In Which the dog is broken, again

When I graduated college I decided to buy a dog. My sister and I researched and found the most unreputable breader in all of Washington State. From a herd of baby "corgis" (imposters) I chose the smallest and sleepiest. She fit under my chin. This I thought was as good a reason as any to choose a dog. The breeder gave me a cursury tour around the place and showed me the Mother Corgi. The Father corgi couldn't be seen for some reason (probably because there was none) but there was a Jack Russel running lose around the farm. If you see where this is going please stop me. When I brought the dog home, I named her Hometeam and it appeared that she was broken. Her only hobby was lying around waiting for the angel of death to come and collect her, which it almost did, multiple times, and would have gotten her if I hadn't been waiting up for it with a baseball bat. The first time I brought her to the 24 hour vet crisis place on Lake City, they assumed she had Parvo -the plauge for infant dogs- and they whisked her away from me. Then they informed me, very nicely, that she was "probably just one of those puppies who wasn't meant to live" (their words) and perhaps I would like to say adieu. I did, then I went home and got trashed. Those were good times. She lived through that first night. It cost me $3,297. The second night I brought her to the 24 hour vet crisis place on Lake city, was warned of her imminent departure and said adieu, it only cost $1,887, but who's counting. The third night was momentous because I had read through all of the available copies "Dog World" in the waiting room and had to start in with "Cat Fancy." She always survived the nights but she didn't get any healthier. She became more pathetic: and shrunk:
and seemed to transform into a hedgehog before our eyes.

So anyway, you get the picture. This dog was no picnic. She weighed 2 pounds for the first few months of her life and racked up a killer vet bill. She did find a turning point, long story involving a policeman and a woman named Loa who cried easily, but she did indeed become the world's greatest dog.

Sure, she doesn't look anything like a corgi, but that could be overlooked. She was super happy and healthy and all was well. A year passed, and then one day she refused to use her back legs. At first we thought it was just an injury, knee problems....no....then her legs began to shrink from lack of use. And that brings us to the present day.

By now we're living in Vermont, just the two of us, so I bring her to the vet in Woodstock. It appears, sez the Vet, that this dog has a stunning case of Leg Calves Perthes, an infliction most commonly found in Jack Russel Terriers, does she perhaps have a trifle of Jack Russel in her? (Does she!) No worries, totally curable, just need major surgery on both hips, at a cost of 1,300 per side. Plus more if you want her to have morphine the following night. Plus more if you want x-rays so we can see what we're doing.

Aye-fuckin-carambe! It's a RECESSION, hometeam, can't you give up your back legs?? I gave up Zokas Coffee! (Although to be quite fair I probably wouldn't have it I hadn't moved 3,000 miles away from it.) So anyway, that's what we've got going for us. The moral to this story is never buy your dogs from a breader who says, "We don't do genetic testing before breeding because we think God protects the animals." Well if that's the case I wish God would pony up for the vet bill.