Among my many talents, I am a world-class wave jumper. While prancing along the beach, I will go up to a wave, stare at it for solid three seconds and, just when it is about to touch me, I will dart out of the way and keep moseying along. My speed is cheetah-esque. After showing off, I am usually commended by other dogs on the beach by way of butt sniffing – a hardy compliment.
It turns out that I’m a little cocky when it comes to wave jumping because these days, you can find me limping around my neighborhood, getting looks of sympathy from dogs and humans alike. My left hind leg, hip and part of my back are shaved and look hideous. I take pain medications at least twice a day because I’m recovering from a major surgery. Today marks 2.5 weeks since the operation. The culprit of all of this? WAVES, those pests. I now have a personal vendetta against them.
This vendetta goes back to Oct. 18 when Mom and Dad thought it would be fun to drive down Hwy 1 for the day. It was a hot and sunny day, so why not? I was in the back seat and didn’t know where we were going, but then they stopped on the side of the road and we walked down a bunch of stairs to a beach on the Pacific that I had never been to before. It was pretty scenic, if you are into that sort of thing.
Mom and Dad sit down and tilt their heads towards the sun, seemingly enjoying how warm it is. This bores me to no end, so I decide to bug Dad into going on a wave-jumping spree with me.
Pretty soon Mom gets up and runs along the beach with me. We head to the edge, where the rocks are…
…and soon we realize that we are trapped. Mom turns and yells for me to “GO! GO!” I run and she follows. I turn around to see if she is still behind me. At that exact moment, I see a wave out of the corner of my eye and decide to dodge it, but my left leg gets caught. The sand is so squishy – It swallows my whole leg! I can’t move! The wave is fast approaching, so I decide to run for it anyway. I will never let a wave touch me. NEVER!
I turn to run and OOOOOOUUUUCCCHHHHH!!!!!! something grabs hold of my knee and twists it. The next five minutes are a blur. I’m queasy from the pain. My leg feels like it is going to fall off.
Unfortunately for me, my parents have no idea that something is wrong. They think I will just “walk it off.” I am in pain I have never before experienced, so I try to tell them this by sulking as much as possible.
We leave a few minutes later and go home. That night I don’t eat much. I can’t sleep. I just want to cry. Thankfully, Mom and Dad look at me in the morning and know something is wrong. We go to the emergency room and they confirm all of our worst fears: that good-for-nothing !&%$ of a wave completely ruptured my ACL. I need surgery.
They send me home with pain meds, which are completely awesome. Like, whoever created something called Rimadyl is a genius who’d I’d like to marry. I digress. We go to our real doctor the following day. My pain pills are almost worn off by that point and I am in no mood for an examination. Mom almost cries in the office because she’s so worried about me.
Two days later I am back at that good-for-nothing place, this time for 48 hours. I really don’t remember any of this. All I know is that I was starving and, when Mom and Dad pick me up, I had this big pink thing on my leg.
The pink thing stayed on for a week – a week I really don’t remember very well. What I do remember is Mom and Dad carrying me everywhere and telling me they loved me more than usual. Oh, and eating lots of treats. Maybe having surgery isn’t so bad.