Though I retired from my nursing career several years ago, a few days ago I was involuntarily called out of retirement. Hubby is suffering from back pain. We are rotating out heating pads, cushions, medications, and positioning in an effort to get him comfortable. So far, we haven’t found the magic combination. He is improving and looks forward to the benefit of physical therapy. I do believe hospital nursing was easier. There was support staff, change of shift, and a paycheck to look forward to.
The food doodling has been a huge deal. He alternates between sitting in his recliner and a wooden rocker. I bring his food on a tray. I definitely don’t want him trying to pick his way around Croc.
I can’t guess how many steps I’ve made between his chair and the kitchen. I did myself a solid favor today, can’t imagine why it took me so long to get my thoughts together. I put all the snacks in the house in this box. It rests serenely on his right side. On the left is a trash can. He tore into a package of taffy. I thought I detected a lifting of his spirits. After he opened the trail mix, it was definite. I suspect he’ll recover.
Bud’s get well gift and my salvation
The poor dogs are having a hard time. Hubby is far superior when it comes to walking. I cut them short. Also, he gives them a cookie after every walk. I am far stingier, limiting them to a couple a day, landing me on their dirt list. From earlier in post You can surmise Bud believes snacks. Our little guy is a champion lap sitter, alternating between the two of us every time he thinks of it. Bud is not comfortable enough to hold him a lot now, so Izzy had to poop on the bathroom rug in protest. Had to be deliberate, since he doesn’t have accidents, just occasional “on purposes” to make his point.
“She’s sick.” Miss Ann confided as she handed over her precious Yorkie I had just agreed to responsibility for. “I’m kind of surprised she made it this long. We are both sick and I just can’t take care of her no more. Her medicine costs forty dollars a month and I just ain’t got the money.”. My heart fell. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Irritable Bowel Syndrome,” smiled the vet, mindful that Biscuit’s bowels had already paid off like a slot machine in the seven years Biscuit had been her patient.
Miss Ann sure knew how to hold her tongue till the deal was done. “Don’t worry. She goes on paper.” not mentioning Biscuit preferred towels, rugs, socks, slippers, dog toys, or whatever seemed expeditious.
Buzzy, my gentlemanly American Eskimo Dog, met us at the back door. She warned him off with a scowl, informing him things were going to be different from now on. When I put her down, she smiled contently and pooped on my shiny hardwood floor. Spotting Bud, she strolled over and daintily pawed his ankle. When their eyes met, true love pulsed beween them.
She shot me a look. “You ain’t woman enough to take my man.”
Joe found his dog lying out behind his car, not moving. He grabbed Fido up and ran him in to the vet.
Vet: “”I’m sorry. Your dog is dead. That’ll be fifty bucks.”
Joe: “No, he can’t be!” He threw Fido in the car and drove a few miles to see Vet #2. This one put him up on the exam table, checked him over good then brought a Labrador Retriever Into the room. The Lab sniffed Fido, poked him with his foot, but Fido didn’t respond. Next the vet brought a cat in and waved him over Fido.
Vet#2: “Sorry, your dog’s dead, alright. That’ll be three-hundred and fifty dollars.”
Joe: “Now hold on. The other vet only charged me fifty dollars!”
Vet #2: “Yeah, but I did a Lab test and Cat scan!”
Croc is a big, big, dog. I dread taking him to the veterinarian and am always so excited to learn we are to see the pudgy vet. This kindly man recommends a generous weight of one hundred ten pounds. The skinny vet always scowls while counseling me to get Croc down to ninety pounds, closer to her own weight. Fortunately, for his self image, Croc doesn’t suffer from fat-shaming. On our last visit, we were met by two nubile young technicians. Enchanted, Croc fairly danced as he tugged them to the scale for his weigh in. Back in the exam room, he beamed as they reported his weight of one hundred twenty-five pounds. In a fit of hormone-laced ecstasy, he sped back seating himself on the scale again, hoping for further praise.
My big dog, fell in love with bubble wrap recently. It never occurred to me a dog would know what to do with it, but fortunately my seven-year-old granddaughter showed him just
how it worked. I’d saved the bubble wrap for her visit. Croc made every step she made. Once she attacked the bubble wrap, he realized it was just what he’d been waiting for all his life. He enthusiastically wrestled with her, stomped on bubble wrap, and rolled in it. The next morning, he came back in while she was still in bed and started his own game. I hated to clean it up once she’d left.
Things didn’t go well from the start on Croc’s last visit to the vet. My half mastiff, half lab doggy boy weighs one hundred twenty-five pounds and pulls like a tractor. Desperate to sniff a steaming pile of poop, he snatched me down the instant I stepped out of the truck. I sprawled elegantly across the pavement, knocking my nose on the curb. I’d foolishly worn a skirt, so passersby were treated the view of my new undies as I struggled to grab the leash and avoid a greater disaster. Fortunately, Croc was fascinated by a steaming pile of dog poop and hadn’t escaped into traffic. He pondered sampling it as I struggled to my feet, felt around to find my glasses in another mess, and staunched the flow of blood from my damaged knees. He showed no sympathy for me as we made our way in, choosing instead to attempt a friendship with a five pound Yorkie. The tiny beast and her dainty mom were traumatized at the slobbering beast dragging me toward them. My muddied, bloodied countenance did little to reassure the duo, despite my assertion he only wanted to play. Happily, the teeny dog was the original mean girl. She tore into Croc, teaching him a lot about little, mean dogs. The staff got us in a room straight away. No waiting!
Four hundred and fifty dollars later found us checking out. By now Croc was happily munching his cookie. Once again, I was sobered at the cost of well-dog care, despite having experienced it only six months before. Incidentally, I had another dog at home scheduled for a pricey visit the very next day. I definitely can’t handle both at once. I’d made that mistake once, a sad story for another day.
Mean Doggy and her mom stood between my behemoth and the exit. Meany snarled maniacally at us, terrifying Croc. I enjoyed that. Momma was crying to the staff, “Can you find a home for her. I’m sick and I can’t take care of her no more.” She sobbed piteously. It was heartbreaking so I hurried out. After I got Croc, also known as Meatball, in the truck, I called Bud.
“Can we adopt a Yorkie? A sick, old lady has to get rid of her.” I went back for the poor dog. Miss Ann, her mama was delighted she’d found a sucker and pulled out her tattered checkbook to pay for Meany’s visit.
On learning her bill was ninety dollars, Mama paled. “Can you hold this check till next Tuesday?”
“I’ll get it. She’s my responsibility now.” Miss Ann took my number. True to her promise, she visits Biscuit, the little Yorkie, pretty often. She’s even taken Biscuit home for a visit a couple of times. Biscuit always seems to enjoy their visits, but doesn’t mourn for her.
Nutsrok 