Our beloved Mrs. Wigglebottom is severely limping. Again. Though it’s been a long time. As you may recall, she’s got football knee and we’re trying to limp her along, so to speak, as long as possible, because, once the tendon tears completely, she’s got to have surgery of some sort, and the vet and I are fighting about whether one puts thousands of dollars into a dog’s knee to then put her through a painful rehab or if one puts a couple of hundred bucks into making a dog three-legged and pain free.
These are not easy decisions to make, or easy fights to have, and so we’ve just been keeping her off her knee as much as we can.
But she must have done something to aggrevate it today, between the time I left for work and the time the Butcher came home, because she really doesn’t want to put any weight on her back foot.
On the other hand, she doesn’t flinch or grouch when I’ve been poking and prodding at her. But, this is also the girl who’s like “You have to cut me open and pour vodka on me to get rid of that tick? Sure. I’ll just lay here and take it.” And also the girl who’s like “No, god no, don’t cut my nails. It’s so awful.” Which is just to say you can’t count on her to give you an accurate assessment of the pain she might be in.
But I gave her an asperin and some cheese and she went to the bathroom and now she’s sleeping at my feet letting out the cutest honk-shoos ever, so let’s hope whatever is wrong is magically righted by a good nap and pain killers.