Ginny woke up this morning and refused to put her left rear foot down. A quick feel and a consult with my extremely valuable sister (who has a million hours of experience with horses and can feel “heat” better than I can) gave us a tentative diagnosis of a pulled muscle. She was still running around and being her usual persnickety self (and was eating with gusto) so we felt comfortable leaving it for a little while, watching it over the weekend.
Sure enough, by evening she was no longer holding it up–she still limps on it but she’ll put it down. But this is GINNY, and therefore it must be milked for every ounce of adoration she can possibly get.
So if you turn your back, she’ll stand on the bad foot and try to push Clue around, growling like crazy. Outside she was jumping up four-foot snowbanks because she saw The Tree she wanted to deposit .05 ounces of pee on.
But look at her, and say “Oh, Ginny… Poor BABY” and she’ll scrunch the leg up into her belly and slowly, painfully hitch her way over to you, coming to rest with her nose next to your knee, and then look significantly at you and at the couch. If you don’t pick her up right away she lurches horribly as she turns and takes one step away, then returns to your knee. “Oh, darling!” we cry, and gather her up carefully and put her on a nest of blankets and pillows.
And then she promptly flings herself on her back and blissfully closes her eyes, and begins snoring so loudly that we have to turn the TV up.
I would talk about how terrible it is that we let her take advantage, but her hot bath just finished running and I have to go dry her off with warmed towels.