Our dog, Ruby, has just recently been freed from her ‘prison’ after a mishap six weeks ago that ended in yet another very expensive down payment for our vet’s latest model BMW parked in the opulent driveway at vet headquarters.
When I say mishap, I’m referring to our son’s inability to listen to instructions and not put the dog on his rather high bed lest she decide she is going to launch herself off to investigate something important like the opening of a cheese wrapper somewhere in the house. I had been told by the vet that the cruciate ligaments in her back knees were weak so everyone in the house was on notice.
As Ruby had never been confined before it was a test of endurance to see who would cave first. I’m ashamed to say it wasn’t me this time as I held my ground against the pitiful howls and accusing eyes until the fourth week when we bought a bigger cage for her to wander in and a pram for her to get out and about in and she forgave me.
My husband wasn’t keen on the idea of a doggie pram but as long as I pushed it he was good to go. The merits of a cute white dog riding in a pram cannot be understated, however, as women gravitated in our general direction wherever we went, so he settled in comfortably after a while and demonstrated his pram-pushing skills around the local park.
It’s been a long six weeks and I’ve been told by the vet that she will need monitoring and rehabilitation for the following three months. I’m pretty sure I’m in the wrong profession.
My son has been given the full counsel but I think he’s learned his lesson as he gets to mow the lawn for free for the next twelve months to make up for it. If he’s really lucky he might even get to wheel Ruby around in her pram.