And that's when I broke his leg

Mom bought a puppy about a month and a half ago. It was her way of dealing with an empty nest when my brother moved. Dallas the dachshund is a handful, albeit a cute one. He is six pounds of nibbling, squirming, whining goodness. 

Dallas has a bell on his collar so we can hear him coming. It almost always works.

Dallas hasn't gotten used to going to the bathroom outside. He's more than OK relieving himself in his crate or really anywhere around the house. The other day he unleashed a surprisingly large pile of poo on an area rug. Annoyed about having to clean up after him (again), I opened the back door to toss said poo in the yard. There was resistance when I tried closing the door followed by a blood-curdling screech. I caught his leg in the door. Fabulous. Dallas limped the rest of the night and cowered whenever I approached.

A trip to the vet revealed the news: I broke my mother's puppy. Actually, it's only a small chip fracture, but the vet may as well have told me the dog had two days to live. I was a crying, blubbering mess. The vet assured me Dallas only needed a couple of weeks rest and minimal exercise and he'd be good as new. 

Two weeks later, Dallas occasionally limps and is terrified by the back door. He still cowers from me. That's been the worst because it makes me feel like such a jerk. I can't wait for the vet to give him a clean bill of health so maybe my guilt will start to subside. Until then I will feed him as many cookies as he wants and won't complain when I have to pick up after him.

Update: The vet said his leg is OK. Let the guilt magically disappear!