He was a whippet puppy of maybe 7 months old. He
arrived the charity clinic with a broken leg, brought in by a female owner who
was sporting a pair of black eyes and a new gap in her mouth. We fitted him up
with an external fixator, crafting a metal scaffold to bear the weight and hold the broken ends together so that they could heal good as new. He was supposed
to come back for a check-up to make sure it was okay, then a month later have
it taken out. He didn't.
Two months later he arrived back with his skin growing over the metalwork, the
bones deformed and twisted by pinning down a growing leg in a frame. We fixed
him up. The owner couldn't have brought him any sooner, she was in hospital
with broken ribs and a messy face. When she came home, her man wouldn't let her
out.
I named the pup Slinky as he was skinny and wriggly and slippery, loved
any contact and was a joy to be with. I looked after him for a week, constantly
nipping into the kennel for a hug. The owners did not return, she was in
hospital again. And I finished my shift.
Two days later I came back to claim him.
He was gone.
