Pinkerton is improving by leaps and bounds. It’s hard to imagine that 2 months have passed since his accident – like everything in quarantine times, it seems like both yesterday and last year, all at the same time.
That he can walk, run (albeit crookedly), have a ball-chasing instinct, climb the stairs we bought for him to get up on the couch – it feels miraculous to me, given that his hind legs were fully paralyzed eight weeks ago today. We’re in the midst of starting some physical therapy – stretching, balancing – to get the nerves firing and to help rebuild his weakened right hind leg. It’s a process.
I don’t think he realizes that anything is different.
Dogs are blissfully self unaware (or is it unself aware? that doesn’t sound right to me). They aren’t comparing their present with their past, or bemoaning a loss, or anxieties about future pain. It doesn’t matter that Pink is not ready to hike with us on our favorite trails – and may not recover enough to do full hikes in the future – his happiness in in being outdoors, with us, enjoying the sun.
And perhaps he likes being carried around in his specially designed backpack.
As I type, he lounges contentedly on the couch, waiting patiently for me to give him dinner, to scratch his belly, unconcerned with the scar across his back, his slight limp. And I try to live moment to moment with him.