A little over a week ago, my dog, Ziva, slipped on the wooden stairs that run along the side of my house. She didn’t just lose her footing, she fell down. When she got back up, she could hardly put any weight on her back left leg. She’s thirteen and a half years old, so injuries are disconcerting.

At the time Ziva fell, we were headed out for a walk with my four grandkids. I thought I’d have to carry Ziva back in the house, but after she took a few steps, her leg worked better, but walking wasn’t easy for her. I figured we’d just walk across the road and let her tinkle, then go back home. But the more she walked, the better her leg worked. She resisted my efforts to turn around and go home, making it clear she wanted to keep walking, just like an athlete shaking off a momentary ache before getting back in the game. We completed our short walk, and Ziva did well for the rest of the day.

Then on Sunday, she must have done something that tweaked her injury. She likes to prance and dance around when she’s excited, especially if she’s outside and we’re getting ready to go for a ride or if she sees a dog walking down the street. She was a little gimpy Sunday evening, but not too bad, and she still insisted we go for her after-dinner walk. When she woke up on Monday, she was back to her old self.

But on Monday afternoon, she tweaked her injury again, probably getting out of the van. Because not long after her ride to the post office with us, she once again struggled to walk around. She was obviously in pain. She ate supper, but she wanted nothing to do with her after-dinner walk. At first I thought she wanted to walk because she stood by the back door. So, I put her leash on, and we walked onto the back deck. But she refused to move more than a few feet beyond the back door. We went back in the house, and she stood in front of the microwave and looked up at her treat dish. Her message to me: I walked a few feet, now I want my treats. Happy that she had an appetite, and that she still enjoyed bossing me around, I gave her a half dozen small crunchy treats. After she realized she wasn’t going to get anymore, she went to sleep on her bed in the family room, where she stayed for the rest of the night.

Tuesday morning when Ziva woke up, she was her cheery, tail-wagging self. Her walking was back to normal, and she was interested in breakfast and her morning walk.

But Tuesday afternoon after prancing and dancing in the yard, Ziva reinjured herself. And this time was worse than the other times. She was in pain. She struggled to walk. Anytime she got up from the floor, she stood still for a couple of minutes, as if waiting to see if she could trust her leg to move forward and keep her upright. She wouldn’t wag her tail.

I called the vet’s office, and because there was a cancellation, I was able to get Ziva an appointment for Thursday morning. I couldn’t believe our good luck. It’s so hard to get a short-notice appointment at my vet’s because they have so many patients and not enough staff. A pet has to be in dire condition, and Ziva’s injury doesn’t meet that standard. Even the emergency veterinary hospital, which is open nights and weekends, wouldn’t want me to bring her in because they wouldn’t consider her critically ill. They would tell me she could be seen by her regular vet. And her regular vet would tell me that I could take her to the ER vet hospital when it opened. It’s a classic Catch-22 moment when this happens. So much so that it gives me pause about getting another dog.

On Tuesday night after her supper, Ziva never asked for a walk or her post-walk treats. After I took her outside to go to the bathroom, she climbed into her large, cushy bed on the family room floor and went to sleep. Throughout the afternoon and evening, she never once wagged her tail. I was glad she had eaten supper and that she drank water, but I wanted to see her poofy tail twirl in the adorable circles it makes when she wags it.

I tried to walk without Ziva. I walked down to the road and started to go left, but that’s usually the way Ziva and I go, which made me sad. Then I discovered I had my T-shirt on inside out, which distressed me. I wondered if anyone would notice because I knew if I went inside the house to turn it right-side out, I wouldn’t come back outside. I decided to walk the other direction, but I couldn’t do that either. I was too sad without Ziva. There are times I have walked without her, but that’s because it was too hot for her or because she was taking a big nap and I didn’t want to wake her. This time was different because she wasn’t able to come with me. I went back inside and turned my T-shirt right-side out. I picked up a book and sat down on the couch. While reading, I kept looking up to watch Ziva as she slept, hoping she was healing.

This morning Ziva was only slightly better. In pain and not trusting her leg, she walked slowly. But before she went outside to the bathroom, she wagged her tail and asked for a treat. My husband and I both gave a small cheer while Ziva ate her treats.

Today there will be no walks or car rides. Ziva won’t go outside unless someone is with her to make sure there is no prancing and dancing. After we see the vet tomorrow, we’ll know more, but continued rest will probably be part of the treatment. We are keeping an eye on her. She can hop up on the couch or the stuffed chair, but when she wants to get down, she looks to one of us for help. As I finish writing this, she is sleeping on her bed in my office. She often joins me when I write. She is a mama’s girl. And she is my Ziva Baby.

When the busy day is done, all the walks and treats and belly rubs, find your furry buddy and close your eyes. And dream your doggie dreams.

Dreams of fast runs, forest paths, green fields, chattering squirrels, hopping rabbits, and chittering birds.

Ziva was born in Barrett, Minnesota, on a rolling farm, but has lived her life in Wisconsin at the tip of Lake Superior. Her father’s name was Rufus and her mother’s name was Ziva. So, yes, Ziva is named after her mother, but she is also named after Ziva David from the TV show NCIS. I think the Ziva David character is very kick-ass with a great sense of humor. Our Ziva, however, is a forty-six-pound baby, who has more in common with the Cowardly Lion. But our Ziva does make us laugh. Her full name is Ziva Baby, and it suits her

If I show you a picture of Ziva, you will probably think she is a black poodle. But, we’re not so sure. When Ziva was three-and-a-half months old, two different poodle breeders told me she was actually a blue poodle. “What’s that?” people sometimes ask. In Travels with Charley, John Steinbeck describes his blue standard poodle, Charley, by saying that he looks like a dirty black poodle who needs a bath.

When she was three months old, I enrolled Ziva in a puppy socialization class. She had mixed feelings about the course. She was okay with the part where she got to sit on my lap while the dog trainer answered questions. And she didn’t mind being passed around from human to human. But when it was time to mingle with the other puppies, she crawled under the bench and hid behind my legs. Finally, the dog trainer placed us with a group of designer micro dogs, figuring the teeny-tiny pups wouldn’t be as scary. Ziva still crawled behind my legs. When she finished puppy socialization class, she was given a certificate of completion. Purely a feel-good thing because she was too shy to socialize with the other puppies.

Riding high on Ziva’s lack of success in the puppy class, I enrolled her in an obedience class. She loved it. No one expected her to play with the other dogs. She excelled, and after two sessions, she was clearly the teacher’s pet. Me, not so much. Turns out it was not your traditional sit-stay-come-heel class. I had unknowingly enrolled Ziva in a class that was for people who wanted to compete in dog shows or obedience trials with their canines. Ziva learned so quickly that the dog trainers used her to demonstrate different walking moves and turns. The problem? When I had to perform with Ziva, I was all left feet, with no sense of rhythm. Ziva got praise, I got scolded. We only went back to the class a third time because I had to return a collar I had borrowed. After we dropped off the collar, I told the instructor I had to take Ziva out to go potty. But we got back in the car, and feeling like that adolescent girl who couldn’t make the pom squad, I cried. Ziva licked my chin, and crawled onto my lap. We became dog school dropouts.

For years Ziva was a reader — books, magazines, and newspapers. She loved to chew on the written word. I still have the copy of All Quiet on the Western Front that we both savored, except I wasn’t the one who left teeth marks on it. I learned to walk around the house and make sure every book and magazine was put where she couldn’t reach it. But her desire to read triumphed, and she became resourceful. She put her paws on tables and scooped up books. She threaded her face between two couches set at a right angle and slipped my quilting magazines off the bottom shelf of the end table. She poked her snout between the chairs at my desk (placed to keep her out) and selected books off the ledge under the desk. When I successfully blocked these accesses to my books and magazines, she started reading boxes of tissues. So, I left old newspapers on the coffee table in case she wanted to read. About once or twice a month, I’d return home to find shredded newsprint all over the floor. These days she seems to be over her urge to “read.” Perhaps she has become farsighted.

If her sister, Cabela, had a toy she wanted, Ziva would run to the back door and pretend she wanted to go outside. Cabela loved to play outside, so she would drop her toy and run to the door too. My husband or I would open the door. But as soon as Cabela was outside, Ziva turned around and grabbed the toy Cabela had dropped. Cabela is gone now, but Ziva uses this technique on my husband and me. She stands by the back door and pretends she wants to go outside, when we open the door, she does a half turn and stands in front of the microwave, looking up at her bowl of treats. We laugh at her and turn away. But she will do it again and again because she occasionally gets the treat.

Ziva loves to go for rides. She knows when it’s Sunday morning because that is grocery shopping day. She loves to hear “Want to go to the bank?” because she can withdraw treats. When we get the suitcases out, she knows we are going to Michigan. Sometimes Ziva gets carsick, so we keep old towels and blankets on the van floor, and on long trips we give her Dramamine. She is a true road warrior.

And a kind, loving dog.