Leonard has been sick for 3 days now. Up and out into the yard three times a night. Not long after we brought him home he got sick while we were at work and he tore down the curtains and blinds in the house trying to get outside – if we’d wondered, it was clear he was desperately housebroken. On Monday we had to replace the blinds again.
He’s five and has had two surgeries for bizarre skin growths, so I often worry about what might growing on the inside. My little collie mix lived to be 18. And it was so hard in the end. I know I won’t have Leonard that long, and it is a thought that I carry around in my gut. Sometimes I listen to him breathe at night as though he were a newborn. If he stays in his bed when I get up in the morning to walk him, I worry.
We had to muzzle him yesterday because he snapped when the vet touched his belly. It took three of us to keep all 47 kilos of him on the x-ray table that made a terrifying noise when it moved into position. The two vets told me that not all dogs are that difficult.
My chill pup was “difficult”. No matmor wants to hear that.
But his blood work was fine and the x-rays showed a clear gut. No masses. No obstructions. I’m pretty sure one of the medications she prescribed is for potential ulcers.
Maybe I’m not the only one who goes through the days imagining the worst and suffering for it?
At any rate, what’s making him ill isn’t visible. Some bug he at? Contaminated water he drank? The newly-empty, end-of-corona-restrictions house from 7 to 3?
His body is holding onto something and it’s keep us up nights.
This is familiar. So familiar that I know it won’t kill either of us, though.
Well. Part of me knows that.
Love is clinging. And I don’t believe there is any way around that.
I have no ambition to deal with this fact of life by detaching from the world around me. I’ll be lagging along the the noble path if that is really necessary.