What a week this has been. I broke out the flip-flops today, because, after this week, I deserve them. (Of course I have to change out of them for work tonight).
Tuesday, woke up and my sweet Robbie-do was not acting like himself. I realize that is an intangible illness, but when you sleep with a dog for the vast majority of 8 months, and you know him the way I know my son, you know what not acting right is. His normal routine is to get up in the morning, and launch himself off the bed to go potty. Chancey and him run out to the kitchen in a race that is part Nascar, part hockey, part roller derby and then go out to the dog yard, where he greets the morning by barking furiously. Then it's into the living room for water and breakfast, and if Chancey gets there first, he gets thuglicious with her. Tuesday, none of that. No get off the bed, reluctantly go down the stairs to go potty, no breakfast, no water. Go in the livingroom and quietly sit down. I can see not wanting to go outside, but to not eat breakfast? Ever since he retired from the show ring and gene pool, Robbie's been making up for lost time and eats whatever he comes onto--he would eat Chancey if she laid still long enough. So we knew there was a problem.
I took him right out to the vet, because I don't stay at home on Tuesday nights and if he got worse, no one would know what to do. They found some mystery fibers when they were examining him, so kept him to make sure his illness wasn't caused by toy guts being stuck in his colon. I got him back Wednesday morning. He was eating by that time, but still not . . . Robbie. I just figured that if I had had to eat barium, I wouldn't be in the best of shape myself, so brought him home, put him on the couch and turned on trashy TV, which we all know is an essential part of getting better when you're sick.
I got home Wednesday night, and he looked awful. He came lurching out of the back of the house and wanted to jump on me to greet me, but he couldn't do it. I bought him baby food on the way home from work to eat, in case his tummy wasn't right yet, he didn't want that (my co-workers have informed me they don't blame him for that, meat babyfood stinks. I can't confirm, I didn't smell it, I wasn't putting my nose up to it, it was for him, remember, this is the dog who would eat his SISTER. Stinky babyfood should have been downright JUMMY). Took him outside to see if I could diagnose what was happening, and he was walking around like he was really sore. So that ended in me sitting on the front porch, crying because my dog was sick. I wanted him better.
Mom and I took him into the emergency vet's office. I hate that place, but they saved Felix's life and at 9 at night, you don't have options. I figured we would not have a catastrophic meltdown, because my vet checked him in the morning and she was x-raying him all the time. You would think things that cause dogs to die show up on X-rays. And of course the natural showman in my son came out at the vet's. He wanted me to hold him while I was filling out his paperwork. I passed him off to Mom and got the dirtiest look from him, like, "You know I do not feel well, and you are the one who comforts me best, and Grammy Shirley does not give me adequate bellyrubs, and that is all that is getting me through this and you pass me off to her. You are a horrible MOTHER." And my mom goes, "Don't put him on the floor, we don't know what's on the floor." Umm, just hazarding a guess here, but tile? I am not sure what she was thinking, I guess maybe MRSA? So we get the paperwork filled out and start doing the passing back and forth.
I finally decided he could sit on his own chair, because he kept shifting weight and I know my lap is not comfortable. So I set him in his own chair. Surprisingly, he didn't pout. And then a big dog walked in, and that made him mad. He started growling at this dog. I told him, point blank, if he was too sick to not be in the vet's, he was too sick to be starting fights and embarrassing me in the waiting room and to cut it out. And then he wanted a belly itch. I explained to him that he was not going to act a fool, then get a treat. He seemed to understand my logic.
He pulled a muscle in his back. That was the diagnosis. They gave him painkillers and anti-inflammatories. Gave me some Rimadyl for him (BTW, whoever invented that stuff is a saint and I hope they get a good Christmas bonus). He's good about taking it. Last night he got it in cheese on a cracker. He slept on a pillow Wednesday night, last night, he just had his head on the pillow, in the middle of the bed, with the covers mounted around him. What a life!
Today, he was pretty much back to normal. He slammed Chancey into the wall on the way outside; he advises rubbin' is part of racing, she just puts up with him. It's a pretty day today. My dog is better!
So I haven't had a lot of good stitching time, but last night it was nice to sit down and watch TV and stitch.