June 21, 2016

White Dog uttered a command bark. "Um guys? I don't think dad is down on the floor to play. I am pretty sure you should be a LOT more gentle and give him space. And for dog's sake Sachi, STOP standing on him! You, too, Zso!"

Steve and I were on our way out to run errands. He was on the front steps and turned back to toss the newspaper he had just fished out of the rose bush onto the sunporch before I shut the door...a simple action. There was a look of absolute shock and then he doubled over with a gasp, clearly in intense pain. "My BACK!"

We backtracked into the house, Steve leaning on my shoulder and I body checked the Army excited that we had decided not to go. Steve sank to the floor, rocking in his misery.

"Let's get you into the bedroom where you can lie down," I suggested. The thought of clambering to his feet and moving through the house was more that he was able to even process at that moment. "No, just put the little pillow from the couch under my head and leave me here."

The White Dogs clustered around him, sniffing and diagnosing. White Dog suggested the ice pack, which we got. And Traumeel, the homeopathic natural relief for pain and inflammation. We keep them in the house for both humans and the WDA. Steve's hands were shaking as he took the tablets and drank water.

"Do you want me to call the doctor?" I asked already knowing that he would respond with a let's-see-how-things-go-first answer. He shifted to lie on the ice pack with his legs up, knees bent, a kind of yoga position. He keened softy...the WDA settled in protective nursing positions aroud him and Zsofia took up his song.