Sophie gives me a scare

 

Sophie and Christian in happier days. 

Last night, writing about three-o’clock-in-the-morning thoughts, I confessed to my superstitious nature. Now, here’s another superstition: bad things come in threes. I’m holding my breath, waiting for the third.

Actually, the first wasn’t bad, except it was medical confusion for all but me—Jordan with her rash, Jacob with his swollen hand, and me with a sore arm from a flu shot and, during the night, a headache. But last night, a major bad thing: Sophie gave us a bad scare.

Now that she’s older and calmer, she mostly spends her evenings sleeping by the couch while I’m at my desk. But last night, when I was ready to lock up for the night, I checked on her—and she wasn’t there. I searched the cottage, but she was nowhere—the cottage is small enough I was not likely to miss a small black dog. Convinced she was outside, I armed myself with a piece of cheese and went to the door—she never fails to respond to the bribe of cheese. But this time she did, and I could not see her anywhere in the dark. I called Christian (my solution to so many problems).

He came out and wisely checked the cottage again. Nothing, so he started out the door, but said, “Here she comes.” Sophie came in, tripped over the threshold she’s crossed a hundred times a day, and went down flat. Her back legs were not holding her up, and she was stumbling. This had happened once before, and I thought I remembered the immediate solution was food. So we fed her a cup of kibble, some of that cheese I’d promised, and a lot of water, all of which she consumed. By the time I went to bed, she seemed better if not perfect. During the night I checked and was reassured that, as usual, she moved from favorite spot to favorite spot.

This morning, she let me sleep unbelievably late, but she did eat her breakfast and seemed fine. I called the vet nonetheless to report. About noon, she began to stumble, and I called in an update to the vet. They called back promptly, thought she was getting too much insulin, and advised me to feed her right away. I did, and once again she seemed to improve.

The culprit? The wrong size needles. Somehow, the vet had prescribed some needles I didn’t need (I usually order them online) and they were different from what we’d been using. The vet tech asked to see a picture of the box of new (isn’t email wonderful?)  and said “Yep, they’re wrong.” So tonight we’re skipping the shot and tomorrow beginning a reduced dosage.

But it’s never easy. Sophie, who is always ravenous, is not interested at all in her dinner. Maybe she’s full from having a dinner-size serving at lunch. I am leaving the food out, but I am also uneasy.

This world consists of dog people, cat people, and non-pet people. The former two, to me, lump together in one category. They understand that our pets have feelings and fears and aches and pains, that they are part of family, precious and beloved. Non-pet people probably can’t fathom the depth of my concern for Sophie. But for twelve years now, she’s been my best friend, my companion, my goofy pal who makes me feel loved and appreciated and often makes me laugh—and I try my best to return that feeling. She has taught me a lot about compassion and patience and love, not that I hadn’t learned from a string of probably more than twenty special dogs during my life. (I keep thinking I’ll write a book titled Dogs I Have Loved—so many books, so little time.)

So tonight I’m walking that thin line between being a hysterical dog parent and a responsible, concerned pet owner. I am playing the wait-and-see game, but I am worried. I would love it if she would pop up from the spot on the floor near me where she is lying and go eat her supper. And for her, the evening will only get worse—thunderstorms predicted.

Prayers appreciated.