Turns Out, I Am The Reason We Can't Have Nice Things

Louie is the sweetest dog ever. He has already become one of my favorites in the small pack that we have. Dogs earn this position by loyalty to their people. Darla gained this by Being Wherever I Am. She's awesome, and knows who feeds her. Louie earned this by Always Being At My Feet. This is actually quite a phenomenal thing for a pup. Puppies gravitate to the big dogs for acceptance, and when there are other dogs to play with, who wants to sit quietly at the feet of a human?

Louie, that's who.

The other dogs, much as I love them, have not worked very hard to earn any sort of ranking in that Best Dog Ever contest. Jill is the Hoarder Of All The Treats and can generally be found on her bed under the desk in the corner of the living room, hoarding bones. Margo is the self-appointed Watcher Of All Things Outside. Her place is on the chest under the window so she can lay there and see all that walks across her yard. 

I will admit to spoiling Louie a bit, but I had good reason. The poor boy's first impression of me was The Lady Who Stuffed Him Into A Crate And Drove Him 1,000 Miles From Home. He loved me from the start and followed me everywhere, but he didn't trust me very much. I couldn't touch him unless I backed him into a corner or ran him down. And it didn't help that he was crated when we left the house or at night. To help him get over this, I carried him around to pet him a lot, and let him sit with me on the couch (a no-no here because of pet allergies). This taught him that I was essentially a good person despite that Stuffing Him Into A Crate thing that I persisted with daily, and he showed his appreciation for the spoiling by upgrading from Following Me Everywhere to Always Being At My Feet.

And that's how the whole week went downhill on Monday afternoon. Louie was at his place in life, and I was making dinner. Walking back and forth in the kitchen is a given when you're trying to cook, and Louie was trying to keep up. I must have stopped too long at one point because Louie sat down at my feet. I'm not in the habit of looking where I walk in my own house because my dogs know to get out from underfoot. Louie, however, does not. I stumbled over the poor cream colored bulldog. But it doesn't end there. I WISH.

We had one tiny french baby waiting to go to her forever home. She weighs all of 4 pounds and is just a wee handful of cuteness. She has decided that Louie is a very cool teenager to hang out with, and follows him the way Louie follows me. It's like a parade here in the house all the time. It sounds way more fun that it really is. But when that parade was put in reverse, things went horribly wrong. Louie was sitting directly behind me, I turned around to get something and tripped over the poor guy. While trying to regain my balance, I fumbled and stumbled and stepped on the baby.

It doesn't take a math genius to figure out that a grown human, even one as short as I am, is going to far outweigh that wee 4 pound puppy. She screamed, because it hurts when Paul Bunyan clumsily tramples you. She held up a leg and continued screaming. I felt like screaming. I put her in a crate so she wouldn't get stepped on again and to limit her activity on that injured leg. I gave her a quarter of a baby Aspirin. I prayed she'd be alright.

And then I noticed that Louie was limping. He never made a sound, and I can only deduce that I trampled him as I stumbled over him. I crated him, too, and gave him half a baby Aspirin. I took Micah to soccer, cleaned up after dinner, and let the baby french people out to assess damage. Still limping. And the next morning, both dogs were still gimpy as well. But there were changes. The wee baby would bear weight and run and play and have a good time, mostly holding her leg up and sometimes forgetting and using it. She was going to be just fine. Louie, however, was trembling and looking at me with eyes that clearly said, "help me!" Dogs that tremble from pain are the most heartbreaking things you'll see. I made an appointment to take my trampled dogs to the vet.

The wee babe got an all-clear from the vet, but Louie didn't fare so well. You guys, I BROKE MY DOG by trampling him. The break is right at a growth plate, and he's in a prime growing stage. OF COURSE. The vet sent the x-rays to a specialist in Pittsburgh to determine the best plan of action for repairing a break near a growth plate. I did research online as well, because I'm a need-to-know kind of person that way. I was much relieved when they vets consulted together and decided that a cast was the best line of action, because the alternative was pinning the bones into place. Because I trampled my dog. And broke his leg.

I am the reason we can't have nice things. And all these years I've been blaming the kids and dogs.

But if bad things are going to happen because I win the Lifetime Clutz award, at least the result is cute, right? Is that wrong?