sprain

The dog sprained her ankle on Thursday. It's okay. You can laugh.

For twenty-four hours, she couldn't walk. (We have no idea how she did this to herself.) She'd clamber awkwardly to her feet and kind of stand there with her foot up in the air and look at us with those eyes dogs do until Raphael broke down and carried her outside or brought her her water bowl or sacrificed virgins to her. Whatever she wanted.

So now she's on anti-inflammatory drugs and is supposed to be resting the ankle by not chasing birds and planes and carpenter bees and dust, but obviously that's not happening because if Lila doesn't chase those things, who the heck will?

Raphael has been spending a lot of time demanding passionately, "What don't you understand about 'DO NOT RUN', Lila?!" And Lila has been spending a lot of time staring at him blankly and then running away, having ascertained that what he's attempting to convey in his clumsy human fashion is: "Go get your ball and we'll run after it together for awhile, Lila! And then we'll chase birds! And it will be AWESOME!"

Some dogs go entire lifetimes without having major health issues. Some dogs never have to have gastrointestinal surgery or have allergies or have diarrhea for weeks at a time or break teeth or regularly limp around with thorns in their pads or sprain their ankles or can only properly digest expensive dog food and fancy treats or have to eat yogurt and psyllium on a regular basis to keep everything copasetic.

I love Lila, but I kind of want one of those dogs.