Healthy dogs and ailing friends

 

Jordan and Sophie, the day we brought her home eleven years ago.
She has always been at least part Jordan's dog.

Praise be! Sophie is coming home tomorrow. Jordan and I can pick her up sometime after three. This means the clinic has her insulin regulated, and they feel she will be okay to be home. The doctor stressed this morning he didn’t want us to get her home and have to bring her right back. She will have a checkup one week from tomorrow, but we are excited to have her home.

Jordan wants Christian to go with us, so she can hold Sophie. My repeated reminder that I am perfectly capable of holding my dog on my lap fall on deaf ears—Jordan will feel better doing it, and since the brunt of care (insulin shots) is mostly going to fall to Jordan, I will acquiesce. Jordan also says she’ll spend the night in the cottage at least the first night.

I am hoping Sophie’s transition from clinic to cottage will be smooth, but I know that’s not a given. I remember once, having had surgery, when I thought if I could just get home I’d be fine. On the way home, Colin stopped and got a to-go order of chocolate bread pudding with raspberry sauce, my favorite from a favorite restaurant. When I got home, I suddenly felt as if a truck had run over me, backed up, and done it again. I collapsed into the bed, and it was days before I ate that bread pudding.

For one thing, Soph may have her days and nights mixed up—she’s been eating at midnight. And I’m not sure she’s got her house manners back. So it may be an interesting few days. But my cottage will once again be happy when she’s back. I’ve had several friends come in and remark on the fact they didn’t have to watch for Soph as they opened the door. They uniformly wilt in disappointment.

Not to be disloyal to Soph, but I’ve been enchanted by two dogs lately. Saturday, when I had supper with friends Sue and Teddy, I met their year-old Bernedoodle, Mina. She reminds a bit of an English sheepdog—shaggy, big, goofy, and full of love and high spirits. I was immediately taken by her, and it was mutual—with her muzzle dripping from drinking, she’d come to me for love. Yesterday neighbors Jay and Susan brought over their houseguest who had just picked up her eight-week-old Aussie pup, and as a softie for Aussies, I was immediately captivated. He was loveable and sweet and cuddly and wanted to chew on everything, including my fingers and clothes. The owner hadn’t named him yet, though I have been unable to suggest a good name. But some days I want an Aussie to keep Sophie young. Do not tell Jordan and Christian I said that, for they would descend on me with the wrath of the furies.

I had dinner with good friend Carol tonight and was struck again, as we talked, by how many people have had a holiday or post-holiday season with a spot of some kind on their moon. Four of my good friends are facing surgery, most of it pretty major, in the next month. Carol said she had said to someone it is ironic when Judy (that’s me) is the healthiest one among us. But it seems to me so many people have said their holidays were okay, but … and that “but” includes things major and minor. Ours, of course, was Sophie’s illness, and the sudden decline and recovery of June Bug, the only dog I know with a cat’s nine lives.

I don’t think the troubles people are experiencing are a bad omen for the year, nor do I think the chaos in the House of Representatives signals bad things to come. Call me Pollyanna, but I think many of us are getting our troubles behind us. And the House? They’re revealing their pettiness daily—I think (hope) they’ll flare and fizz out.

My crossed-fingers prediction? 2023 is going to be a good year!