MacDuff finds his hops
When I found The Duff ambling aimlessly down on the Arkansas River Trail, he was such a mass of matted fur with a gimpy gait that I assumed the he was an old dog. I even described him to Mom as an “old man with a broken leg” when requesting her to bring the CRV down to Medflight him back to the Casa.
She was actually expecting that I had found an elderly homeless man in need of assistance, and was a bit relieved to arrive to find me rolling around on the ground with a floppy yard ape.
After checking him for micro chips and broken bones, it was determined that his gimpy leg was a result of a past injury and that’s just how it was going to be from now on. The hairy little ingrate has taken over at the Casa as the House Minority Whip, keeping the other inmates whipped into a state of perpetual frenzy. I can just see the years drop from Charlie as they engage in extended reenactments of the Battle of Bitey Mouth; even Titus Pullo and Micro Polo steer clear of the carnage. The motorcycle and the CRV have became his two favorite methods of conveyance, but there was still something missing:
He could not jump.
Whether it was due to his bum back leg or just a desire to be spoiled rotten in the face of the other inmates, he would just stand there and prance until I pulled him up on the bed, the bike, or any other surface higher that 18″. I always suspected foul play and bad acting, as he could tear around the yard like a hairy comet, but he just. wouldn’t. jump.
A few weeks ago, he was scampering about while terrorizing Charlie when I heard a loud screaming coming from the back yard of the Casa. Duff came hobbling back into the Cave Canem, whimpering with his right rear leg held high. Oh great, I thought; more vet bills. Just what I needed.
But that wasn’t the case at all. He started getting better. And believe it or not, he started jumping. First up onto the couch, then up into the car. Then the biggie, up onto the bed that Mom has so jacked so high up in the air that I can use the ceiling fan to clip my toenails. And finally, up onto the back of the motorcycle.
Where Jude is usually already sitting; he is never happy to unceremoniously become a seat for a hairy little dog butt.
So don’t give up. Sometimes it takes a second injury to correct the damage caused by the first. The second break may just what’s needed to tear loose the old scar tissue so that it may be reformed stronger than before.
Or I may be full of sheep dip and that may not be true at all; who am I but a weird guy that delights in talking to dogs? (But I do believe that I’m right on this one)
We be of one blood, ye and I
