Heel, Dog! Part II

I run downstairs to find Pat at the entryway to the living room yelling at Roxie who is cowering at the foot of the stairs. Inside the living room, the area rug has been decorated with piles of poop and puddles of pee, from one end to the other. Looks like we’re going to be late.

I hook the leash onto Roxie’s collar and Pat, seething, goes to collect a bucket and scrub brush to begin the nasty chore or clean up. It’s his turn – in case you’re wondering why he has assumed responsibility for cleaning up. My clean up job yesterday when I got home from work wasn’t nearly as bad as this massacre. We’ll have to get new carpet in the living room now. There’s no making these stains look like a lovely pattern in the rug.

I take Roxie outside to relieve herself of any remaining poop or pee though I am doubtful she could possibly hold any more than she’s already unloaded inside. If I’m right and Roxie really is trying to get on Pat’s good side, she has ventured down the wrong path and made a terrible, terrible mistake.

To get to our backyard from the driveway, Roxie and I have to climb about eight not-to-code wooden steps that will lead us up beyond the retaining wall. Then we’ll take a dirt path along the side of the house, down two steps and then under the deck. In the yard and as expected, Roxie shows no inclination to do any more business. Instead, she starts making a grab for the leash with her mouth. I scold her that trying to chew through her leash is the last thing she should be doing. I tell her she’s lucky Pat hasn’t killed her yet. You know, positive parenting. It doesn’t matter. She’s paying no attention to me. Just keeps gnawing away.

I wonder how Pat is doing. We really need to get on the road to make our appointment at PetsMart on time. Roxie and I walk back the way we came. We are on top of the steps to the driveway when Pat opens the back door to the garage to put away some cleaning supplies. Roxie sees Pat, and in what I can only think is an attempt to apologize for the grand mess she left in the living room, Roxie, ignoring the steps, jumps off the retaining wall, making a bee-line for Pat.

I’m still holding her leash, of course.

I am airborne for a few seconds and then find myself lying spread eagle on my belly, atop the cement driveway. Too late, I let go of the leash.

Oomph! The wind has been knocked out of me and I think I’ve hurt my ankle. Pat’s immediately at my side asking if I’m okay. I’m not sure where Roxie is.

“I think I’m okay. Just give me a minute.” I roll onto my back. “Are you done cleaning up?” I ask.

“Yes, but we can’t go to PetsMart now. You’re hurt.”

“No, I think I’m okay. My ankle hurts but I can just stay in the car while you take Roxie in.”

“Really, Jill? I don’t think we should go. That damn dog! We need to take her back.”

“We’re not taking her back to the shelter. She heard you coming out the door and just wanted to apologize. It’s my fault, really. I didn’t let go of the leash.”

I sit up and Pat extends his arm to help me up. Ouch. I can’t put weight on my right foot. Crap. But still, I assure Pat that we can go to PetsMart. With Pat’s help, I hip hop to the car and sit in the passenger seat. While Pat tries to wrestle Roxie into the car, my foot and ankle begin to ache and throb.

“Pat,” I say when he situates himself into the front seat. “I think we shouldn’t go to PetsMart. I think we better go to the emergency room. I think I sprained my ankle or broke something.”

“I’m glad we’re going to get you looked at versus getting the dog cleaned. I’ll put Roxie back in the house. Do you need anything from inside?”

—   —   —

At the hospital they take x-rays of my right foot and send me back to the waiting room. And then we wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, they call me back. They explain that the on-call orthopedic physician isn’t going to come in because my foot is too swollen, making the x-rays difficult to read. He believes that I have broken my heel bone and he’s instructed the emergency department staff to immobilize my foot and schedule an appointment in his office the following week. He hopes that the swelling will have gone down by then. The emergency staff send me home with a set of crutches.

Pat has prepared the first-floor guest bedroom as my new headquarters. I am to keep my leg elevated above my heart at all times which is not the most comfortable position to do anything. (The ER staff suggested that I lay on my stomach and bend my right leg so my foot is elevated, it might prove to be more comfortable. He’s right. It is more comfortable but there’s not a lot you can do while you’re lying on your stomach besides sleep.)

Pat keeps trying to convince me to get rid of the dog. I will not have any of it.

“How will you be able to take care of Roxie when you’re bed-ridden?” He asks. He’s nervous about Monday when he has to go back to work. That reminds me. I need to call into work myself.

“We’ll be fine,” I answer. “It will be like last week when I was at work. We kept Roxie in all day. She’ll just have to stay in all day this week too.” I find myself being Roxie’s champion when, truth be told, she has not yet apologized for pulling me off the steps. Why does she seem so devoted to Pat when he’s the one who wants to get rid of her? If she wants to stay in this family, she had better learn soon that I’m the one buttering her bread.

—   —   —

Monday morning starts out okay. Pat has taken Roxie out for her morning pee and refreshed her water bowls. He leaves for work making assurances that he is just a phone call and twenty minutes away if I need him.

On the nightstand are a now-old-fashioned corded telephone, a book, my pain killers, and an open can of orange soda that Pat brought down to me from the kitchen before he left. Scattered across the bed are boxes and bags of snacks to sustain me throughout the day.

A few minutes pass and I call my mom using the corded phone, not my cell phone which is lying somewhere on the bed.  While my mom and I are talking, Roxie, is standing in front of the nightstand, begging for attention. Too big to be comfortable in the two feet of space between the bed and the bedroom wall, she’s attempting to turn around in the cramped space so that her bottom is closer to me, making it more convenient for me to rub her butt. She’s very thoughtful that way. But in her maneuvering, Roxie inadvertently knocks over the pop can and it falls to the floor where it starts bleeding a massive amount of orange all over the cream-colored carpet.

And for the first time ever my mom hears me scream, “Fuck!” I tell her I have an emergency and I’ll call her back before I hang up. I have to get some towels to clean this up before it stains forever. Thankfully, the linen cupboard is right next door, and further down the hallway is a bathroom where I can wet the towels. Roxie’s in the way of my crutches and I shoo her away, probably not in the nicest way. I make a grab for the crutches.

Did I mention that I don’t know how to use crutches? This is actually the first time I’ve ever needed them and though the hospital fitted them for my height, they still seem too short. Shouldn’t they reach my armpits? I scoot myself down to the very bottom of the bed, which gets me closer to the doorway. This will save me two steps. I remember at the last minute to stuff my cell phone in the pocket of my cardigan. I launch myself up onto the crutches and pause, getting my bearings. I feel a tremendous need to hurry – the orange soda is sinking deeper into the carpeting with every second that passes.

I swing the crutches forward, then move my hips forward. Wait a minute! What’s happening?! I’m hardly through the bedroom door and BOOM! I’m down. In slow motion, just like on Saturday. Face-first again but this time my knee hits the ground first. Several consecutive F-bombs machine-gun fire out of my mouth. That damn dog!

It seems I have fallen an inordinate number of times as an adult. What is with me? And it’s never fun. There’s always the thud. The groan. The assessment. This is the second time in two days! Two days, for chrissake! Am I attempting a record or something? What is so hard about keeping your balance on a pair of stupid crutches?

Okay, how am I going to get up? Crap. Let me think… Well, the truth is, I can’t. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. I turn myself over onto my back which for me, takes quite a bit of finesse. Because my fingers are contracted, my hands offer little in the way of assistance. I am so glad we don’t have security cameras in our hallway. I can’t imagine what I look like. Wait, yes, I can. A giant oaf, that’s what. I lift my right leg, crossing it over my left knee. At least I can report that I’ve kept my foot elevated.

Thank God I have my phone. Because I’m lying on part of my sweater, I have to lift, shift and shimmy to get the darn thing out of my pocket. I’ve managed to work up a sweat but I finally have the phone in my fist.

“What are you looking at, you little shit?” I ask Roxie, who is lying on her stomach in the bedroom, watching me. Judging me. She’s got some nerve.

I call Pat.

He has just arrived at his office. I can’t believe that so much has transpired in the course of twenty minutes! He comes home and helps me off the floor, to the bathroom (because of course, I now have to pee), back to the bedroom and finally, back to bed. I’m exhausted!

Pat cleans up the orange stain on the carpet. He cleans it so well, in fact, that you would never know anything had spilled there. In another life, Pat may have worked for Stanley Steemer. His specialties: dog poop, dog pee and orange soda.

Again, he tries. “Jill, we have to get rid of this dog! She’s going to kill you!”

“Pat, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have had the can of pop so close to the end of the nightstand. We’re not getting rid of the dog.” Roxie, you better be paying attention.

Pat goes back to work after supplying me with a new can of orange soda.

(To be continued…)