Little Soldier

We've had a minor catastrophe today. Hugo was off the lead, trotting calmly down the lane beside the house on his lunchtime airing, when he spotted a squirrel at the bottom of the hill. Off he went at top speed, and just before he had a chance to grab the animal as it crossed his path he skidded to a halt sending the chippings flying. The lane was resurfaced several months ago but it remains sharp and unpleasant to walk on, even for me wearing boots. I try to keep him on the soft verge but he takes no notice. He ran back up when I called him, and I made a note to check his paws when we got home. But as soon as I picked one up to dry it my hand was covered in blood. He'd only gone and ripped both dewclaws off. He lay in his bed without a murmur as I washed them, applied Savlon and dressed them. It must have hurt. And then it was off to the vet for expert help. Oh Hugo, little soldier. Was there ever anything as heart-wrenching as seeing your liquid eyes gaze lovingly into mine as I manhandled your wounds?

On another miserable note, my cousin Margaret returned home yesterday to find she'd been burgled, all the windows open and everything gone. And she lives in the middle of nowhere too, in the wilds of wildest Scotland. Who would be so mean, two weeks before Christmas, as to empty her chocolate Advent calendar?

Serious Update

It wasn't the dewclaws but the upper pads which he skidded on and succeeded in flaying. They are both raw, shredded and torn. There are other injuries too which the vet spotted, a bruised back leg and various smaller abrasions on the hind feet. She thinks he must have taken a tumble when he braked so sharply. He lay on a mat on the floor of the surgery with his head in my lap, expression patient and gentle, while she washed everything with disinfectant, dressed both legs expertly, applied boots over the top, and prescribed antibiotics. There was still some prosecco in the bottle when we got back but it was a stiff cup of tea I needed. I've missed the opera tonight, but who could listen to lovely music when their traumatised child was miserable in the back of the car? We'll light the fire in a while and hunker in front of Strictly instead. And there's no training tomorrow. Slainte!