I got home in time to lie down with my daughter for a few minutes. "Mom, when are you going to be out of this curse?" she asked. I indicated one more day.
The next morning brought my greatest challenge—the event that sent my husband over the edge: taking our dog to the vet. I was concerned that Sasha was chewing off the bandage that held her splint.
My husband, who normally would be at work at 9:30, reluctantly agreed to accompany me to the appointment so there would be a chance of Sasha getting proper treatment.
"What's the problem?" the vet technician asked me.
I frantically gnawed at my hand in reply.
"She's saying that Sasha is chewing off her bandage," my husband explained.
The technician looked puzzled, but continued. "How long has the dog been doing this?" he asked me.
My husband stepped in. "Look, she can't talk."
The technician was stricken. "I'm so sorry," he said.
"Well, she can talk. She's just not talking today," said my husband, in a tone that suggested a dog with a busted leg was the least of his domestic problems.
The technician left to get the vet. I sat in a chair cradling Sasha. Another technician, a pretty young Frenchwoman, came in.