The Sting

First, there was a scruffy little dog about half a block away.

(Pro tip for Harley the Dog: It is rude to greet anyone by shouting, even if you are shouting, “I AM A DOG I AM VERY EXCITED TO SEE YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE ALSO A DOG.” Not cool, dude. No one likes it when you shout at them. Not people, not other dogs. No one.)

So. First, there was a scruffy little dog about half a block away.

Then, there was some shouting. Then there was a a terrible, terrible noise. It was a scream and a yelp combined, high pitched and loud. It happened twice in quick succession and then, we sat on the parking strip in the clover. Harley the Dog leaned on me making sad little noises, his left front paw held up and out. Tears ran down his fuzzy little face.

It took a few minutes to figure out what happened — Harley the Dog must have stepped on a bee. His paw was swelling and he wouldn’t walk. I scooped up 12 pounds of traumatized little dog and headed for home. The husband and I took turns carrying him; Harley held his wounded foot out as though there was something we could do.

“Ow. It hurts. Fix it. Ow.”

I called the vet. “Give him some Benadryl and check him for hives. If you see hives or he has any trouble breathing, get him to an emergency room, pronto.”

At home, we took turns icing Harley’s swollen paw, bathing it in baking soda and water, and giving him treats. Afterwards, Harley limped around the house, trying to get comfortable. I pulled him into my lap where he promptly fell asleep but I kept waking him up to roll him over and check for hives. And to feel his paw to make sure nothing was stuck in between his toes. By this time the Benadryl was kicking in and he just wanted to snooze, but I was sick to my stomach with worry and kept fussing. A little over an hour later I left him to sack out in his crate. He was fine.

First there was a scruffy little dog about half a block away. Then there was some barking and a terrible noise and then I was sick with worry. Three hours later Harley was his wiggly little self again, doing his happy dance after I opened the back door. The next day on his morning walk, he did his funny kick step down the alley, greeting a boxer who rushed him. He used his shouting voice all over again. Undamaged. Resilient.

“HELLO I AM A DOG YOU ARE ALSO A DOG BUT YOU ARE MOVING TOO FAST IF YOU COULD BACK UP THAT WOULD PROBABLY BE HELPFUL OTHERWISE I WILL BE STUCK IN CAPS LOCK MODE.”

“Harley,” I said, “Have you learned nothing? Needless shouting leads to bad things.”

“I learned you love me,” said Harley. “Ha ha. Did YOU learn anything?”

“I learned you’re not allergic to bees, that’s a relief,” I said to Harley. He wasn’t listening. He’d gone back to shouting at the boxer.

“I GOT STUNG BY A BEE AND MY OWNER IS A TOTAL SUCKER AND I AM THE LUCKIEST DOG IN THE WORLD MAN DID I WIN THIS GAME OR WHAT HOW IS YOUR MORNING OTHER DOG TELL ME ABOUT YOUR LIFE.”

First there was a scruffy little dog about half a block away. Then later, there was the realization that oh, boy, it’s not so much about having a dog as it is about a dog having you.

“Let’s go,” I said to Harley.

“Ha ha,” said Harley, and we went on our way.