Tonight, I watch my gimpy little dog hop around with her right hind foot in a splint. I hear her bump into the furniture with her E-Collar. Little more than twenty-four hours ago, she played Russian Roulette– again — and almost lost.
“Uh-oh,” I said, looking at him. “Wonder how that happened!”
“And the kitchen door’s open,” he added. ” Better go shut it before you-know-who….”.
Pulling the door to, I heaved a sigh of relief. But as we were kissing good-bye, I glimpsed something tan and furry, ears pulled back, and tail, waving triumphantly in the fall breeze.
Since Russet had escaped before, I knew better than to chase her. Instead, I grabbed her leash and walked out to the front of the house to wait for her. Sure enough, she was on her way out to Allen Avenue.
She’ll be back, I reassured myself.
Across the street, neighbors Becky and David noticed me, leash in hand.
“Russet got out again,” I explained, tossing my hands up, helplessly.
“Yeah, we saw her,” said David.
About that time, a man in a blue car drove up and rolled down his window.
“Looking for a dog?”
“Sure am. ”
“A little gray one?”
“No, actually, mine is….”
That’s when I heard the commotion.
“Your dog’s been hit by a car!” someone yelled.
No, I thought, she can’t have been! Why, here she comes a-running!
Running — and limping.
“Her leg’s broken,” David said. “Better call a vet.”
The rest was a blur. Since it was already five o’clock, I was afraid my vet’s office would be closed. Frantically I forced trembling fingers to pull up the number. The voice that answered was straight from Heaven.
“Creekside Animal Hospital. How can I help you?”
“ThisisKimTerryRusset’smommyshe’sbeenhitbyacar!” I blurted, welding one word to another.
“Okay, we’ll be here. Bring her on in.”
With Becky holding Russet on a towel in the back seat, I slid behind the wheel and navigated the ten-minute drive.
Thankfully, the minute Jackie saw us straggle in, she followed us out to the car and scooped up Russet in loving arms.
“Hey, there, pretty girl,” she cooed.
Thirty minutes and a set of X-rays later, Becky and I learned that Russet would be bunking down at the clinic for surgery on her hind foot. True to God‘s promises, things had worked out. The clinic would keep my dog comfortable and I would be able to teach.
Once again, my little fugitive had played another round of Russet Roulette — and won.