompted the request
  for the handgun, but ArmsMerchant
  Greyfox didn’t question it.  He found a good deal and bought
  it.  Later in the summer, when a customer expressed an interest in
  that kind of pistol, Greyfox asked Doug if he’d be willing to sell
  it.  Doug didn’t hesitate to let it go, so I don’t suppose at that
  time he felt any pressing need for a handgun.

  Since the moose attack, however, he seems to have altered that
  attitude.  This morning when I woke he had already gone to bed but
  there on the coffee table beside the couch where we sit to play at the
  PS2 was Greyfox’s .44 mag that had been in the box by the door.  I
  don’t know what happened in the night to prompt him to put it nearer to
  hand, but you can bet we’ll discuss it when he wakes up.
   

  • 2:59 pm
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