“You are not going out with that boy unless his parents are driving and that's that. I'm not just Spitting Grits here, young lady!”

. . . My father, John Thomas Cravey, USAF, to me in 1956.

Special Note: Patty Cake at Home

R
emarkably, Patty Cake came home yesterday afternoon from her nearly two-week stay at the vet after her vicious attack (see August 16 post).
I thought I could describe the wound. I can, but I won’t. Suffice it to say it is horrible and will take months to heal. She is eating and drinking, which are absolutely necessary for her to be able to heal. Mostly she is sleeping. I gave her ice cream.
The truth: caring for this wound is hard for me; I am squeamish about bad scrapes, cuts, abrasions, sores, etc. Patty’s is way out of my league. Yikes.
I am grateful to have been able to vent about this ordeal. Venting emotions helps. I am also aware that taking the measures we’ve taken to save Patty may seem excessive to some people. I don’t really know how to explain pets. They just are. There are many tales of how sweet animals have helped sick or aging people. This is no mystery to me; they just do.
Our lab Maggie was very glad to see Patty, and Patty her. Their noses met, Maggie’s tail wagged, and Patty tried to rub up against her.
Patty then jumped up on our granddaughter Joanna Leigh’s bed and curled up among the stuffed animals. We’ll be washing everything in Clorox bleach for some time.




My special thanks to Dr. Russell and the staff at Tidmore Vet in Northport.

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