The trouble started after Suzanne went to bed and Maisie the Jack Russell Terrier indicated she needed to take a bio break in the backyard.
No big deal normally, but the pup (now 16 years old or 112 on the canine calendar) had developed an infection in her right paw. Vet wrapped it in a pink camo bandage and warned us sternly not to let her get it wet.
This means each time she goes out, we must tie onto her leg a rigid Baggie-like contraption that keeps the infected paw dry.
She hates it of course.
It turns her right foot into a paddle-like contraption and for the first few days, she stumbled over it.
But being a Jack Russell Terrier who can learn new tricks, she adapted. She figured out how to make decent speed for an old hound by throwing her leg up and out -- almost as if she were swimming a butterfly stroke, but on land.
I caught her at the door and began to tie on the Baggie. On the fifth try, I got it, but she slipped from my arms and ran off into the house.
Again, normally, no big deal.
The dog is all but blind. Inoperable cataracts in both eyes give her just a vague notion of what's out there, She has adapted, having walked every inch of the house for hours, and knows the place by rote, but look, let's face it, not hard to catch.
But I've got a blown out knee -- a torn medial meniscus -- that makes me slower than normal and not quick off the mark.
And she has chosen to run to the dark side of the house, where there are no lights.
In short, she is now the blind Audrey Hepburn heroine n Wait Until Dark, and I am the hapless sighted but sorry-ass Alan Arkin villain.
Oh, I can hear her flapping about with her Baggie. Briefly. Then she freezes. I bump into something and she moves again. Then freezes.
I know her game. She's peeved about the bag. And if she possibly can, she's going to hatch one right on the living room rug. Not something Hepburn would have done, but I respect the strategy. I'm bare-footed. This is high stakes now. I feel real fear for the first time.
She maneuvers stealthily. I bang into assorted stuff moved from the basement hurricane flood. In a battle between a gator and a grizzly, terrain is everything, and I now am hip deep in her swamp.
There are grunts and groans. My cargo shorts -- real Governor Christie beltless Big Boy specials -- keep dropping down, hampering my movement. I may also be laughing more than a little.
Suddenly she breaks for it. She runs to the light. Turns the corner, skitters on the kitchen linoleum and wham -- is out the door, throwing that bagged paw up in the air like Phelps closing in on the eighth gold medal.
She paces the backyard on her regular patrol, and the light bounces back from a waxy-lidded eye she has cast in my direction as I stand in profile at the lighted door.
"My way," she seems to say, and of course that's fine by me. Who wouldn't root for Audrey Hepburn?
No big deal normally, but the pup (now 16 years old or 112 on the canine calendar) had developed an infection in her right paw. Vet wrapped it in a pink camo bandage and warned us sternly not to let her get it wet.This means each time she goes out, we must tie onto her leg a rigid Baggie-like contraption that keeps the infected paw dry.
She hates it of course.
It turns her right foot into a paddle-like contraption and for the first few days, she stumbled over it.
But being a Jack Russell Terrier who can learn new tricks, she adapted. She figured out how to make decent speed for an old hound by throwing her leg up and out -- almost as if she were swimming a butterfly stroke, but on land.
I caught her at the door and began to tie on the Baggie. On the fifth try, I got it, but she slipped from my arms and ran off into the house.
Again, normally, no big deal.
The dog is all but blind. Inoperable cataracts in both eyes give her just a vague notion of what's out there, She has adapted, having walked every inch of the house for hours, and knows the place by rote, but look, let's face it, not hard to catch.
But I've got a blown out knee -- a torn medial meniscus -- that makes me slower than normal and not quick off the mark.
And she has chosen to run to the dark side of the house, where there are no lights.
In short, she is now the blind Audrey Hepburn heroine n Wait Until Dark, and I am the hapless sighted but sorry-ass Alan Arkin villain.
Oh, I can hear her flapping about with her Baggie. Briefly. Then she freezes. I bump into something and she moves again. Then freezes.
I know her game. She's peeved about the bag. And if she possibly can, she's going to hatch one right on the living room rug. Not something Hepburn would have done, but I respect the strategy. I'm bare-footed. This is high stakes now. I feel real fear for the first time.
She maneuvers stealthily. I bang into assorted stuff moved from the basement hurricane flood. In a battle between a gator and a grizzly, terrain is everything, and I now am hip deep in her swamp.
There are grunts and groans. My cargo shorts -- real Governor Christie beltless Big Boy specials -- keep dropping down, hampering my movement. I may also be laughing more than a little.
Suddenly she breaks for it. She runs to the light. Turns the corner, skitters on the kitchen linoleum and wham -- is out the door, throwing that bagged paw up in the air like Phelps closing in on the eighth gold medal.
She paces the backyard on her regular patrol, and the light bounces back from a waxy-lidded eye she has cast in my direction as I stand in profile at the lighted door.
"My way," she seems to say, and of course that's fine by me. Who wouldn't root for Audrey Hepburn?
Great story! You paint a terrific picture of both you and Maisie, trying to outwit each other. Maisie with her bagged paw and awkward gait reminds me of two of my dogs. Max, the Lab, had horrible allergies and occasionally had to wear dog booties during flare ups to keep from chewing his paws raw. He hated them, but it was damned funny to watch him slap around in them. Pert, the terrier mutt I had in high school, broke his front leg. With his leg in the cast, he ran exactly the way you describe Maisie. You may remember Pert. According to what you wrote in my senior yearbook, he liked to hump your leg ;-)
ReplyDeleteOh, geez, what a classy guy I was.
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