I’ve just been taken on quite the runaround. First, I got saddled with dogsitting my sister-in-law’s annoying little terrier, Tegan, while she jetted off on another impromptu trip. As someone who’s not a dog person, I’m the last resort, so she must have been desperate. The drama escalated pretty quickly from there.
After Kate dropped off Tegan, I took her for a walk along the beach – I’d been wanting some fresh air anyway. I let her off-leash and watched as she ran up a rocky outcrop. Trouble kicked in when she didn’t stop running at the top and proceeded to disappear over the other side. When she didn’t reappear, I went to investigate and discovered that it had been quite a drop for her. She seemed to have landed awkwardly, and was now unable to stand on one her front legs.
I carried her back to the car while quietly muttering expletives and frantically googling emergency vets in the Bayside area. When I finally tracked down an appointment, I was dismayed to learn that Tegan had fractured her leg. I was informed that orthopaedic surgery would be required, and assured that this was a relatively common procedure.
While we waited to complete the pre-operation paperwork, I noticed that Tegan seemed to be in relatively decent spirits. This made me giggle, so I gave her a scratch under the chin. She wagged her tail and licked me enthusiastically on the arm, despite her broken leg. Finally, in that pet surgery in Moorabbin, I felt a wave of goodwill towards Tegan that I hadn’t experienced before. I recognised that the frantic state I’d been in could be put down to concern for her wellbeing, and realised that I really did want her to have the best veterinary care available.
I’m not going to mention our ‘moment’ to Kate, though. If I do, she’ll be wanting me to dogsit every weekend, and I don’t think I could handle the drama.