On Friday night when I got home from work my little dog was collapsed on the floor. She seemed to be unconscious so I grabbed the phone and hoped the vet was still working. He was about to go home, but I exclaimed "she's just gone into a fit!" so he said "bring her straight over". I picked up her spasming little body and she went limp, I put her in the car on the seat next to me and was I probably breaking the speed limit before I got to the end of the driveway. About halfway to the clinic she sat up, looked around then looked at me as if to say "are we going somewhere?".
The vet met us at the door and smiled "so she got better then?" he asked. He had the green dream and syringe ready, which he quickly put out of sight. He checked her over, couldn't really find anything wrong. He explained that when dogs get old they can develop a form of false epilepsy, that the excitement of me coming home may have been enough to trigger her into a fit. We discussed options and I took her home.
The husband and I had a reservation at a posh restaurant and we considered canceling, but it had been so long since we had been out somewhere nice that I insisted we go.
When we got home little Mollie wasn't at the door as usual. She wasn't in her bed; we searched around the house then grabbed torches and headed into the back yard. The husband eventually found her, hidden behind some pots. I put my hand on her, she was still warm but wasn't breathing. The husband grabbed her and started hitting her on the chest and yelling "Mollie! Come on Mollie!" but she was definitely gone.
We bundled her into a garbage bag and put her in the bottom drawer of the freezer, lit some candles and opened a bottle of sparkling shiraz. We made a toast to Mollie: she was deaf, blind, senile, incontinent, smelly, annoying, constantly underfoot, stubborn and difficult to groom. We loved her. We were going to the big city the next day so I was ready to put her in my suitcase and take her home, bury her with my other dog. But the husband pointed out that we couldn't a) travel with a dead dog in our luggage and b) turn up on somebody's doorstep and say "Hi, we're here to bury our dog".
So she's still in the freezer until I decide what to do.
So now we can open cupboards or the fridge without having to move a small dog, we can walk across a room without tripping over, there are no puddles in the hallway and no disgusting smells in the lounge room. There's also no little dog on my lap when I'm watching telly. I miss the scrofulous little mutt.
The vet met us at the door and smiled "so she got better then?" he asked. He had the green dream and syringe ready, which he quickly put out of sight. He checked her over, couldn't really find anything wrong. He explained that when dogs get old they can develop a form of false epilepsy, that the excitement of me coming home may have been enough to trigger her into a fit. We discussed options and I took her home.
The husband and I had a reservation at a posh restaurant and we considered canceling, but it had been so long since we had been out somewhere nice that I insisted we go.
When we got home little Mollie wasn't at the door as usual. She wasn't in her bed; we searched around the house then grabbed torches and headed into the back yard. The husband eventually found her, hidden behind some pots. I put my hand on her, she was still warm but wasn't breathing. The husband grabbed her and started hitting her on the chest and yelling "Mollie! Come on Mollie!" but she was definitely gone.
We bundled her into a garbage bag and put her in the bottom drawer of the freezer, lit some candles and opened a bottle of sparkling shiraz. We made a toast to Mollie: she was deaf, blind, senile, incontinent, smelly, annoying, constantly underfoot, stubborn and difficult to groom. We loved her. We were going to the big city the next day so I was ready to put her in my suitcase and take her home, bury her with my other dog. But the husband pointed out that we couldn't a) travel with a dead dog in our luggage and b) turn up on somebody's doorstep and say "Hi, we're here to bury our dog".
So she's still in the freezer until I decide what to do.
So now we can open cupboards or the fridge without having to move a small dog, we can walk across a room without tripping over, there are no puddles in the hallway and no disgusting smells in the lounge room. There's also no little dog on my lap when I'm watching telly. I miss the scrofulous little mutt.
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