This morning, I took Pippi out of the large multipurpose dog crate, put Pippi in a smaller plastic crate (actually a giant tupperware type thing that I drilled breathing holes into and have been using as a kid transport crate ever since), stashed the crate in my Subaru and took off to the vet.
This, perhaps, is the best part of the story. Dr. Jessica, who has a way with caprines, places Pippi on the table. She watches her stand, watches her walk, feels the leg up and down. It’s warm to the touch — which isn’t bad, Dr. Jessica notes, in fact it’s a sign of healing. She also notices some stiffness in Pippi’s shoulder.
And then she arrives at her diagnosis. The final word: Pippi’s a wuss. Yes, the vet actually diagnoses Pippi as being a wuss.
As in, she freaked out after having her leg stuck in the trough, and overreacted by not wanting to walk on it. Much the same way that, when I felt a nail slide easily into the flesh of my palm, I refused to do anything but press my other hand tightly against it until Emmett looked at it and determined the extent of the damage.
I still have a sweet scar from ‘getting nailed.’ As for Pippi, her leg was bruised, with probably some damage to the ligament, but absolutely nothing to be worried about.
Except, of course, for the fact that she will be eternally known as Pippi, AKA Peg-Leg, AKA Misfit, AKA The Wuss.