Blood on the cheese*
OK, so there's nothing to do with cheese in this post. So sue me.
Concerning blood, however, I've just spent an hour washing the kitchen floor again in an effort to remove all dachshund blood from it.
Nearly two weeks on from the terrible incident of the claw in the night-time, I had thought Mac was on the mend. He's not been limping, hardly bothers his damaged toe and seemed to be over the worst of the trauma. Yesterday, when I took him and Mort for a shortened stroll, they both of them decided that they wanted to go further. Even when I turned around and headed for home they just carried on up the track.
This morning, however, there has been a bit of a relapse.
Barbara discovered it. Typically this morning is the morning when she has to be up, breakfasted and out of the house sharpish for some livestock related jamboree. Barbara doesn't do mornings, so the last thing she wanted to deal with was a kitchen covered in blood.
Which is why she booted me out of bed to sort it all out.
I can only assume that a nice clean scab had formed over the wound on Mac's toe and he somehow dislodged it, either by accident or, like a schoolkid, from picking it. Now he's back to salt-water footbaths four times a day, no strolling and me watching him like a hawk to stop him licking it. I've got one of those stupid lamp-shade collar things if necessary, but he makes such a meal of wearing it, wandering around bumping into doorposts, chairs, me, the other dogs, I'd rather not.
Perhaps I should put a sock on the wounded paw. One of Barbara's would probably fit best.
*It's from a Bill Bailey musical sketch I heard on the radio many years ago.**
** Sorry, Dave.
Concerning blood, however, I've just spent an hour washing the kitchen floor again in an effort to remove all dachshund blood from it.
Nearly two weeks on from the terrible incident of the claw in the night-time, I had thought Mac was on the mend. He's not been limping, hardly bothers his damaged toe and seemed to be over the worst of the trauma. Yesterday, when I took him and Mort for a shortened stroll, they both of them decided that they wanted to go further. Even when I turned around and headed for home they just carried on up the track.
This morning, however, there has been a bit of a relapse.
Barbara discovered it. Typically this morning is the morning when she has to be up, breakfasted and out of the house sharpish for some livestock related jamboree. Barbara doesn't do mornings, so the last thing she wanted to deal with was a kitchen covered in blood.
Which is why she booted me out of bed to sort it all out.
I can only assume that a nice clean scab had formed over the wound on Mac's toe and he somehow dislodged it, either by accident or, like a schoolkid, from picking it. Now he's back to salt-water footbaths four times a day, no strolling and me watching him like a hawk to stop him licking it. I've got one of those stupid lamp-shade collar things if necessary, but he makes such a meal of wearing it, wandering around bumping into doorposts, chairs, me, the other dogs, I'd rather not.
Perhaps I should put a sock on the wounded paw. One of Barbara's would probably fit best.
*It's from a Bill Bailey musical sketch I heard on the radio many years ago.**
** Sorry, Dave.
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