He immediately emitted this horrible puppy scream and started spinning around in a tight circle. I catch Ollie and pick him up. He stops the horrible I'm-about-to-die hollering but is shaking like a leaf. The youngest daughter and I head towards the house when the older daughter comes outside to see if we've killed the pup. Not yet, I tell her. I'm definitely NOT the person you want to call in a crisis because I'm too busy falling apart. Seriously - I can't even handle a splinter. The girls like to poke fun at me by coming up with a hand extended and telling me they think they have a splinter. It just gives me the willies and makes me feel ill.
So in true Carrie freak out fashion, I had the girls go get my husband. Hallellujah - he comes downstairs and commandeers the pup situation. I was convinced Ollie had broken his spine until my husband had him walk a bit. Then I was sure that Ollie had a concussion because he fell asleep in the blink of an eye. When he continued breathing, I gently poked Ollie's sides because I imagined he had some sort of internal bleeding.
He slept for a bit in my husband's lap while I fretted. My husband put Ollie in his doggie room (the converted garage) where he got a drink of water and gingerly crawled into his crate. By then I was just a basket case. I assumed I would get no sleep with visions of thousand pound emergency vet bills or brain damaged/crippled pups running through my head. Drastic times calling for drastic measures equaled two over the counter sleeping pills for me.
I woke up this morning and crept downstairs to find a