Not My Dog

 

She’s not my dog.

She lays on the exam table quiet as a mouse and submitting to the poking and prodding hands of the vet. Granted, based on prior behavior, she’s muzzled but watching her, I can tell that she doesn’t feel good enough to act out. The exam is over quickly and the vet tech whisks her away for x rays and blood work. I don’t expect the news to be good.

Ten minutes later the vet is showing me the x rays and I can clearly see the degeneration of the discs in her spine as well as her hugely enlarged heart. The blood panels reveal her liver and kidneys are damaged and her white count is elevated. She’s given an anti inflammatory shot, a new supply of Lasix and an antibiotic and all the while, even after the muzzle is removed, she doesn’t make the first protest, doesn’t growl or show her teeth or even struggle. She’s not my dog but it’s difficult to see her like this.

Back at home, she finds a narrow space between my chair and the wall and curls up to go to sleep. The other dogs seem to sense that she needs to be left alone and they watch her from a distance but don’t try to bother her. Before I leave, I check that she has water, try tempting her with a hot dog, and carry her outside and back in. She finds the same space and goes back to sleep.

The following morning, she’s the first thing I check on and I’m relieved to see her up and walking more normally and although she doesn’t bark her usual welcome, she is wagging her tail and appears perkier. She’s not interested in eating but she does stop at the water bowl before I carry her outside. Michael tells me she did eat a little hamburger and a spoonful or two of milkshake the night before. It’s not much but it’s a start. Later he’ll get her chicken nuggets, he tells me. Sounds like a plan, I tell him, be sure she takes her pill with them.

Awful lot of trouble and worry for a dog that isn’t mine.