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.

It’s all about the dogs

 

Junie among the flowers

So it seems some days. We had a rough week last week—let’s put it this way, our dogs had a rough week, so therefore so did we. Wednesday Jordan called in a panic to say June Bug was dying. Junie is the youngest of the two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels and by far the most frail. She is eleven, I believe, had a heart attack some five-plus years ago, and spent a week in an oxygen chamber at the doggie cardiologist’s clinic. At the time they gave her another year to eighteen months, so she has surprised everyone and been living on borrow time. She’s fine and seems to enjoy life, although she shows signs of dementia and does not hear or see well. Still, knowing that doesn’t help much when you’re faced with a dog in crisis.

She didn’t die. She spent two night back at the clinic in oxygen and is back home, apparently her old self.

But my Sophie, who now is diagnosed with chronic bronchitis, began that deep coughing again. She’s no spring chicken either at eleven. I asked the vet what I could do to prevent another bout of acute bronchitis—seems like we just got through the last one. He said she was due her allergy shot and needed a refill of some medicine. It was today before we could get her to the vet, but she’s had her shot and pill. Tonight she is wheezing heavily but still hungry and ready to bark at the slightest threat—and there are many. I figure the medications take at least 24 hours to kick in.

For now, we’re all relieved to have healthy dogs. But it’s gotten me to thinking about dogs, people, and the relationships. Our shelters in this area are full, and once no-kill shelters have been forced to euthanize again. I once read that dogs sense that coming and know fear just as we would—and that thought haunts me. The shelters are full, of course, because people are irresponsible dog owners—they turn in old dogs, sick dogs, dogs that they are tired of without another thought.

And then there are the people who have dogs as sort of ornaments. They feed them and see that they have water and even get medical attention when needed, but they are sort of remote dog owners. No affection, no bonding, no attachment.

Sometimes on Facebook someone will ask if anyone else talks to their dog, tells them goodbye when they leave, etc. I do, and I assure her I’ll be back soon. (To tease me, my oldest son says, “Naw, we’re never coming back.” Sophie knows who to believe. I have a friend who developed back trouble and found she could no longer go up and down three flights of stairs several times a day to walk her dog. Her solution was not to give up the dog but to move to a first-floor apartment. Those are my kind of dog people. They recognize that dogs have feelings and emotions, they know joy and happiness and fear and anger just as we do. People who say, “My dog is family,” aren’t just kidding. They mean it.

Because I spend long days alone in my cottage, I’m dependent on Sophie for company. I carry on conversations with her, and she cocks her head and looks inquisitively at me. We have our routines: at 4:30 in the afternoon, she wants supper which involves several courses: first she gets a geriatric (no kidding) chew treat, then a bit of canned dog food followed by kibble and topped off with a second treat. Heaven help me if I forget that last step—she lets me know.

The new routine I’m getting used to is in the morning and is all due to the introduction of wet food during her last bout with bronchitis. She never before had anything but kibble and tiny tiny bits of cheese as a reward or bribe. But bronchitis and/the meds upset her stomach, and the vet recommended half a can of wet food twice a day. It was like giving me lobster twice a day—she was in heaven, and predictably when she could go back to kibble, she didn’t want to. So we have compromised. She wakes me between 5:30 and 6:00, I let her out (and warn her there will be no food if she doesn’t go potty). Then I give her wet food, stop by the bathroom, and go back to bed. I can do it in six minutes flat. And yes, I go back to sleep. The reason I could write a thousand words today is that as I dozed my subconscious mapped it out. I call that productive sleep.

Not sure which of us is in charge here, but we’re happy, and I think we make a pretty good pair. Sophie wishes all dogs had as good a life as she does.

Sophie's sweet face