The dog I’ve convinced myself has more lives than a cat, lying there without moving, all because she’d tried to come to my rescue.
I’m not calling out her name now.
Just saying a prayer, to the God I’m sure just listens, that she’s still alive.
I kneel down next to her and gently put a shaking hand to her head, my face close to hers.
I’m about to place my hand on her chest to see if she’s still breathing, but before I can, I’m not sure I can believe my eyes.
Because Bumper opens hers.
And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think she’s smiling at me, right before this tiny sound comes out of her, something between a bark and a whimper.
I’m close enough that she suddenly starts to lick my face.
Then she barks more loudly, a little more to this one, as if by some miracle she’s back to being herself.
“Yeah, pal,” I say, stroking her head. “I hear you.”
Then: “Forgot all over again how hard you are to kill.”
I carefully pick her up, cradling her in my arms, and add this:
“We both are, considering we’re both broken.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
I CAN SEE from the crooked angle of her right hind leg that she’s broken it again.
What I do for now is gently stretch her out on a blanket in the back of the truck, drive slowly up to the house, carry her inside, and lay her down on the big bed in the spare bedroom.
Then I go upstairs and wake EJ, as gently as I can do that, and tell her what happened, focusing more on what just happened to Bumper than to me. EJ, with her country common sense and country skills, has always been the perfect caretaker, as if she’s got an advanced degree in Bumper.
When she turns the light on in the bedroom, she immediately notices the swelling on one side of my face.
“You’re telling me the dog’s in worse shape than you?” she says as she gets into her robe.
“Stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” I say, “but I think she broke a leg.”
We used to take Bumper to the vet every time she lost another fight with another car and she’d need another splint. But by now, EJ is a pro at this.
First, we give the dog some T-Relief for the pain, knowing how much that’s seemed to help after previous calamities. Then I find a ruler in the desk, one we’ve used before as a splint, just because it’s the perfect size. It’s clear that we’ve caught a break, so to speak, that we’re working on another closed fracture. Before we set the ruler at the break, we first wrap some casting tape around the whole leg. Bumper lets us do it without moving or making a sound, almost as if she knows the drill, too, by now. And knows we’ll take care of her. When EJ is satisfied with the bandaging, we apply one more layer of casting tape before holding the ruler in place with cling wrap from the kitchen, making sure not to make it too tight and cut off the dog’s circulation.
When we’re finished, I once again gather Bumper into my arms and take her up to my room and lay her in her bed, the one next to mine.
EJ follows me up and watches me do it.
“Dog’s gonna outlive me,” she says.
“And me,” I say.
She turns to me and says, “Okay, who’s behind this?”
“Pretty sure I recognized Roof Crockett’s voice from behind one of those stupid masks they were wearing.”
Just like that, I see the fight and anger come spitting off my little grandmother like grease spitting out of one of her frying pans.
“They came here tomyhouse… to ourhome… like vigilantes?” she hisses. “Why, Silas?”
