Poor, poor Baxter. It has been eight weeks since Baxter limped back to my parents’ house in Boone with his front left leg looking like a peeled banana. We didn’t see him injure himself, but he must have snagged it on a barbed-wire fence. The muscle and bone weren’t damaged. At the time, we couldn’t have imagined the amounts of time and money required to get him well again.

The little guy has not run in eight whole miserable weeks. He’s been locked up in the house. Short walks are his only break from the monotony and boredom. He wears an Elizabethan collar and frequently has a red bandage (our vet is an NCSU grad who knows I’m a Carolina fan) 24 hours a day — the outfit makes him look like a sad little clown, sidelined during the circus. I’ve never seen a bird immediately after its wings are clipped, but I imagine it’s similar to watching a forlorn, invalid Baxter, banging his e-collar on furniture, doorjambs and my legs as he mopes around the house.

Maybe you need a visual to make the sad clown connection…

Poor, poor sad clowns.

Poor, poor sad clowns.

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