The night our dog appeared in the kitchen, looking like he'd stuck his head in a dead-bloody cow, was one of great panic.
My mother reacted as she always does, whenever our dogs appear to have eaten a neighboring farmers livestock. She leaps into action, quite convincingly describing the hulking farmer that will be pounding down our door any second looking to shoot the head off our beloved family pet.
She sent us all to our various posts.
We donned our head torches and commenced the search for the dead body. If we found the sheep first the farmer need never know.
Then my sister emerged with some news.
I of course jumped to the obvious conclusion that our dog had maimed a human. Alas the blood was something different entirely.
I'd like to say we behaved in a manner that befitted our post-teenage years. We did not. The two of us rushed to the bathroom where my brother was rinsing the dog with his bare hands. Hands covered in blood. We giggled, squealed and pointed as we screamed "PERIOD BLOOD."
My brother reacted accordingly.
He then started scrubbing his hands while making high-pitched sounds of indignation.
It was only after several hours, of his traumatized wailing, that we noticed the dog. He was covered in blood all over again.
It transpired that the dog had simply cut it's mouth. There had been no sheep blood, no period blood, no real reason for the dramatics of the evening. My mother tried to calmly relay the news to my brother, but at that point we'd already broken him.