Ny allergy queen
Sophie
is sick again—or still sick. I hardly know which to say. Her tummy troubles
seem gone, but her snorting, snuffling, whatever the sound, is still with us
bigtime. I worry about describing it to the vet, and sometimes I want to say it
sounds like a horse blowing. Or maybe she’s trying to clear her throat as a lot
of us do in allergy season in Texas. And sometimes, when she’s not making all those
noises but lying peacefully on the floor, you can hear a rattle as she
breathes. I was really tempted today to ask the vet if dogs can get pneumonia.
It stands to reason they can, but he keeps reassuring me it’s allergies.
Last
night she began hawking, honking, whatever you want to call it at three in the
morning. Poor thing was absolutely miserable. I gave her water, talked
soothingly to her, massaged her throat. Nothing happened—except both of us lost
sleep. I did get to doze a bit but it was not real sleep. I let her out and fed
her about six-thirty, but she, who was ravenous last night, refused her food. About
seven, I got in one of those funny hours—I dreamt but I knew I was dreaming.
And in the back of my mind was the thought that she wouldn’t eat.
Relief,
of course, comes from Benadryl. But I defy you to get a pill into that dog. She
is far smarter than we poor humans. She has fished the pill out of the canned
dog food she adores, pieces of Velveeta, spoonfuls of cottage cheese. This
morning, in what I thought was a fit of brilliance, I pulverized two pills and
mixed into the wet canned food she now loves. No go, one sniff and she wouldn’t
go near it. She smelled the medicine. Tonight I gave her straight dog food and
kibble, and she ignored it—but a couple of hours later she ate every bite.
Asking
me about her behavior is sort of an exercise in futility. She’s an older dog,
so she sleeps a lot during the day. I would say she was normal today, chasing a
few squirrels, overjoyed when Zenaida came to clean the cottage, but tonight Jordan
said, “She’s clearly not herself.” So there I went into panic mode again.
Praying for good sleep tonight.
Other
than Sophie worries, there’s always the larger problems of Ukraine and Russian
aggression and worldwide moves toward autocracy—or in our country, the
unraveling insurrection and worries about midterms and horrible disinformation—no,
Joe biden is not senile; no, he is not in control of gas prices or inflation—and
so it goes. In Texas, if you’re inclined to worry, I give you Abbott’s latest
threat to declare an invasion at the border and the ongoing media blitz supportong
the right. I am so disgusted with the Fort Worth Star-Telegram I am
about to quit with a noisy flourish—but Fort Worth is my home, and I want to
read my hometown paper. But it offends me they have a community board for
conservative voices but not the same for liberals.
Closer
to home, things look good. I have been finishing the first pass edits of Finding
Florence and doing considerable rewriting, filling in plot holes, finding
new scenes I think will improve it. I am so wrapped in that world that when a
friend told me she was switching winter clothes for summer, I corrected—she meant
putting away summer for winter. When she wrote back and said, no, she meant
exactly what she said, she was getting out summer clothes, I realized that it
is near winter in the book and I was still in the world of my fiction. Yes, in
Texas, it is spring, although unusually cool. I could get spoiled to that.
Last
night, out of the blue, I said to Jordan, “I want some Mexican food.” She
laughed and said, “How did you know I just pulled up the menu from Enchiladas
Olé!” I ordered a chalupa with ground beef—it came with all the good stuff, except
the ground beef. I was bummed, but tonight everyone is gone, so I had my
favorite: a salmon croquette and a big blue cheese salad. We’ve had such a busy
week, we haven’t had many family meals in the cottage, and I hope we can get back
to that.
Life is
good. Pray for peace and love, not hate, here and abroad.
