Dark Clouds

The more time I spent with Elliot the more impressed I became. Following my nighttime fears, I discovered he was housebroken, and was quick to learn.

Since the dog shelter knew nothing about him, I wondered why his previous family had let him go.

When Monday rolled around, we had a breakthrough. Elliot ate his breakfast.

Unable to get an appointment with the vet until Tuesday, we spent the day shopping for dog paraphernalia, dog food, behavioral reward goodies, a leash (he came with a collar) a stuffed animal, which he dropped on the floor and hasn’t looked at since, a rawhide bone, he chewed a bit and discarded, greenies he gobbled down, and an identification tag.

On Tuesday it was time to see the vet. We stepped through the door and Elliot turned on his charm. Office personnel and technicians crowded around and plied him with love, and a very young pit bull pup was anxious to play. Elliot was in heaven.

Then, to use a cliché, the shit hit the fan. When we finally got to see the doctor, he began checking Elliot’s legs, not one, but all four, bending them, stretching them, moving them from side to side.

“You’ve got a problem,” he said. “This dog has hip dysplasia as well as elbow dysplasia. For a dog this young it’s not good. He will need surgery, and it’s going to be very expensive.”

It sounded ominous and I was frightened, but he was now my dog.

“When I adopted him, I made a commitment,” I said. “Somehow I will take care of it.”