I don't know what he's done, or how he did it. In fact, I don't even know what it is. All I know is, Henry has done himself an injury. Again. He has spent most of this week hobbling up and down the stairs like a geriatric sloth, looking mournful, sitting by the sofa looking mournful as he found himself lacking the spring needed to get onto it, looking mournful, forgetting temporarily to look mournful and leaping about, yelping, then slinking over to me and looking mournful, and looking mournful about not being allowed off the lead.
I have spent most of the week worrying, manipulating all his limbs, worrying, debating on whether or not to take him to the vets, worrying, making him get up and pootle up and down the corridor every few hours to stop him seizing up, and worrying.
Fortunately he is now staging a recovery. This is fortunate, because if I had spent months doing physio exercises to make sure I can go walking next weekend only to have it scuppered by the damn dog, I would have sunk into a decline.
