Pity my poor little Pony. He came home from Grandma's on Sunday with a blister on the pinky toe side of his right hoof. Grandma called during his visit to let me know. She wanted to know if she could treat it with something. Um. NO. Because the last thing she treated was her own hangnail, which resulted in a FAT RED PINKY FINGER that an osteopath wanted to amputate. She went round and round and got a second opinion because I insisted, and had it surgically cleaned down to the bone, but not amputated. So excuse me for not wanting her to work her first aid magic on my precious Pony. I know the most recent supplies in her house have to be the fresh triple antibiotic ointment I made her buy in 2006 for the FAT RED PINKY FINGER. And I suspect that she still has some 1980s-era Bactine-soaked cotton balls in a pill bottle in her downstairs bathroom closet.
The Pony also came down with a cold on Sunday evening. I can not find his favorite cough medicine anywhere. He's down to the last dose.
Last night, our helpful loyal Pony slammed his own finger in the front door of the Mansion while relaying a phone message to Goat Baron H. It's his bad finger. Just below the nail bed. I think he's going to lose the fingernail.
Thank the Gummi Mary, Even Steven is looking out for The Pony. He might get picked up by Grandma after school on Friday, and get to spend the night.
If he survives the rest of the week without further injury.