I asked Farmer H to take a look at Juno last night. Right after he carried the new little black chick over to the burn pile and tossed it on the flames. Cremation, you know. Even though The Pony had just checked on the five (make that four, now) new chicks, and announced that the little black one was breathing and blinking. The hen rolled his egg out of the nest to start with. Farmer H picked it up and helped the chick get the end open, then put it back in the rabbit-turned-chicken hutch. Where the other four chicks promptly started pecking at it. I'm hoping at the shell. But it might have been the chick. Pecking order, you know. I suppose mother knows best. She rolled his egg out for a reason.
Farmer H pronounced Juno fit as a fiddle. In the bloom of health. A robust specimen of nondescript black mixed breed canine. In other words, he did not see a need to take her to the vet. She DID recover from previous leg ailments. So we are taking a wait and see attitude. She does not whimper or cry out or try to bite if her leg is touched. Or whacked, twice, by my book bag. She still favors the leg, but has learned to limp better. She drug the lagging limb over Tank's back when he got in her way. So it doesn't seem to hurt her unless her weight is on it.
I'd better not catch Farmer H enticing her toward the burn pile.