The super-late edition.
Well, the Frankfurter went back to see Dr. Tate on Friday and the verdict is in. He’s not using his leg very much and she’s concerned that he’s never going to regain full use of it unless he has further surgery. The chiropractor and the orthopedic surgeon agree, so Frankie is scheduled for surgery on Monday.
Drs. Tate and Johnston will remove a few more millimeters of his femur so that it won’t be able to rub on his pelvis. A few millimeters! It’s hard to imagine that a few millimeters would make such a drastic difference. But then if you think about how painful it is to have a tiny pebble in your shoe, it starts to make sense.
Please keep Frankie and his medical team in your prayers. If this doesn’t work, we’re probably out of options and he’ll have to be a mostly-three-legged dog.
We don’t want that to happen, but if it does, it isn’t the end of the world. When I was a kid, my Lab-mix, Socks, was hit by a car. The vet said his ball joint was broken, but my parents did not have the money for surgery. Socks just stopped using the injured leg and went on with his life as if nothing had ever happened.
In fact, because of his injury, he developed an ingenious way of killing our neighbor’s chickens. Roy’s new hobby that year was chickens. I don’t think he imagined that chickens would be quite as challenging as his proved to be. No matter what kind of enclosure he built for them, they escaped. And came into our yard. Every. Single. Time.
Here’s the scenario: I fed Socks as I was leaving for school every morning. I’d put his food on the front porch and he’d pick up the bowl and carry it out into the front yard. When he got far enough into the yard, he’d spill it all over the ground. At first, I felt sorry for him, not being able to carry a rather light dish of food and all, so I’d go out into the yard, pick the food up off the ground, and put it back into the bowl for him. And then he would pick up the bowl, walk around with it, and spill it again. Frustrated and out of time, I’d leave for school.
This went on for weeks and weeks, me being the pawn in Socks’s game before my brother finally told me the rest of the story. After Socks dumped his food on the ground, he would go back and lay down near the house and wait. And wait. And wait. It was his specialty. Pretty soon, the chickens would make their way to our yard, having learned that Socks dumped his food on the ground at 7:45 every morning. And then Socks would wait some more.
And then he’d get up and mosey over toward the chickens, making a wide circle around them. He’d keep this up, making the circle smaller and smaller, moving faster and faster. Finally, the chickens would catch on to the fact that they were in danger. But one by one, each chicken in his time got either a little too confident of getting away or a little too addicted to dog food to care about getting away. Socks already had the chickens running around in a frenzy, so he’d single out one of them and start running around and around and around him. Then finally, he’d get close enough and he’d…plop over and fall on him!
Yep, that’s right. He used his bum leg to plop over on the chicken. And then…you know…killed him the old-fashioned way.
I am not making this up! Although…my brother could’ve made it all up. Which, honestly, I wouldn’t put past him.
But I like to think my genius dog who lured the chickens to our yard with dog food scattered on the lawn also came up with a brilliant way of capturing the little buggers.
And my neighbor? Well, he decided that if his chickens were smart enough to get out of their enclosure but stupid enough to be nabbed by my dog, well, they deserved it.