Poor Pablo. Yesterday he jumped off our bed, same as he does every morning, to follow K downstairs for breakfast. This time he must have landed funny and sprained his left leg. I didn’t realize the extent of his injury until after his walk. His refusal to go past our house should have been a major clue, but I figured he was being his usual stubborn self. For the rest of the day he confined himself to a cushion on the floor, not even coming into the kitchen when I opened a can of tuna for my lunch. This was how I knew he was really hurting.
Winston Churchill’s daughter, Mary, had a pet pug named Punch. When Punch became ill, Churchill wrote this poem for him:
Oh, what is the matter with poor Puggy-wug
Pet him and kiss him and give him a hug.
Run and fetch him a suitable drug,
Wrap him up tenderly all in a rug,
That is the way to cure Puggy-wug.
Well, I followed the British Bulldog’s advice (minus the drug since aspirin and other pain relievers can be harmful, especially to small dogs) and I’m happy to report Pablo’s much improved today. He was even eager to go for his walk, although I insisted that he cut it short. When we got back, he took up his usual residence under my desk.