The Lolly has been having a hard time lately. It was either Sunday or Monday of the holiday weekend, a week and a half ago, she went to plop down on the carpet in the living room, and stopped in mid-motion because she appeared to be unable to move. She looked confused and distressed - but not like she was in pain. She looked like she could not move her legs.
I took her to the vet Friday, after an almost instantaneous recovery, and she was perky and fine the day we went. New vet flirted with her and kept saying how healthy she was - "you're not REALLY fourteen?!" - and gave her a once over. We did not do x-rays (pet health insurance are coming at my office; I told her I'd like to put that in force, then we would come back for more maybe), we left with a mild painkiller "just in case", some advice as to supplements which might be a good idea, and one perky dog enjoying a ride home.
Two days ago, I was working from home. It was the day of the stupefying family news, and there's an extent to which I want to tell myself that I am going fretful-spinster-mad over my dog, in reaction to great sadness and worry. But I have known my dog almost all of ten years now. I know her expressions of pain, and I know her expressions of confusion. I have some familiarity with her thresholds and tolerances. I'm also deeply grateful for her big beating heard and beautiful sad eyes. And I know.
Something is wrong with my girl.
Tuesday, I watched her have an apparent seizure. She got up a little rickety, normalized, and seemed fine - if, perhaps only to my mind, the slightest bit "ginger" afterward.
Tuesday, she had a gallumphing accident while hurtling up the stairs (Siddy is like me; she doesn't really know how to do certain things slowly, deliberately, delicately.) She stood stock still for a full minute - I ran to make sure she was okay, and just to be next to her if she decided to keep going up - and admitted defeat, turned slowly around, and went back downstairs.
She's been in pain ever since. Yesterday morning, getting out of her bed was slow - even for her - and clearly very difficult for her. Going for our morning walk, she was so slow and so clearly hurting, we did not even get past our own yard. I turned her around gently, she toddled oh so carefully along behind me, and when we got to the stoop it almost defeated her. She took those few little steps up to the house ... slowly, deliberately, delicately. It was just heartbreaking.
I gave her the painkiller prescribed on Friday, and left her, enormously tempted to simply pull out my laptop (I'd worked from home the day before ... could have done it again ...) and not leave her.
I left her.
That has itself been getting HARDER over the past couple of months. Siddy has always been a "Bye mom!" kind of dog - loving, and attentive, but always willing to have her alone time. She used to always come in from the walk, take a drink perhaps, and gallumph up the stairs before I'd even said goodbye to her. For years, "bye-bye Lolly" has been called to her from the kitchen as I go.
Not the case anymore. She is slow to come up to the house at the end of our short morning walks, and now it makes me wonder if she's been sore and I didn't even know it. Or just reluctant, even herself not knowing quite why.
Goodbye, for the past month or two, has been a matter of Sad Eyes in the kitchen, standing silently and watching me go. She's my Best Monkey Ever, and I hate to leave her. Leaving has been getting so much harder lately.
Another recent change is one so subtle only I could ever perceive it. She's become physically sensitive in a way new and unfamiliar for such a boisterous thing - she flinches whenever I touch her on her back, and I don't touch her roughly. I started noticing some weeks ago that when I went to hook her harness, she would jump just ever so slightly.
I've always maintained the habit, when I pet her, of showing her my hands first. There are minor signs she was somewhat abused in the years before I adopted her, so I've always given her a visual cue when I am going to touch her, even just to pet her. The harness, though, requires no more cue than that she approaches and sticks her nose through the opening, so she's never needed that. Now ... I'm making sure to touch her head, pet her slowly and gently along her neck, and meet my right hand to my left in a smooth motion so she can feel me all the way and my left hand doesn't just come into contact to her surprise.
It may sound like rather a palaver, but physically of course it's just one of those tiny adjustments we sometimes make in the way we do ordinary things. I pet her neck whenever I put the harness on anyway, and usually give her a tickle once it's fastened, so it's just a meeting of two gestures.
But all these small things. One small sensitivity. One small injury. One small seizure-looking case of the shakes. One small hesitation in the mornings, on our walks.
Two big, glossy, limpid, beautiful, sad eyeballs - staring up at me.
I am worried 'bout my girl, the Stinky Tuscadero, the Cutest of Borg, the Sidney Von Bidney Biddle Barrows, the Best Monkey Ever, my Sweet Siddy-La. She is such a good, warm, dear thing. She has been so HEALTHY. Such a blessing.
Today, I carried her downstairs. The way she got up - so stiff - I could not bring myself to even think about expecting her to walk those stairs.
Our walk was short again, and when we got home, she stopped at the stoop. I carried her up that short little set of steps - and again, over the step at the threshold.
I tried to hold her so gently - she's not as heavy as she once was, so it was not bad - but she is so unfamiliar with being carried. She's not a little dog. It had to be disconcerting, even apart from her bodily pain. But she didn't protest one bit. Whether she understood I was trying to take care of her or not - Siddy never has fought me, really. She hates pills, but lets me administer them. She behaves for the vet every time. She is docile when it comes to handling, brave and good when it comes even to unpleasant physical transactions. She's a moderate kid, given to enjoying herself, but not hyper nor unmanageable.
She's a good old heart, and I've lived my life for a long time now in hopes I could be worthy of my dog.
I want to keep living like this - but I want her healthy, happy, *well*.
Fingers crossed I'm projecting on her - being an overly fretful spinster doggy-mommy, in reaction to other worries. Not so sure that's a hope to bet on. But hoping - and even praying, yes - anyway.
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