This morning I took both dogs for a walk, because Doug is home sick with a cold. In the yard, Boscoe was playful, trying to mount Riley, collapsing slightly, getting up, mounting again. (He'd eaten half of his breakfast--which is good for him these days--and I guess he was feeling frisky.)
At the gate, I stepped back to swing the door open, and I stepped on his front paw. He screamed and fell to the ground. (Neighbors, that was the ear-piercing sound that shook you from your beds at 7:30 a.m.)
It was an awful, heart-stopping moment. I helped him to his feet and he staggered down the alley, limping heavily, eyeballing me balefully...until I reached into my pocket and pulled out a treat.
He wolfed it down and trotted on, miraculously cured, and a few minutes later tried to race Riley down the sidewalk.