The next day, he stood, and he walked, and he picked up his ball. He smiled. (Dogs do smile.)
But he also fell down the stairs, tripped in the yard, and moaned and whimpered around the edges. Coming home from after school stuff, I opened the door to find two three ft wide piles of vomit on the tile. (I had to make spaghetti that night, and obviously after shoveling & mopping piles of orange, I had mine sans sauce.)
The next morning, more piles. We took him back, as the vet assured us that some x-ray with contrast would definitely determine the cause of Bub's misery. We only got fuzzy scans showing an enlarged heart, some sort of something, and a blockage somewhere in the colon or stomach.
We were triple charge what they quoted, and said the next option would be exploritory surgery. We brought the old man home, along with several RXs.
So he's taking 10 pills each day, whining, but basically happy. Or happy-ish. & I'm frustrated.
bub home from the vet.
We named the cat, and her perky nature and fearless attacks make me less tired.
Living with the contrasts makes me appreciate youthful energy and wisdom that comes with age. If only we could hold the two in our hands, our lives, at once.
Throw two standard poodles, a turtle, and a couple kids in the mix while we're at it.
Ouida perched atop the turtle tank.
There's other stuff that went on, I just don't know how important or entertaining it is,
and in order to keep my blog light, I'll just end with
I'm glad spring is near. (I am!)
Happy St. Patricks Day :)