Sophie had a hard day last Friday.
And when Sophie has a hard day, so do we.
In the morning she and I took our walk to the park, where a woman with a big blue-eyed husky approached us. She did admit she was never sure how her dog would react, but as usual, Sophie wanted to say hello.
Except, when close up, Sophie didn’t like the way the other dog was looking at her. Her hello turned into an exposure of fangs. The husky grabbed her by the muzzle.
We pulled them apart, Sophie dropped to the ground, the woman said nothing, and we headed home. Straight home. Sophie seemed okay. And my time was occupied with preparing to be away from home all day Saturday.
I did wonder in the afternoon, when she approached her water bowl at a strange angle. But she drank and I gave it no more thought.
Then she refused her supper. She made it clear that she wanted to eat—but couldn’t. Her back was arched in pain; any touch on her cheek brought a cry of protest.
A call to the vet referred us to an emergency room only minutes away. I registered online and we waited. And waited. With Sophie between us on the couch. At some point, something —a blister? an abscess? — broke in her mouth and there were traces of blood on the sofa cover.
For four hours, we waited. Along about our bedtime, we got the text to come in. The vet didn’t find any lacerations, gave her a shot of a 24-hour anti-inflammatory, and pills.
We came home, Sophie ate her supper, and everyone went to bed.
I often feel like Sophie and I are alike. But Sophie is braver. She faces up to the big dogs out there. I walk away fast.
The next day I displayed my books at my first-ever arts and crafts event. Somehow, remembering Sophie in the pet ER the night before kept matters in perspective. Sort of.
I am now ready to return to my persona of a writer recluse.
Kate Harrington 