It will likely come as no surprise that I am a heavy-duty animal lover. So is Wendy. To be frank, I wouldn’t have gotten together with her if she weren’t.
In my love of animals – all kinds of animals; domestic pets, livestock, critters or the wild, fish or fowl and all the mammals – I’m not neurotic about it. While I converse with Max I don’t really anticipate a return comment.
But, throughout me life, from the time I was a young child, I always had animals. Sometimes I think I have liked my pets more than most humans. They don’t give you no shit – except the kind you are expected to pick up, and I always do. They are honorable. They don’t deceive or tell lies. And they never, ever judge no matter how crappy a body’s behavior might be. “Hey, that’s not Mom, so why are you hugging and kissing her? But, I’m cool about it. Won’t go any further than me.”
So, I had cats, and I had dogs, and I had chickens, and I had ducks and I had geese. And it was all a worthwhile experience.
And in my love of animals there is one thing about them I don’t like. When they are ailing they cannot tell you what’s wrong. They can’t describe their symptoms or offer opinions on said symptoms. That’s frustrating.
All last week Max was unwell. Now we love Max almost neurotically, so we were disconcerted to say the least as he was lethargic, looked deeply depressed and gave meaning to the term ‘hangdog’. He didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to go for walks. He had the blahs big-time. And of course I, in my own neurotic response to such things ended up thinking the worst. He’s nine now. He’s a big dog. Big dogs have shorter life expectancies, etc, etc. Worst-possible-scenarios running through my mind at fever pitch.
To the vet a week ago today and the assessment was that he was suffering from muscle inflammation from something having been pulled. He was put on anti-inflammatory stuff. That worked at the time and after giving him some time to relax he picked up a bit. At the same time, he wasn’t eating. He got to the point that he didn’t even want ‘treats’. Entirely unlike him. He was spending his days lying sequestered under the dogwood in the back yard. Like a depressed person, he didn’t want to mix-and-mingle.
Back to the vets again this past weekend. A further attempt to get to the bottom of it. We parted with a goodly sum to get blood tests, x-rays, an ultrasound and other stuff. A possibility exists that for what was deemed a gastrointestinal thing antibiotics might yet have to be prescribed, but at the moment he has been given the equivalent of human antacids and he seems to quite like food again. Not in huge quantities, but, you know, puppy-steps.
Now if only he could have told us what was wrong he might have saved everybody a lot of grief – not to mention money.