Twelve Hours…
Okay. So the twelve hours between 9PM on Monday night and 9AM on Tuesday were the weirdest, most dramatic hours.
Let me back up. Monday was perfection. Things at work were great. The kids were in good moods, and things had quieted down after all the craziness the week before. I was in a good mood. And we’d spent a lovely afternoon with all the pups at my dog park.
Bailey had run herself into a coma. So when I got home on Monday night, which was actually a Friday night, I settled in with a glass of wine and an episode of Bachelor in Paradise (do not judge me). There was no reason for me to go back out, so I’d already changed.
One of my neighbors texted at 9, asking if we wanted to go to the park. I can see the dog park from my unit, so I looked out the window and reported in that it was too crowded for her little dog. We decided on a quick little walk instead.
When we met up, we noticed that the park was considerably less crowded than it had been and moseyed on over. That, right there, was a huge mistake.
One of our neighbors had one of those stick contraption things that allow you to throw a ball really far without touching the sliminess. Bailey thought it was the best thing ever and lost herself in a game of fetch with the guy. He didn’t mind, and she was enticing his dogs to chase her. Win win.
But then, running full speed ahead, she clipped her leg on one of the stupid obstacles that are really only in there for aesthetics because let’s be real…none of the dogs use them. She hit the ground hard and had trouble getting up. Time moved in slow motion. I was across the park and ran as fast as I could to her. By time I made it to her, she was up but wasn’t putting any weight on her back leg.
My heart was in my stomach, and at that point the other pet parents started to notice. We stood around her, examining her leg. I called J and told him he needed to meet me downstairs immediately. I was worried she wouldn’t be able to climb the stairs to our third floor apartment.
As we exited the park, Bailey had “walked” it off. She was putting weight on her leg but was taking it a little slow. When she spotted J, she jaunted over. Relief flooded over me. Once at our building, she took off up the stairs excitedly. She seemed fine. Thank God.
She laid down on the hardwood when we got upstairs. I went to cuddle on her and that’s when I noticed the gash in her leg. We had the infamous it’s after 10, do we go to the emergency vet? debate. She was acting and walking fine, so we decided to just clean it out and bandage her up. When I went to bed that night, she hopped up no problem. And we slept. Hard.
Until 4:45AM when she decided it was imperative to go out. Bleary eyed, I obeyed, slightly cursing her because it was my day off but excited to see how well she was moving.
I stepped out of our apartment, which let my remind you, is on the third floor in a city complex. Standing by our neighbor’s door was a raccoon.
We called animal control which apparently doesn’t accept calls until 7AM. Um, okay. What are you supposed to do until then? Once 7AM rolled around, they told me they couldn’t do anything for us since we lived in an apartment complex. Call maintenance they told me.
Okay. So if I’m being held at gun point inside of my complex, I’m supposed to call maintenance instead of 911? What in the actual eff?
I alerted maintenance once they arrived at 9, who turned and immediately called…you guessed it, animal control. Who never, ever showed. Meanwhile, the dude was making himself quite comfortable.
