The Paris Review - Fall 2016

ack nails didn’t actually need to be cut. Unfortunately, when I was trying
to work on her back legs, she bit me.”
“She bit you? I’m sorry, that’s my fault. I’ve been roughhousing with her,
and I let her bite me. I mean, she doesn’t bite me. It’s when we roughhouse
together, she sort of mouths me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did she bite you hard?”
“Yes, she did.”
“I’m so sorry. Did she break the skin? Where did she get you?”
“She mostly got my thumbnail. Does she have issues with her back legs? She
was fine until I tried to go for them, and then she got upset and bit me. Then
I noticed how, when I’m going for one, they’d just flop out from under her.”
“Her back legs,” Emily murmured. “No.”
WHEN SHE BROUGHT Simha home, Emily walked from the living
room to the back door. Simha stayed close, walked into her, then circled in
front of her. Her eyes were unfocussed, her head nodded and weaved. Her
jaw hung open, and her lips lay slack.
“Simha, sit,” Emily said. “Simha. Simha.”
Emily gave her hind end a tap, and Simha sat. “Lie down. Stay.” Emily
walked away. “Come.”
Simha lifted herself onto her front legs, but she kept her butt still on the
ground. She twisted her back legs to the side and put her weight on a hip.
“Simha, come,” Emily said.
Simha was still. She pushed back a little, then pulled forward. She kicked
her back legs. She kicked them a second time and got her back paws underneath
herself, and then she straightened her legs and came forward.
Emily had her lie down and stand up again. The third time, she filmed
it and sent the video to David.
“She’s fine,” he wrote back. “It’s just the Valium.”
Emily’s mother was a retired nurse. She lived a few blocks away. Emily
texted her and explained that she had given Simha Valium before taking her
to the groomer, and now her back legs weren’t working. She sent her mother
the video. She thought her mother would say it was fine, but instead she
texted, “Do you want me to come over?”
“Yes.”
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