Hop, hop....

It's official: the dog isn't simply being a drama queen because of a new cat. She has either torn or even snapped a ligament in her knee, hence the three-leggedness of recent days, originally thought to be another wasp sting. She did very well at the vet's, not repeating, despite much provocation, the sudden bite of two weeks ago that surprised the vet and I beyond measure. And she didn't throw up in the car either, although I did stuff her into the cat basket with towels, to - well, you know, contain any likely throwing up, or worse.

We spent a long time in the waiting room, where a black puppy the size of an average baking potato squeaked excitedly to be set down to play with an absolutely enormous German shepherd dog who was too busy crying like a baby, and pleading to be taken away from that nasty vet, to notice. The dog sat quietly and I browsed the cat magazines, stupefied by the range of fol-de-rols you could spend your life savings on to amuse cats who would be bored with them in five minutes. We came home smelling awful, as you do when you linger in such places: eau d'anxiety and powerful disinfectant. The cats sniffed us thoroughly, hoovering up and down my legs with their mouths open. That way, they know everything about the dog now.

So there's to be regular and frequent short walks, no running or jumping, and daily medication, possibly for months. I'll have to construct little steps of some sort for the favourite neighbourhood watch armchair, although the dog usually bypasses any practical aid of this sort. Invalids have to be kept amused, and neighbourhood watching is her very favourite amusement. The neighbourhood often responds with smiles and waves.

Maybe she could earn her living this way. Maybe I should make her a bandage and a little banner, and rig up a collection tin outside the window.