Friday at the library one of my co-volunteers told me about a Cocker puppy with an injured leg that a Mexican had been selling for a hundred pesos (around $8) in Guaymas Norte. Not really wanting a dog (he says there's no room in his life for one), Bruce paid the hundred and stashed the pup at a friend's house temporarily. I told him I'd take it off his hands if he'd first get it to the vet to find out about the injury, get him bathed and de-bugged inside and out, and generally checked to make sure he had nothing contagious that could hurt my dogs. That night, he brought over this little fellow.
The vet, Dr. Martinez, says his leg should be healed in four weeks. An x-ray came along with the dog, and it shows a fractured femur, just a crack that should heal cleanly. He moves around amazingly well considering he's dragging the cast around; I'm not sure I can keep up with him, when it's off.
This is a most anxious-to-please, congenial little guy. Within minutes he had figured out that I was the mommy and began following me everywhere. He does whimper, but doesn't go on and on about it, just enough to register disappointment. Chiquito, the rescue Dachsund with Valley Fever and my own Chica established their seniority within minutes of his arrival, and the pup has accepted his role as bottom dog in the pack. It'll be interesting to see what happens when the feisty Yorkie I dogsit weekdays arrives Monday morning.
My friends in the dog-fostering community assure me it'll be easy to find a good home for him, once the leg has healed, which will occur about the same time that the snowbirds come back to roost. Meanwhile I'll get him house-trained and leash-trained and try not to get too attached to him. With that in mind, I've put off naming him, but I'm getting tired of referring to him as "the pup." He deserves better than that.