Sister Broke the Dog (and Pa Tried to Finish Him Off)

On Saturday, I got hurt.

Sister and I were relaxing in the living room out east when all of a sudden, she jumped up and suggested that we go outside and play squeaky bone.  I was game (I love playing with my squeaky bone), so I followed her out the door and ran down the back stairs as fast as I could wanting to get a head start on whichever direction Sister chose to hurl the squeaky bone in.

Not wanting to fall down the stairs in the process, Sister waited until she reached the grass before winding up and turning toward the left side of the yard.  Anticipating her throw, I took off in the direction she was facing, but the squeaky bone never followed. I turned around and looked back at Sister. She gave the squeaky bone, still in her hand, a squeak. She then turned to her right and wound up again. I took off in the direction that she was aiming, but the only thing that landed was a bunch of leaves falling from the trees above me. I pounced on those leaves, then turned back expectantly toward Sister who was still holding the squeaky ball.

“Okay, okay,” she said, “I’ll throw it this time.”

For the third time, Sister wound up, but this time let the squeaky bone fly. I went after it at top speed and came screeching to a halt to pick it up.

But something happened to my left front leg in the process. Squeaky bone in my mouth, I took two painful steps, then plopped down in the grass to evaluate the situation. Sister came running over, but by the time she reached my side, I had already decided that I was definitely hurt and, as a result, wanted to go inside. Toy in mouth, I got up and limped my way across the yard and up the stairs to the deck.

Sister followed right behind me and called over to Ma and Pa who were working in the front yard.  They came over immediately and the three of them, Pa, Ma, and Sister, assessed the situation.  I was refusing to put weight on my front left leg, but it wasn't broken and there didn't appear to be any cuts on my paw.  The conversation quickly turned to "what should we do?"  Drive home and go to my vet?  Find a vet out east?  Give me time to walk it off?  Ultimately, my family decided that I should take some aspirin (encased in pound cake and peanut butter), take it easy for the rest of the day, and that they would re-evaluate the situation in the morning.  I accepted my pound cake with pleasure, and remained gimpy for the rest of the day.

Now, what I've written thus far is true, and Sister and I both agree with the breakdown of the events.  We also agree on other aspects related to that day including:

1. I have a propensity for getting hurt:  There were those scrapes I got from jumping out of the car window. Then there was the time I tried moving the house with the side of my head. We mustn't forget the whole dew claw fiasco, and of course there is my bad back which flairs up every once in a while. I’ve tripped up the stairs, stumbled while playing with Pa, Ma got tangled in my leash one time and fell on me, and I've bruised my ankle after banging it against the rocking chair leg.
2. Sister suggesting that we go outside was, in hindsight, a bad omen:  I mean, Sister is not really the “let’s go in the backyard and play” kind of person. “You want to go take a nap?” or “let’s find something to eat,” or even “let’s hang out in the air conditioner,” is more Sister’s speed and I’m okay with that because those are three of my favorite things to do. 
3. I'm pathetic when I'm sick or hurt: I'm not sure I really need to expand on this, but let's just say I spent a good amount of time trying to sit on Ma's lap in an attempt to find comfort.

What we don't agree on, however, is the severity and longevity of my injury.

Don't get me wrong, Sister was very sympathetic and felt bad for "breaking the dog."  She rubbed my tummy, she gave me apology cookies, and she even went outside in my stead to investigate what Bruno, the Boxer next door, was barking at.  However, as the day progressed, I started hearing little comments from her such as, "wow, he certainly moves fast when food is involved," "hey, did you see him pull Ma up the stairs?" and "wait, is he limping on the wrong leg?"

The following morning was getaway day and despite the fact that I had made a miraculous recovery overnight, there was some concern that I might re-injure myself if I wasn't careful.  The biggest threat, it was determined, was me jumping out of the car when we got home.  Wanting to be proactive, Pa decided to step in.  The result was less than pretty.  Pa decided to pick me up and carry me out of the car. 

Right away, I knew that this was not a good idea for the following reasons:

1. I was in the car with limited headroom.  Lifting something (or someone) usually involves an upward motion.
2. Because I was in the backseat, Pa could not approach me from my side where he could, in theory, scoop me up easily.  Instead, he was forced to approach me head first.
3. I'm naturally an awkward shape to pick up.  I've got heavy front and back ends, four legs to keep track of (plus a tail), and a middle which droops down if not properly supported.
4. I've never liked being picked up, even when I was a little puppy.

So, despite these hurtles, Pa persevered and he somehow managed to pick me up and carry me out of the car.  I wasn't happy about it though--in fact, I was downright horrified--but we both made it out in one piece.