Treatment — Week I Can Only Count to Three

I must offer my most humblest of apologies to you, my neglected diary. I can report that my health is tolerable, though we are in the thick of summer, and historically summer and I, er, do not get on. It has been six months since my diagnosis, and at my three-month check up my charming doctor announced that she would be happy to see me again in six month’s time.

Well, that would never do! I may or may not have fabricated a cough, may or may not have decided to become a bit more lethargic. (It may have been a conscious decision, or I may have been trying to evade summer altogether. Summer is nothing but heatwaves and ruptured disks and seizures, crate confinement, narcotics, and sheer boredom. Thank you, but no thank you.) I also may have neglected to tell the Moms about my plans to see dear Doctor Bonnie and my bestest most beloved nurse, and no matter how I tried to plead my case, once the team showed up at the house, we <i>actually had to go through with the exam</i>.

Worst of all, my bestest, most beloved nurse has left the practice. The upside, I had a new lady friend to flirt with and impress with my rugged good looks, my serious demeanor, and my youthful appearance. She went on and on about how good I was (but of course! I am a civilized canine!), and when she learned of my shady past, she was ever moreso impressed! (Alas, she never did get close enough for me to thoroughly investigate her most fragrant of regions . . . ah, delectable eyeballs, all the secrets that spill from your sockets to my nose. . .)

I left the exam with a belly full of treats (and an admonition to lose weight; what hypocrisy!), a higher dosage of heart medication, the same prescription of blood pressure medication, and a diuretic.

I am a pee machine! I am, if you’ll forgive me both my language and my colloquialism, a wicked pisser.

~*~*~

Having such medication under my belt does not mean that I am asleep on the job. In June one of the Moms had some mouth surgery, and I was on Hero Duty for weeks. Despite the encrouching summer, despite having to take it easy myself, I was there, at her side, all day, for five days straight. On her, keeping her in bed, making sure she couldn’t move around to much, and there, too, to help her eat her ice cream. Once a Hero, always a Hero.

For my summer bonus, we wrangled a free air conditioner from our awesome neighbor. He’s my man. I try to go hang out with him when he’s in the yard, but the Moms make me stay inside. They don’t understand. I need my man time.

Neech doesn’t count.

There’s noise about me making a Youtube debut, but so far I’ve put them off of that plan. I’m holding out for carrots. I’m a civilized dog, but I still need to get paid.

 

One dog, shaken, not stirred . . . .

It started out as a normal working-dog day, last Wednesday. Her was home, as she was not feeling well. There was still snow, and if I can feel the cold in my joints and my spine, I know she can, so I laid on the charm, snuggled hard in bed, kept my chin upon her hip, and between my wisdom and the other mom’s insistence, we convinced her staying home and keeping the dog out of the crate resting was in order!

What a stupid idea. No sooner had the other mom left for work than a fog of non-thinking, crazy-making craziness descended upon the house hold. Mom thought to count her medicine, in the darkest room in the house, without actually paying much attention. And then she thought she dropped one, though she wasn’t sure. And because she was already unwell, and lost in a haze of confusion, the logical conclusion was not that she did not drop one but rather that she dropped one, and because I was underfoot (Call me Corbie J. Underfoot!), obviously I partook of the Tramadol.

Because I run around taking medicine off the floor. Because I take my own pills without them having to be buried in treat-goodness.

Oh, right. No, I don’t.

Before my very slightly cataract-ed eyes, she dissolved into panic . . . and then the fun began! She called the other mom for advice, and the other mom said that it was better (BETTER!!) to induce vomiting than to run the risk that I’d over dose on tramadol. (While in general I’d agree, the very idea that I would take the cursed tramadol is absurd, and I don’t know why they both took leave of their senses. Women!)

She poisoned my water. When I wouldn’t drink it — I am not a stupid dog! — she took a syringe and dosed me with the hydrogen peroxide. She tried to make up for that by giving me some toast, but it was burnt. And then she marched me around the house. And then she picked me up and SHOOK ME. And then we went for a walk. What. The. Hell.

Hello! Heart condition? Was this stress test doctor prescribed? No, it was not.

When the other mom finally got home I was GLUED to her side.

Why didn’t she just give me more butter, if she wanted to induce vomiting? That would have been awesome!

I see my doctor tomorrow. You better believe she’s going to hear about this. The dog needs tranquility. Tranquility, and sticks of butter.

It wasn’t my fault!

I was minding my own business, you understand. One of the Moms was making herself lunch, and quite naturally, I was under foot supervising the process. She may have happened to leave a stick of butter on the counter. May have. Being a dog small in stature, if large in heart, I had no chance of reaching the counter, and anyways, I am a good dog. There’s no way I would have sought that delicious rectangle of creamy delight stick of butter on my own.

Well.

Maybe. Maybe, just to let Mom know that it was left out.

But then . . . well. The cats, you see. Gathered around it. Going on and on and on about how delicious it was . . . and then, maybe one happened to knock it on the floor. Maybe a dog might have happened to try a lick, to see what all the hub-bub was about.

Maybe a dog couldn’t help himself when he grabbed the delicious creamy rectangle of heavenly delight and ran off with it.

Mom saved roughly a tablespoon of it from its ill fate. Unfortunately, this did nothing to save my stomach from the upset to come later. . . and now the Moms keep calling me Mr. Butterworth, and Butterball, and Corbie J. ButterBane!

I shun them both!

Treatment — Week One

That word does not mean what one might think it would mean . . .

I am one full week into my new regiment of pharmaceutical therapy, and so far I can report that my health is well. Thanks to my recent pedicure, I’m happily running around and getting underfoot, now that they can’t hear me coming, so that’s been fun.

I am not happy with the amount of food I have not been getting. Not one single of the humans that decided I needed to lose weight are under 80lbs, so excuse me if a dog might think that they’re being a bit hypocritical. At least I’m still allowed my carrots and lettuce, but no more table scraps? Because I gained two whole pounds? Women! I tell you . . .

(Er. Don’t tell A Lady I said that!)

My second least favorite thing has been being pulled out of nice, warm, happy bed in the middle of the night, shoved into a harness, and thrust outside into the cold, dark, rainy air. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I am afraid of the dark. I simply do not want to be out in in, where I can’t see well, where things are waiting to get me. Like bears. And Neech.

I was fawned over and pampered for a few days after my visit, but now the Moms are back to, “No, Corbie,” and “Get down, Corbie,” and “Don’t chase Luna, Corbie.”

Happily, I do not think they know that I do understand English . . .