Ha ha ha ha ha!

Ha! Tee hee. Ha ha ha. Woo hoo hoo! (Snort) Hoo hoo. Ha ha ha!

That's my gut reaction to the vet's recommendation of "two weeks total rest." No running, no jumping, no stairs. Short walks on leash ONLY if he's not pulling. (Yeah, right.)

But if that's what it takes to heal him, that's what it takes. If the limp goes away, maybe we won't have to take x-rays. If the limp goes away, we can go to the beach again.

He seems to understand something is wrong. He's accepted his confinement like a champ. But then again, it's only been 26 hours. (What? Only 26 hours?) And so far, it's been harder on me than on him.

Snicker. Giggle. Wish us luck.

A little about the blur

Wow, I thought I'd heard you scream before. Scream to get outside. Scream for a treat. Scream because someone (often I) so rudely stepped on your little toes. Even scream because your foot was caught in the Venetian blind cord by the guest bed. But no. Today's scream was different. Today's scream drilled a hole into the pit of my stomach that hasn't filled itself in, yet. I saw you running to get the soccer ball. I was thinking how nice it was that those men in the park donated their mushy ball labeled "Torres" to the little red toller that wouldn't stop chasing their good ball. I was thinking about how great it is that you can hold a soccer ball in your mouth while running up the street, and about how proud I am when people notice you. I was thinking about how I'd get your slobber all over my hands when you brought back the ball, and that such things just don't bother squeamish me. I wasn't thinking that your training collar would get caught on the spigot protruding from the patio. Or about how that would stop you so short that you would be yanked aggressively around, twisting your tiny little ankle, and end up trapped. Your scared little face and your wailing stopped time. I know you're not my kid. And I know that if you're making noise, you're not choking to death. But the lines get blurred sometimes. And that's why we don't leave you in the yard alone. And why we're reluctant to leave you with other people. So while you rest your paw (I'm sorry you're trapped in the kitchen -- it's the closest thing to "bed rest" we can enforce) I'm going to remember how resilient you are and make dinner right next to you.

Walk me, dammit

That's what his eyes say. No, that's what his entire body says. And I would, I really would, but it's 2:38 in the afternoon and about 80 degrees. He thinks he wants to walk, but he really wants to wait until the fog starts to come in and the cement stops threatening to scorch his little paws. Or at least I do. Besides, I have to go get ingredients for chicken soup. And pick up my next book club book. But I promise, little dog, that I'll walk you before you know it. So enjoy that rawhide, consider eating that breakfast I gave you five hours ago, and keep being the most beautiful dog in the world.