Sorry beforehand, for the poor writing. This is a bit of a manic update about yesterday's activities.
The boyfriend and I went for a romantic walk through a graveyard yesterday, ignoring all signs that said dogs must be on a leash. Mountain View cemetary is really the place to go see outrageous mausoleums, and given that Watson is the home-schooled dog, we didn't think it was right to deprive him of the history lesson. He ran about like the uncultured idiot he is.
In fact, as we stopped to look over a blocked off drop to concrete, noting the awesome graffiti plastered on the sides, he idiotically ran right off the wall.
It was another of those moments, when time slows down, and you hear yourself scream, and you have time to think of all the consequences before he even hits the bottom. After about 3 lifetimes, he finally did hit the concrete...on his back...25 feet below. he screamed, even louder than me, and kept trying to get up and walk. The boyfriend took off, running around, looking for a place to get through and climb down to the dog. I used up all the calm I had left and found a spot in the fence he could climb through, and spent the rest of the calm telling him, "Just take your time. Pick him up like I showed you, and go nice and slowly. It's ok."
We tried walking him to where we parked the car, switching off carrying him, but at 50+ pounds on uneven footing, it just wasn't working. When he was in the boyfriend's arms, I held his head and pet him gently. When I pulled away, I noticed there was blood all over my arm.
Oh my god....he's bleeding.
Go get the car. I'm going to stay here with him. There's no way we can carry him all the way back.
So I ran. And the whole time I thought about Harry Dresden, in the Dresden Files books, when he always talks about how he practices running, just in case. And I always think shaddup!
But now I was wishing I'd heeded his fictional wizardly advice, because I was out of breath and only halfway there, the hill still ahead of me. I trudged up the hill, all the time thinking about this little puppy Watson was, and how our only job was to make sure he didn't kill himself. I was failing my job.
Got to the car, jumped in and started driving before taking the time to think of the route. This is an extensive cemetary, and no road leads in the direction you'd think. Took me forever, and questioning two startled strangers, before I found them again.
Then: traffic. Fucking East Bay traffic. Like the world moves in between 4 and 7 pm on weekdays. Goddam nightmare, is what it is.
We have to drive to Berkeley for the emergency room. Watson goes onto the table and starts shaking, the shock wearing off. The doctor comes in and hears what happened, checking his ears, his heart, his bones.
"He's ok. He's extraordinarily lucky. I can't believe it, but not even a broken bone."
And I start crying. Big time. It didn't occur to me till then that I was convinced that Watson was that dog that you only get a short time with, but shows you how good dogs can be. He's a good boy.
The doc gives him a couple shots for the pain and warns us he's going to whine because he doesn't understand why he's all spin-ny. "No jumping. No activity for a couple days."
We actually bought him steak. Cheap steak....but we're vegans, and this is a big deal. This is LOVE, people. I cut it into strips and froze it, so when he gets extra sore he can have a meatsicle.
Dog, being the indestructible smarty-pants he is, has learned already to just whine an extra bit and he gets steak.
He's a good boy. A lucky boy. A sore boy.
