The Emergency DIY Operation

The last few months at work were exceptionally busy. I was putting in late hours and, to my dog's puzzlement and dismay, only had time to give him a couple of rubs on the head before collapsing on the bed. Once the dust had settled and the top of my desk was visible, guilt crept up on me. I let him into the house after dinner one day to spend some quality time with him.

During the rubs and hugs and chases around the furniture, I noticed that the toenail on his hind leg had gotten really long and was rubbing against his skin. I grabbed the doggie clippers, coaxed him into lying down and attempted to trim the nail.

After a couple of attempts which involved him jerking his leg out of my hand and complaining in doggie language, I realised to my absolute horror that the nail had grown into his flesh. I steeled myself and tried to pull it out which resulted in a yelp, a growl and a blur of black fur shooting out of the door.

Calling for reinforcements (a.k.a. husband), we tricked him back into the house. With a muzzle, a leash and the dog growling death threats, I made my second go at his toe. Grasping the nail in one hand and the toe with the other, I pulled as far and gently as I could. The nail came out 2mm but would go no further.

Blood and fluid started to leak out of the wound and I lost my nerve. I did exactly what I did those many years ago when my hamster died and goldfish were in trouble. I went for mom.

With a click of disgust and an air of experience, she started work on the iron-hard nail with a pair of human nail clippers. It took her five minutes to cut through. Ignoring his struggles and protests, she yanked up the foot and said "Pull it out".

I did. The embedded bit was 4mm long and smelt like yesterday's garbage. Blood poured from the wound.

Four tissues and a dab of ointment later he was as good as new. Except for the emotional scarring. The moment we let him go, he made a mad dash for the door. All the bribes and sweet talk in the world wouldn't persuade him to take a step nearer me.

For the next couple of days, the word "toe" and an innocent glance at the affected leg would see him slink under the nearest chair. It would be another week before he stopped casting suspicious looks at me.

I learnt two things that night. One, dogs don't have a clue what's good for them. And two, underneath the veneer of confidence and the air of I-know-everything, sometimes, it's just nice to have mom around.