There are some stories in life you hesitate making public until you know everything turned out pretty much ok...this is one of those stories.
As many of you may already know, we inherited Stanley from friends moving to California. And in anything that is handed over to you, you are constantly, well at least I am constantly, reminded that this job was bestowed upon you by someone entrusting you with their goods and you need to take care of it. It could be anything; a car, a pair of jeans, a home, a couch, a dog. And I got Stan as my charge and I needed to keep him happy. I mean for crying out loud, there are four little curly headed girls in California who love this dog, and it is my responsibility that his life is as fabulous as his life would have been with them.
Stanley, as many of you also know, was born to run and wander without a care in the world. He is constantly on a mission, not sure if the result is know to him until he accomplishes it, but he always has something to do. This dog numerous times daily would run out my front door. If you as much as opened it a smidgen he was gone, not sure why he was always there when the door was being opened, but he was. He also detested UPS trucks, trash trucks, blah, blah, and would charge the door full force and bang it open, escaping, and on some occasions running right up the steps and into the back of the UPS truck. He was seriously destined to make it to his girls in California, and since I was doing nothing about it, he was. Our neighborhood spends much of the time in the warm months yelling, 'STAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNLLLLLLEY!!!!' With all the children chasing him.If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times, 'he's going to get hit one of these times.' I myself would also yell this at him as I would hold him under my arm like a football carrying him back into the house after I had caught him. But here's what. When Stan got out there were always two things going on. Something boiling on the stove with a child hovering the kitchen wanting to climb, BAM, trash man pulls up, Stan is gone. So I either have to get my child secured and away from danger, or jet out the door and make sure Stan is safe and have my child burn its face off. I hate to say it, Stan was always second. I may have inherited Stan, but I grew these kids, inside of me. They rank.It would be a mere few minutes, but just the same, I had to do it, or seriously people would question my position as a mother.
Stan also has trigger words like; farm, mom mom mom, ride, let's go, potty, come on, treat, you naughty little thing, the kids, and bus stop. Any of these words and phrases have him jetting.
So it's the afternoon, in the end of September. I am finishing up planting some mums in the garden, Jake is just inside the door I am closest to playing trucks on the floor. My alarm goes off reminding me of the time, I say aloud not thinking, as usual, 'Come on, time to get Kendall at the bus stop.' I say it to Jake, but remember the Stan words too late. Out bounds Stan from charging the door. Jake follows suit to race to the bus stop. I snag Jake, walk him back inside the house to get the leash, and come back outside. In those 2 minutes, it happened. A man, who is not really a fave, for no other reason then he gives he dog commands in german and once told me his dog would eat Stan, is running up my sidewalk asking me if I own a pug. Which he clearly already is aware of since we walk past each other with our dogs daily. I show him the leash in my hand with a look of annoyance, and he says, 'he just got hit.' Sheer panic is then racing through my body. I sit Jake on the front porch and yell for Ethan who is across the way playing with a friend. I tell him to sit there with Jake and to not move, Stan is hurt. And those darn kids, they listened. Just when you think they never ever listen, in an emergency those kids respond like cadets.
The fake german who told me the nightmarish news, is running over to Stan with me and in the midst of it says, 'he had it coming to him, he is always escaping.' I pause, look at him, and I swear to you, I wanted to lift him high above my head and throw him back down to the concrete we were running on like I was Randy Savage. People who state the obvious in a time of crisis are like finger nails on a chalk board to me. Like for instance, a person dying, everyone standing around in vigil, and numb nuts has to say, 'oh she looks terrible.' I mean really, REALLY? How is a dying person supposed to look? So I look at him and say, 'really, REALLY!?!?!, is there something wrong with you?' I have since apologized. Ok? I had to, his kid is at the same bus stop as mine. I mumbled something like, 'sorry if I offended you, I was in a panic.' He just said, 'hey, no big deal.' It actually was a big deal you salt to wound adder, but I only have to look at you for maybe 2 minutes a day.
Back to story, I run over to where the stopped vehicle is. Right in front of the bus stop where Stan was headed to get his girl. I, in a blur, scoop him up. I don't know what I said to anyone there, I just wanted to get him up before the bus full of kids and Stanley admirers pulled up, the most important being Kendall. I walk back to the house to assess the damage, at this point the boys are distracted by some neighbor friends. I can feel the back leg limp and out of joint, and I'm terrified as the swelling increases. The old man who hits him pulls up and asks, 'is there anything I can do?' And you know in my head I think, 'yeah you can get your fat butt Cadillac out of neighborhood where everyone knows to watch for Stan, you trouble maker!!!!' But of course I don't, because, one, that's just plain neurotic, and two, it kind of is my fault Stan was hit. I obviously didn't ring his neck hard enough all those times dragging him back to the house. Alright, alright...kidding, but it is my fault, I agreed to take him from the Californians, he's my charge. And if he is going to run in front of cars to get to the bus stop, I should have been there to save him.
I sat on the porch waiting for the bus to come and go with Kendall looking down at Stan saying to him, 'not this week, nope, you aren't going this week, you naughty little thing.' Cause here's the kicker. As this is happening, Stanley's bull dog brother that went with the family to California is sick and being put to sleep that week. We were following it on facebook and attempting to break the news lightly to Stan. It was so very sad, Charles was awesome. And I know, right? Only in my life people. Only in mine would these two things happen in the same week.
So Kendall gets home, runs over having already heard and Stan sees her and starts to whimper. I call the vet, hand over my kids to a neighbor and rush over there.
To be Continued...I know, pins and needles you sit upon...