A torn nail.
A longitudinally torn nail, I am told.
One that threatens the welfare of the foot, if left unattended.
Or so I am led to believe.
A nail whose removal is so exquisitely painful, that surgery is all but impossible to perform with the subject conscious.
Particularly in the case of an exceedingly large dog who acquires homicidal tendencies in the presence of a vet.
A procedure involving enough pre-meds, drips, anaesthetics, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics and sedatives to open a hospital,
And will have him Tripping the Light Fantastic for Some Time, instead of taking his bandages off.
Because, as we have recently discovered, a buster collar (which, to be fair, was nearly 3 feet across)
turns my poor, silly, spatially-challenged dog
into a prime candidate for a gig as Charlie Chaplin's even funnier sidekick.
And so disappear the nascent beginnings of our Escape Fund,
along with half the household budget for the next two weeks.
...
Big Stupid.
