My Dog is My Muse

Kate Carter

She experiences no remorse, holds no grudges. She exemplifies Carpe Diem.

During the past two weeks, I’ve been studying my border collie, Phoebe, very closely. I’m watching to see if she’s using her left rear leg. We got to this point of intense scrutiny because last September a car hit her in my driveway. At first we thought she just had superficial wounds, but eventually we discovered her patella tendon had torn right off the tibia. My family vet referred me to Kurt Kenney, a veterinarian in Hinesburg, who has experience in canine orthopedics. Kenney thought he could repair the injury and did a procedure called a patella tendon anchor (that’s ortho-lingo for reattaching the tendon to the bone). He sent Phoebe home in a bright purple splint that went from the tip of her toes to the top of her hip.

My responsibility for the next month was to keep that splint as pristine as possible, which required a great deal of discipline from both of us. Whenever we went outside I would say, “Phoebe, let’s put on your sock,” and she would sit down and stick out her splinted leg for me to cover up. The first layer was a tall plastic bag held in place with a rubber band that kept the splint’s upper half dry. Next came a saline solution vinyl bag I got from the vet’s office, that withstood being dragged, bounced, poked, and whacked. I covered both of those with a small nylon stuff sack because it was smooth and offered minimal drag as she hopped around like a peg-legged pirate.

My biggest concern was not the leg, but Phoebe’s spirit. She came to live with me and Brewster, my other border collie, last summer, when she was not quite a year old. She proved to be one of the happiest, most easy-going, playful, athletic, and loving dogs I have ever met, and I was afraid she would become depressed with a splint on her leg and a cone on her head.

Not little Phoebe. Her spirit is undefeatable. Her unbridled enthusiasm for life has flourished throughout the ordeal. She cheerfully let me put on her cone (the Elizabethan collar that keeps dogs from chewing on themselves) because I always sweetened the pot with a treat and a lot of praise. I took the cone off when we went outside so she could play, and it wasn’t long before she was doing many of her favorite things: tugging, chasing and wrestling with Brewster, playing Frisbee, and herding Ruby Marie, the cat. Eventually she lost interest in her splint and we didn’t need the cone anymore.

The month passed by quickly and we went back to Hinesburg and Dr. Kenney. Phoebe sat patiently while he cut off the splint. Our diligence had paid off. The gauze next to her skin was clean enough to re-use. Her leg looked healthy and the incision had healed nicely. We just had to wait to see if she would start to use her leg. If not, she would lose it. Use it or lose it; use it or lose it. It was all I could think about.

Two weeks have gone by since the splint came off. On day 11, I watched Phoebe climb into her wading pool, one leg at a time. On day 12, she walked, each leg moving independently. I am starting to believe the surgery was a success. Our journey is not over yet, though. She still has a wire that goes from the patella to the tibia that has to come out, and she needs to use that leg full time.

As I write this, I am lying on the couch with my foot propped up, wrapped in an ice-filled Cryocuff. It was my turn for surgery. I had an ankle overhaul a week ago and I'll be on crutches for six weeks. It is, at worst, an inconvenience. We make a good pair, Phoebe and I. My bum foot sticks out to the right, hers sticks out to the left. She is a much faster gimp than I. She should be. She has three good legs. I only have one.

As I tap away on my laptop, Phoebe brings me a toy. We tug for a bit, then she hops up on the couch and curls up by my feet. Brewster is lying in his bed, keeping an eye on us. Ruby Marie jumps off the counter and lands with a thump-thump. Brewster, the canine burglar alarm, springs to action and runs to the door - "Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark," he announces. Phoebe flies off the couch and follows Brewster, because barking is a group activity and she's not about to be left out. As I watch her go, I can see she favors the leg, but not as much as she used to.

Phoebe has been a fascinating study in acceptance and trust. She has greeted every phase of her recovery with total acceptance and she has had complete trust in me, her faithful human. She does not think of the future, or how things could have been different. She does not know the secret I keep about what might happen if she doesn't regain full use of that leg. She experiences no remorse, holds no grudges. She exemplifies Carpe Diem. Phoebe will be fine. I believe that now. Either the surgery worked or it didn't; whichever, she will be fine.

Now my goal is to get myself up and running (figuratively...literally, I just say "No," to running). I have learned important things about being a good patient from my teacher Phoebe. I don't expect to stop thinking about my future, or what I could have done differently in the past, because I am a human and humans, by nature, think too much. But I can go with the flow, greet each day with a positive attitude, have patience, be a good friend, eat, sleep, and play, play, play (and work, because I'm the one who pays the bills). Since I have the ability to think in terms of the future, I look forward to the day when my ankle is healed and I can take Phoebe for her very first cross-country ski experience. She might have three legs; she might have four. Either way, she will be one happy dog. I know that for sure. That's just the way she is.