Nine years ago, I lived in Wheatridge, Colorado and I had two dogs named Grace and Picasso. Grace and Picasso were both under a year old when this story takes place, but Grace was full-grown and Picasso was a fast-growing puppy already physically bigger than Grace.

The yard was fenced, a chain-link, so I would let them run loose during the day. I would see them racing around--black streaks with tails--even from a distance driving down the street.

I should have anticipated trouble the night I came home to find a small hole, more of a divet really, under the bush next to the house. By the next night, that hole had grown and been joined by others, this time in the flower beds: bulbs from unidentified flowers and looking like shriveled onions lay discarded nearby. A few more days, and the yard began resembling the living quarters for an active colony of Prairie Dogs or foxes.

Someone or someones had discovered digging.

A day or so after this, and I caught her in the act. Rather than seeing them chasing each other around the yard, I saw instead Grace down on all fours intently pawing a dangerously widening gap under the chain link. Picasso sat nearby, like that dog they used to use on the record label, with his head cocked to one side hearing 'his masters' voice'.

They heard their masters' voice, alright. "Grace!" I shouted from the car, maybe even before it was completely parked and with the window down, "Get away from there!"

Like any rebellious child, the command had the immediate opposite effect: Clouds of dust kicked up as Grace began now digging furiously. As I jumped out of the car and ran to the gate, her head, then neck and upper body, was already squeezing through the gap.

"No!" I shouted, running as fast as I could across the ugly, hole-ridden yard. One final push--back legs kicking simultaneously behind her--and she was under.

Just beyond, she paused in the gravel drive, dust-covered, looking back like an escaped convict. "Come back here!" A split second earlier, and I could have prevented this.

And now Picasso was following. His head and neck had made it through the same gap, but the hole was too little for his big rump to get through. His rear legs pushed and kicked, and the fence strained, and the more stuck he became.

Any other time, the image of his stuck rump would have been funny. "No, no, no!" I said, grabbing him under his rear hips and pulling him back in, his front paws dragging claw marks. Grace continued holding her spot as placed Picasso into the house.

She was still there when I ran back out. She was sniffing--or pretending to sniff--the overgrown grass there. Both eyes were always on me. "OK, Grace, you stay right there."

But the second I hopped the fence, she was off like a bullet, down the gravel drive and down the street. As I started after her, always calling her, she would stop to smell something, and when I would get to some undefined too close distance, she would snort and then run just further on. With her tongue hanging out, she always kept at least one eye on me. To her, this was a fun new game.

The street was a side one, little traffic no matter what hour, so at first I was not too concerned. At one point, I almost had her. But this fun game turned quickly sour as we approached a major road. Cars and trucks shot back and forth, with Grace galloping toward it, looking back to track my progress rather than looking ahead. My yelling turned immediately to pleads and at the last second, I could only stand still and hope for the best.

I saw the whole thing. The car, a light blue sedan, never slowed, never stopped. There was a thump, and a whirlpool of legs and tail circling under and out of sight past the intersection.

Racing to the intersection, I hoped for the best. There she was, tongue hanging out, and her eyes looked at me. And as I ran up to her, she got up and tried to continue the game and found she couldn't. She collapsed, one leg bent awkwardly to the side.

I had never been to the vet's office, but I had often passed one only a block away. I ran her there and rushed into the quiet dark-panelled waiting room, filled with women holding cats and dogs waiting quietly on leashes. I may well have pushed somebody out of the way to get to the counter. As soon as I announced to the whole room, "My dog has been hit by a car!" I was trying hard not to cry.

The other customers were sympathetic. The receptionist jumped up and immediately got the vet, a kindly older man who I later found out had started his career in the same location, back before suburban development; back when the area was still ranches and orchards and he had specialized in horses.

He placed Grace onto a table and began feeling her hips and legs. "Oh, this doesn't seem serious," he said, "I'm not sure there's even a break."

As it turned out, Grace had only a dislocated leg and he popped back it in. After an overnight stay, she returned, bandaged with her leg up and for two weeks, she hopped around on three legs. From where I could sit, she was barely less strong on three legs than with four. In the months and years to come, she developed a peculiar method of running sideways.

---

"If you hadn't told me about the car accident, I would have guessed it was this hip that's causing her the trouble," the vet whips up X-rays to a panel and switches on a light. No matter the thickness of her bones in reality, they look delicate on the black film. The print shows that one leg is aligned much differently than the other.

He points out arthritic spurs that have developed on the formerly-dislocated leg.

"But there's nothing on the other leg," he says, "the bones look fine. So I'm guessing she has a slowly tearing ligament in her knee."

As I ring my hands in worry, he continues. "With one bad leg already, I would not suggest surgery. That would be costly and might not fix things." Instead, he suggests a diet to lose 5 pounds--"this will have a reduction of stress on the leg by four times"--and anti-inflammatories.

I can't help but check his fingers for wedding rings. *sigh,* Darn.

I haven't been very active in here lately. I've been putting in 12 hour-plus days at work, and too exhausted for much else.

However, I am pleased to report that I just finished wrapping up the final draft of a short story for a contest submission and will mail it, eleventh-hour, tomorrow.

I owe a lot to my blogfriend, who reviewed a draft of the story last week and who told me about the contest to begin with.

I don't have high hopes of the story being accepted. The object of the contest is to write a sunny love story -- and my story is only obliquely filled with hope. It has the kind of ending that could be seen as optimistic only by comparison to the darkness of the rest of the tale.

But I did it; I completed it and I will be submitting something. For the first time ever.

In my cover letter, I asked for a rejection letter at least. Let's hope I deserve that -- and one suitable for framing...!