Over the holiday weekend, Folly managed to injure her left hind leg. I found her on the hardwood living room floor on Saturday, making the joke “Have you fallen and you can’t get up?”, but just to say “fuck you”, she started limping.
By Sunday she could put no pressure on the leg at all, languishing in doggie luxury on my red sofa, water and food dish within reach. Sunday night swelling began on the inside of her hock. By Monday night her entire leg, knee and foot looked like a club. Tuesday we ended up at the doggie ER ($400 later), and Thursday, we were at the vet ($300 later).
The best part? We still don’t know what’s wrong.
She’s sporting this vibrant purple pressure bandage from toes to hip, a bottle of Rimadyl for swelling and pain, and a bottle of anti-biotics “just in case”. All blood levels and X-rays fine, and a vet that says, “This isn’t a normal presentation.”
Yes, we’re in House M.D. territory.
The most pitiful and hysterical thing is that she hops around on three legs like some demented frog. Thinking it would be safe to let her out sans leash in her wounded state, I was literally chasing her across the front lawn as she headed for the street.
But she’s stealing Birdie’s blankie and bed again, so I know she’s on the mend.