Crash!

Last night, I came home from work expecting Stella to come running to greet me, as she usually does. Instead, I found her sitting pitifully in my husband's lap.

"Honey," he said, "I think our little girl is hurt."

A few minutes before I got home, the two had been outside taking care of business, and on their way back in, Stel had gotten a little overzealous coming up the stairs and crashed into them. When they got back in, she started limping around.

We looked for any protruding bones or other telltale signs of a break, and we felt her little legs, and everything seemed normal. Plus she didn't yelp or anything, and even when she limped around, it didn't slow her down at all. But my husband was still freaking out.

"I broke our dog!" he kept saying. "I broke Stella!"

I advised Stel that now was probably a good time to ask him for a raise in her allowance or a new car, since he felt so guilty, but she didn't want to take advantage.

For once, I was actually the cool-headed one, a real switch for the two of us. It's so weird -- ever since we brought Stella home, he's been the one who is nervous about everything, and I'm the voice of reason. This is not a role I am used to, and I don't particularly enjoy it, but it's probably a good exercise for me, and for my husband too.

We called the vet, who told us to bring her in if she continued to limp but the fact that she didn't seem to be in pain was a good sign. We put Stel on bed rest for the evening, and by the end of the evening, she was walking just fine and wanting to play. She didn't seem to harbor any ill will toward my husband; in fact, when he went into the office and closed the door to talk on the phone, she kept running over to sit outside the door.

I can't help being a little jealous. He is so obviously her favorite parent, and I guess that's OK, but she doesn't have to be so blatant about it. She never even comes to me when I call her; he shuts himself in another room and she still runs to him. But I digress.

Today, Stella seems no worse for the wear. We're continuing to keep an eye on her, but I think she's probably just fine.

My husband, however, is still milking her misery for all it's worth.

"She got hurt on my watch," he kept telling me last night. "It's all because I was the one who took her out. I don't think I can take her out anymore."

Nice try, buddy.