Monday night I was on my way home from work when I received a phone call from The Boy. He was crying so hard I couldn’t understand him. I recognized the panic in his voice and fear gripped my insides. “Are you guys ok?” I yelled through his tears, as images of horror flew threw my mind. He recognized his inability to explain what was going on and handed the phone to Bumblebee, who was equally difficult to understand because she was talking so quickly. I caught a few words here and there.
“Reggie… hurt really bad…squeals like a goose.”
Thankfully, I was only a minute or two from home when they called me, because I couldn’t understand what was going on, other than a vague sense that something had happened to Reggie.
My first instinct was to panic about the kids being hurt. As soon as I realized they were alright, I was a teeny bit relieved. But not by much, since Reggie was hurt.
What? That dog is my life these days. He loves me. I mean it. He really, really loves me. I don’t mean to go all “Sally Field”, but it’s true. Little Dude thinks I’m the bees knees. And the feeling is pretty darn mutual. I gathered from the phone conversation that he was hurt. Possibly by getting in a fight with a goose.
I hung up the phone and pulled in the driveway. Bumblebee’s eyes were huge. “That was fast!” she exclaimed, thinking that I had made the entire 45 minute commute from work after the phone call. She didn’t realize that I had been almost home when they called me.
Turns out that Reggie jumped out of The Boy’s arms and landed awkwardly. He flopped on the ground, writhing in agony, despite the fact that it couldn’t have been more than a three foot jump. He couldn’t put any weight on his front paw, and as Bumblebee so aptly described it, he squealed like a goose.
I could tell right away that it was bad, but not life threatening, so I turned my attention to The Boy. He was heartbroken. He felt totally responsible for Reggie getting hurt, and he was sobbing with remorse. He gulped in between words as he struggled to tell me the following. “Mom, I was carrying him inside and he nipped at my face. It startled me and I flinched and he jumped out of my arms.” My little man’s face was streaked with tears, red and puffy from the kind of crying that leaves you feeling like you were hit over the head with a cast iron skillet. He took another gulp of air, shuddered, and said, “I dropped him, mom.” And then he sobbed into my shoulder. He said it as though he was admitting to a horrible crime instead of an accident.
Ack. I can’t even type this out without feeling all sad for The Boy. He was beside himself with guilt. I explained that it was an accident, that it could have happened to anyone, that Reggie would be ok. He calmed down a bit and went with me to the vet, which is where we found out that he has four broken bones in his front paw:
*photo of Reggie's X-ray:
As we were leaving, the vet jokingly told him not to break any more puppies, and I froze in my tracks upon hearing it. Oh Lord. If she only knew the angst that boy went through when this happened, I thought. But The Boy just laughed it off and said, “Hey!” to her. I was so glad that he didn’t take the comment the wrong way.
Isn’t it ironic, though, that I could bristle at the vet’s comment, and not use common sense of my own, just moments later? I was talking to The Husband on my phone as I drove home from the vet and we discussed the ordeal. Originally, the vet thought Reggie might have to have specialty surgery up at the vet medicine school at Iowa State University. I told TH that if we had to do that, we’d probably cancel the trip we are planning to San Antonio because of the cost involved (pet surgery is EXPENSIVE!) It didn’t even cross my mind to wait to have that conversation with TH when The Boy wasn’t in earshot. He made a comment about us not getting to go on our weekend getaway because of him. I could have kicked myself. Hard. Why had I let him hear that? I reassured him that it was ok. Again with the ‘it’s an accident’ emphasis. Poor kid. He was a guilt factory that night.
We were asked to bring Reggie back to the vet today for an examination by the orthopedic specialist at the vet clinic. His opinion is to take a more conservative treatment approach, and not go the surgery route. (Yippee! San Antonio here we come!)
Reggie is on the road to recovery. He hates the fact that he has to wear a splint/cast that’s almost as big as he is, but he’s doing remarkably well with it. The worst part is that we have to confine him for the next- 4-6 weeks. 3 month old puppies don’t like to be kept kenneled all the time. They want to play! The month of May will be here before we know it, and hopefully Little Dude will be able to frolic among the May flowers. Until then, he’s got a big old cast to deal with and a doting mom who caters to his every whim.
I think he'll survive; just look at how cute he is:
*photo of Reggie with his giant cast:
He got a new (and even bigger) cast put on today. If you can believe it, it's supposed to be more sturdy than that big clunker was. He can barely lift it. I think I’m going to find a Green Bay Packers sock to cover the cast and keep it clean when he goes outside for potty breaks. Wouldn’t that be adorable?