While Mrs. Coach and I traded school stories and the coaches compared war wounds and stud recruits, Jolene and her puppy friend Bane played a violent version of bumper cars in the backyard. We had just started our second game of {unsportsmanlike} Lawn Golf when the idyllic afternoon quiet was broken by Jolene's shrill screams. Immediately, the "Mom" gene engaged and I {unconcernedly} trampled Coach John and a Lawn Golf ladder to get to my fur-baby. She had fallen over in a panic, unable to put weight on a front paw.
After what seemed like an hour of pressing and patting, I couldn't discern any obvious injury; however Jolene was still howling to beat the band. She struggled to run after her friend, who'd been dragged from the scene of the crime and chastised severely. {It should be noted that he was NOT the cause of her outburst - but his parents are good people and were mortified}. We {note, I} made the decision to head to OSU's {uber-expensive} emergency 24 hour clinic. I knew it could be a passing pain, but didn't want to risk Jolene's mobility on the desire to eat another piece of pizza.
With much panting and groaning {on Coach John's part}, we hauled the frantic 65 lb. toddler to the car. Her consternation grew rapidly when she realized her playdate was over and tears sprang to my eyes when she couldn't hold herself upright to say goodbye. I expected the worst, driving like a maniac behind Coach John and my fur baby. {I may or may not have mildly cursed him when he made the wrong turn on campus, resulting in five more minutes of aimless driving while my baby needed critical medical care}. We came into the parking lot like a NASCAR Sprint Team and began the extraction of the patient from the back seat of the car.
It was at this point that I became slightly suspect of the severity of Jolene's injuries. Instead of waiting docilely for her father to lift her from the car, she began wriggling into smaller, faraway spaces - SNAPPING at him with her wicked jaws and laughing at our angst-ridden efforts. She would {for effect} throw out the occasional high-pitched wail to keep up what was starting to seem like an Oscar worthy charade. Nevertheless, I continued the pilgrimage to save my "child" and heaved her from the vehicle in a moment of CrossFit inspired strength.
She PRANCED into the waiting room. There's really no other word to describe it. This dog-wolf in sheep's clothing had made a miraculous recovery in the parking lot of the MedVet and was now practically tap-dancing to the desk to sign in. The secretary gave us a confused, then disdainful look as I explained that this was in fact the dog I'd called about in a state of panic earlier. At that point, I embarrassedly pushed Coach John to the receptionist desk to explain while I dragged Jolene and her shit-eating grin into a far corner.
We were surrounded by owners whose animals were in the center of real emergencies, people in TEARS and others waiting stoically with older, infirm animals. My mortification took a leap up when Jolene began crouching and baiting a geriatric retriever with a diaper to play with her. It was pushed to epic heights when a Triage 3 team came OUT with their tools so that, if in fact Jolene was the world's greatest method actor, we wouldn't be charged the astronomical fee of just walking into a patient room.
Fifteen minutes later, the sweetest veterinary student ever had poked, prodded, and dodged Jolene's advances with no diagnosis of doom. She even gamely suggested a heart listen. {Sometimes, she lied to help us save face, animals will outwardly be okay when they're internally in distress}. Jolene's heartbeat was a picture of perfect health, much like her gait and swagger as she {unperturbedly} left the building. Her parents {in contrast} hastily scampered out behind her, tails between their legs with shame.
What we'd witnessed could only be described as something of Biblical proportions. A {MedVet} miracle - where the blind shall see, the deaf shall hear, and the lame will fake an $130 injury and walk {unassisted} again...
XO,
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