The dog is spending about 70% of her non-sleeping/snoozing/lazing time on all four legs. Neil the vet saw her today, examining her injured leg thoroughly without eliciting a bite, or, indeed, anything more than a bit of eye-rolling at me (from the dog, that is, not the vet) and says she's coming on nicely.
Daily painkillers must continue for now; Scooter will be relieved, as he queues up each morning with the dog for that bit of pate, yowling loudly at me if I'm being too slow. Then he seizes his little lump of cheap supermarket delight, devours it greedily, washes my fingers for me, and returns seamlessly to treating me like the mad axe-woman who kills young cats. He reckons that I must be fled from at all times that don't involve treats from the fridge. Scooter can flee like no other cat I've ever owned. He thinks I'm dangerous; I think he's a dimwit.
The bad news (though not for me, sick of being restricted to short toddles round the block) is that the dog's exercise regime can be extended. We can go for longer walks, and in this weather, that's not a happy thought for a certain princessy little dog who hates the rain, the damp, the wind, the winter, the idea of doing anything outdoors for longer than two minutes.