Now Bobby G, and probably a few of you others, know the story of our last dog, Fred. The last day of his life scarred me in ways I cannot heal from. When I went to go to work, he followed me to the door- which he never does- looking at me as if to say, "Help, Daddy." I had thought he was bound up. I told Laurie to try giving him some olive oil, and take him for a walk, which would help- but of course, this was the day it just HAD to rain ALL day.
So in this frame of mind I went to work- and with the cutter down (a long stupid other story), I was sewing on the box stitcher- a slow, boring process, perfect for sitting and worrying. At 10, Laurie called and said he was very sore around his butt, and she was pretty upset- compounded by the fact that she had called the work # first and left a message, which my boss in the midst of every machine in the plant falling apart, forgot about. I told her to call the vet. She called back with a appointment time, and I lit out of work like, as my dad used to say, "a bat out of Zulu."
|Yes, that's a real place.|
That day is today, and Scrappy started it out about 80%. He had gone from needing an ice cream bar to get him to go upstairs the first afternoon to refusing help and getting up on the bed himself that night to up and down with only mild hesitation this morning. He's pretty much back to normal tonight, but doggies are masters at hiding pain until it's too late. So we're watching him closely, but it is nice to have the old Scrappy back.
Now, if we could just convince him he's not a young pup anymore...