“I’m looking for the guy who shot my paw”

Well, sort of…ok, so not really at all. The only way that statement applies to my life right now is that my dog currently has an injured paw and as I was lying awake last night trying to comfort her, that old movie line ran through my head. Maybe I should’ve entitled this blog, “She broke a nail!” but that just doesn’t sound as fun.

How dogs injure themselves the majority of times, we will never truly know. There is no real reasonable explanation to how my dog nearly ripped her toenail completely off last night. But the action demanded immediate attention, so that’s what it got.

We made our first trip to the local Emergency Veterinary Clinic last night (pretty good for us – we’ve been here almost two years and haven’t been yet). I called before I went, of course. I wanted to see if they thought there was any way I could just hold off and take little Criket in to our own vet this morning. They weren’t very encouraging in that respect, so I took her in. But not before they informed me that it would be $70 just to walk in the door. Ok, so now I’m wishing we had that blasted pet insurance that my old vet tried to sell me. I know, bad thoughts. She’s worth every penny…I just wish we didn’t have to spend it sometimes.

The clinic wasn’t too busy…there was a lab who’d injured his enormous paw as well (except that there was a reasonable explanation to his mishap). There was a puppy with a swollen face who’d obviously been bitten/stung by something. And one of the saddest things I have ever seen; an older gentleman came in with a teenage boy, gingerly carrying an obviously very old dog. They were there to put the dog to sleep.

As they sat in the waiting room, waiting for the vet to send the little old dog across the Rainbow Bridge, there was no sense of sadness that I could detect. It was a matter-of-fact job that needed to be done. Maybe that’s why “the guys” were doing this horrible chore – they had the “guts” for it. Maybe they really did care, but were trying to keep up their macho facade. As the technician brought the dog back out in a dignified little cardboard box, I sat pondering the reason they had chosen to come to an Emergency Clinic, late on a Sunday evening for such an arduous task. The dog wasn’t in any visible discomfort. Sure, she was 13, and I overheard them say she had gone deaf; but that didn’t occur that very afternoon. If you think that’s a good reason to put a dog down, then fine (not my personal sentiment). But what would motivate you to have to do it now instead of waiting until a weekday when any vet’s office was open? No, the whole thing didn’t take long…but what a horrible way to spend the last night of your weekend. What an awful way to wake up on a Monday, of all days, knowing that your little dog was no longer with you.

Let’s just say that I was very thankful that when my little dog came out of the back room, she was only somewhat groggy with a giant, hot pink bandage on her right front paw. She’s wearing her very own version of what looks like a boxing glove; not unlike the ones they put on roosters for fighting, I would imagine. Anyway, she will be fine in a few days, and until that time, the challenge of keeping her calm will be upon our shoulders.

Injured paw and all, we were fortunate that’s all it was, and that she is otherwise healthy. Sure, she’ll milk it for all it’s worth and become a pitiful little sad sack that lies around the house just waiting for someone to have mercy on her and carry her to the next room. But she lives in the wrong house for that. Yes, we love her, but I don’t think you could squeeze that much mercy out of both Husband and me with a car crusher.