At the vet’s
I had to rush my 7-year old dog Poofy to the vet this morning. She’s had diarrhea since Monday morning and none of our first aid remedies worked. She lost her appetite, she stayed mostly lying down, and so this morning when I got down to the living room to greet her at 7:30 am and she didn’t even lift her head to acknowledge me I totally freaked. I took the quickest shower, dressed quickly, grabbed my bag and practically ran out the door with Poofy in my arms. She barely moved except to lick my face, and it was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into tears.
Was so lucky that the clinic was open at 8:45am. I had wrapped Poofy in her bath towel and kept whispering to her how much I loved her and patting and kissing her head and nose, and all she did was look at me with her sad, deep brown eyes. It broke my heart to see her so weak, and I hated myself for not taking her to the vet’s sooner.
The vet wasn’t in yet, but two of his assistants were, and they helped me make Poofy as comfortable and relaxed as possible. They smoothed her fur, cleaned her ears (they had these curvedm tweezer-type thingy that could reach into the inner recesses of the Poofy’s ear canal), and took her temperature. She didn’t have a fever.
When the vet finally arrived after some 30 minutes of waiting (Poofy lay on the surgical table, small spasms occasionally wracking her body), he immediately asked me questions. Interrogated, more like; and all throughout the Q&A I felt very guilty and I knew I’d been a neglectful mom to Poofy (I really should’ve taken her to the vet last Monday when she stopped eating and when her diarrhea began).
The vet took some of her blood for testing, and hooked an IV into her left leg. I flinched the two times the vet couldn’t find a good vein to drive the needle in, but all the while Poofy just lay there meek and docile, quite unlike the way she conducted herself the last time we were at the vets for vitamin shots (she thrashed and wriggled and was generally so misbehaved that the vet scolded me harshly for raising such a spoiled brat of a dog).
Now Poofy is confined at the vet’s, her kidney and her liver being checked because the vet fears that her organs may have begun failing (she’s not a young dog anymore). She’s still hooked to an IV because she’s dehydrated, and I’ll be able to check on her later tonight before I go home.
Gad, I feel so awful. Poofy’s been with me for seven years and she’s, well, she’s like my own child (although she’s older than me now, because in dog years, one human year is equal to seven in a dog’s life). She’s the closest friend I have who isn’t human (I’ve already lost Herbert, my rabbit; and Enrique, my turtle), and it’s a nightmare thinking that I might lose her.
—-
