Tuesday, March 27, 2012

What, Oh What, Has My Little Dog Done?

The Pony and I came up the Mansion driveway this afternoon, and Juno did not bound to meet us. I pulled T-Hoe into the garage, and Juno did not run in to eat the cat food. She did not appear on the porch. When I got out, she was not leaning over to peer at me through the garage door. I called to her.

She came limping slowly from her dog house!

Juno was in an epic battle while we were away at school. She has two puncture wounds that look like snake fangs over her right eye. A little higher on her forehead, there is a bigger, deeper puncture wound with a scab forming. Beside her left eye is a bald spot half the size of a dime. But her worst injury is with her back right elbow-foot area. You know, that part of a dog's hind leg like an elbow. It looks a little swollen. At first, I thought she was just favoring her paw. But she holds the leg funny when she tries to limp. And she rests the paw on the porch when she is standing.

Poor Juno. She leaned in for our everyday afternoon lovefest. She sat down, gingerly. She put her muzzle along my neck, with her nose on the bottom of my chin. I leaned to hug her. And knocked my book bag over onto her lame leg. She took it well. Gave me a look like, "New Mommy! How can you do that to me?" I was ashamed. I set up the book bag. I hugged Juno an extra long time. Then Pony came back out, and I told him of her injuries. And how I had accidentally knocked the book bag on her owie. The Pony tut-tutted. He patted Juno. He went to pick up my stuff...and promptly knocked the book bag over again onto Juno's owie. Poor Juno. I know her life was no picnic before we took her in. But we are kind of pushing that torture envelope.

I'm thinking she tangled with some critter that was having none of her shenanigans. The neighbors have horses. But they don't puncture-bite and claw. The cats could have got her. But they are not so good at laming. Juno had dried mud on her silky, feathery black fur. I can't put those clues together. Maybe she was in TWO epic battles.

I know she had her rabies shot when she had her very special operation a few months ago. And I know that when she was younger, she hurt her front legs and could hardly walk for a week. Then she was all better, loping, jumping, racing willy-nilly.

We are predicting a full recovery by the weekend. Until then, sad panda Juno will have to stand between The Pony and I, unable to decide which person is more worth the effort to limp toward.

Poor Juno.


Sioux Roslawski said...

While she is recovering, perhaps she needs some extra-special tidbits? A black and white cookie? A cinnamon babka? A bakery delight sitting in the trashcan?

She deserves something to help her regain her strength.

Hillbilly Mom said...

I was thinking of whipping up a batch of pudding skin singles for her. Don't want her vomiting for the first time in ten years over a black and white cookie. Or a lesser babka. She needs no trashcan eclair, because this morning she had a glazed donut left from last Thursday.

Other tempting taste treats that I'd like to share with Juno are:

* a pizza made of dough kneaded by Poppy's very own hands

* a slice of wedding cake from a long-ago royal wedding

* a dish of fat-free yogurt

* Mackinaw peaches

* some chips for double-dipping

* bowl of nuts, a glass of grape juice, a white couch, and a tape of Breakfast at Tiffany's

* Snapple

Sioux Roslawski said...

Yes, but if Juno gets in the house and pees on the couch, just turn over the cushion...the couch'll be good as new.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

Poor Juno! I have yellow and white cat here that I am sure someone abandoned. He is very timid and won't let me close enough to check his leg that is strangely limp. He hangs out with a solid black female that also just showed up. I want to fix his leg. I once splinted a chicken's leg, named her Rebecca. She became a good layer.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Yes. Of course, it would only be due to her nervous condition. I could re-gift that couch. And I would be sure to toss the moving man a bottle of grape juice, no matter what his views were concerning pro-life legislation.

You are the Florence Nightingale of stray animals.