‘Accident prone’, that is.
Yes, our foster dog (you know, the one who has only been here a month) is in the wars again. This time Ranger chose to argue with a brick wall, and the brick wall won – as brick walls tend to do. The brick wall hasn’t moved, and I think a month to get used to its position is probably enough, don’t you? And yet he managed to hit it. Twice. Or three times, if you count the damage to his tail.
In the wee small hours of Friday morning, we let the dogs out for a pee. They went, and they began coming back, and then the 2am peace was split asunder by the Greyhound Scream of Death. Now, those of you with greyhounds will know that the GSOD can (and usually does) mean that they’ve broken a nail, or stepped on a particularly knobbly twig, or it can mean that they are actually injured. This time, we knew by the fact that the GSOD continued unabated without the reappearance of the black dog, that he was, in fact injured, and probably injured severely enough to need an emergency call-out, and me in my nightshirt and all.
This is the brick wall – the one opposite the end of the garage.
It’s been there minding its own business for years. We know it was the brick wall, because having gone out and examined everything we could think of, and noted that the plant pots, chairs, etc, were still carefully positioned well away from the dogs’ route in and out as usual, I spotted the tell-tale tufts of fur on the grass just this side of said wall. And, by the way, we have automatic lighting in the garden so it wasn’t even dark!
This dog had already cost us well over Ā£350 for his broken metatarsal plus the ongoing problem with his mouth. On Friday he added another Ā£430 to the upwardly-mobile tally, and already painfully thin, he came back from the vet looking like a refugee from a war zone.
Today we had to take him back, because they’d missed the injury on his tail, which, when I saw it last night after bringing him home, was an inch long, gaping nicely and showing a tantalising glimpse of ligament. That cost us another Ā£90-odd, although we are negotiating with the vet on that one, since they should have found it and dealt with it yesterday.
New Dog is now doing a good impression of a Space(d) Ranger, and depending on his point of view is either enjoying the experience or wondering what the hell happened. Again.
And as you see, he looks like someone who decided that that Sweeney Todd* chappie probably gave a jolly good haircut, but sensibly began to run away, just in time.
So. We’ve decided that since he’ll have to stay with us until he’s healed, we’ll have completely lost our hearts to him by then (not that we haven’t already), and since he keeps injuring himself before the previous injury has had a chance to heal, he’s probably doing it on purpose in order to stay with us two
suckers friendly ‘monkeys’, so we might as well bow to the inevitable and damn well adopt him.
I mean, who’s going to want him? He’s iffy with other dogs, would probably not get along awfully well with a cat, won’t let you brush his teeth, trim his nails, or give him a pill (whether by stealth or assertiveness), and he’s over nine years old, with an impressive collection of scars and very few teeth. On the other hand, he’s a lunatic when he feels like running or playing and has the energy of a three year old without the co-ordination that should go along with it**. And he’s going stir crazy with his restricted level of exercise.
I’ve already ordered him a smart new collar, and bought him a raincoat, since he doesn’t fit the ones we have … I guess I might as well order him a winter jacket and be done with it, mightn’t I?
* Pity it wasn’t the Johnny Depp version, that’s what I say. It would have been worth the vet’s bill!
** Hmm. His previous fosterer explained the presence of a few small scars and many thorns in his coat by telling us he’d ‘run into a shrub’. We should have been warned.