They looked like strawberries dotted across the white kitchen tile floor, only they weren’t. It was quarter-sized drops of blood.

Carol had already identified the source and quarantined Ollie in his travel crate. He wore that “I’ve done something bad” expression. Of course he had, but now the attention focused on his condition and Carol’s soothing calmed him.

“I knew something was going on,” Carol said describing how she had found him digging in an obscured corner of the yard. It was where he had excavated before and on one occasion burrowed under the chain-link fence, making his escape into the neighbor’s yard and beyond. We filled in that spot with rocks and capped it with a cement building block. He hadn’t tried to reopen the portal again, but moved operations down the line to a section filled with roots. We had ruled out that location as a possible escape hatch, but Ollie had other ideas.

“I wonder if there was glass in the dirt,” Carol pondered. “We’d better check it out.”

The more immediate concern was Ollie.

“It’s between his pads,” she said.

Ollie obliged as we conducted an examination. The bleeding had stopped and it seemed to be a superficial wound. We cleaned it off. He limped around the kitchen. Carol got his cone so he wouldn’t lick it. We thought in a day or two, maybe even sooner, he’d be back to his old self. But it didn’t work out that way.

By the second day when things seemed to be no better, Carol brought him to the vet. There wasn’t anything in the wound, but he had cut his pad. He would need a week to 10 days of wearing the cone and restrictions on his activity – no jumping, no running. This meant walks on a leash and certainly no free time in his pen or the yard.

It makes for a depressed dog. He looked pathetic, his eyes cast upward from the cone. The heat of the past week was the only salvation, despite how you may feel about it. Ollie slows down in the heat and found comfort lying in front of the bedroom fan. Carol had her hands full, getting him up and down stairs and taking him on limited walks several times a day.

By Sunday we were coming up on a week and the routine had worn patience thin. Ollie was bumping around the house in his collar looking for relief. Carol was ready for some positive change. Over breakfast we talked about the day’s activities. Ollie was at our side. He hadn’t lost his appetite for scraps, and ironically the cone made for easier catches.

“What about some pullie time?” Carol suggested.

Ollie perked up with the mention of pullie, although he didn’t go in search of one of several short sections of knotted rope. I slipped off the cone and reached for the newest pullie.

Ollie smiled, eyes locked on what it was holding. I teased him a bit, waving it in front of his muzzle. He nipped at the shredded line, finally lightening his jaws on it delightedly. He tugged lightly with increasing vigor. Energy was flowing back into him. His tail was wagging. The clouds of the past week were clearing.

I released my grip and Ollie pranced into the living room shaking his prize and growling. I growled. He raced back to push the pullie into my lap. We repeated the game again and again. He was happy.

For the time the condition was forgotten. He was a dog again, not a patient.

He chewed the pullie and we watched loving that he was happy. And then his attention turned to his paw. He started licking it. The cone went back on. He settled down, resigned.

The happy moment had changed the day and our outlook.

Sometimes that is all it takes. Find those happy moments, but I wouldn’t suggest chewing on a pullie.