I am sick. Lord, I am SO SO SICK, the kind of sick that has me looking back at last weekend when I got back from traveling and thought I was sick and going “THAT WAS NOTHING.” I can’t believe I even complained about the little sore throat and general malaise I was experiencing, then, because this weekend the germs staged a sequel, something that ends in “THIS TIME, IT’S PERSONAL” or “SNOTSTORM OF THE DAMNED” or somesuch. I don’t know.
Otto, of course, was away this weekend (“of course” because when do I ever get sick when there’s actually either nothing to do or someone around to help? NEVER, that’s when), and the kids had something Saturday morning, so I got them up and out and we did our thing and then we came home around lunchtime and I said, “You guys just play a little, I’m going to lie down for a few minutes” and then I passed out for three hours.
Sunday I’m not sure I ever really got out of bed, and the children will probably tell you this was the greatest weekend of their lives, on account of they got to play 5,378 hours of Wii. Awesome.
Today I got up a little later than usual but managed to get the kids up and fed and packed up with lunches and out the door. I felt very pleased with myself, minus the part where I yelled at Chickadee because she didn’t take care of the dog and I had to take her out in the cold so that she (Chickadee, not Licorice) wouldn’t miss the bus.
I can do it all! I’m sick but I ENDURE! I totally planned to do a little Rocky victory lap around the house, but then I started coughing and settled for sitting at my desk wheezing, instead.
I even remembered that today is the beginning of a new month, and as such, it meant it was time for Licorice’s monthly meds. She takes one for heartworms and one for fleas. I dunked them in peanut butter and affixed them to the roof of my darling puppy’s mouth, and felt very pleased with myself for being on top of everything despite the fact that I’m, you know, DYING over here.
Now, last month when I gave Licorice her meds, she ended up throwing up that morning. And she puked and was fine, but it made me realize that I think maybe the month before THAT she’d done the same thing. Huh. So last month when she yakked I called the vet, and they said to make sure I give the pills with a meal, and to watch her the next month, and some dogs can’t tolerate that particular flea med, and just let them know what happens next time. Okay.
So today I was keeping an eye on her lest she puke. Because the only thing more fun that being deathly ill yourself is also waiting for a creature who cannot tell you they’re about to hurl to start horking up partially-digested kibble.
For about half an hour she was fine. But then she started doing a lot of that drooling-and-licking thing that seems to signify nausea, so I dutifully took her back outside and she sniffed around a while before stopping and vomiting up an impressive mound of yuck.
“Okay, Licorice. Good girl. That’s okay,” I called, as she turned to look at me with mournful eyes. “That’s a good girl. All done. Okay, let’s go inside!” She looked at me, and then flopped over onto the ground. And wouldn’t move when I called her.
This is where it’s particularly useful to have a dog who is a mere thirteen pounds: I scooped her up and brought her inside, but when I put her down she continued just laying there, and I’m not going to lie, I started freaking out a little. I’ve seen this dog shy, and scared, and tired, and sad… but I’ve never seen her positively LISTLESS. I sat with her and stroked her head and she leaned against me and closed her eyes.
About ten minutes later she began to moan and then puked again. And ten minutes after that, yet again. Which was when I called the vet to say MAH BAYBEE, YOU POISONED HER WITH FLEA MEDICINE, HALP.
The good news is that the vet said to bring her right in. The bad news is that I AM DYING and so am unshowered and generally disgusting. But I brushed my teeth and found a ponytail holder and some clothes and set off for the vet, where it was determined that my dog has… a stomachache. Ah, the miracles of modern medicine.
She got some IV fluids and an anti-nausea drug along with her once-over, and even the vet commented that she “just isn’t herself” on account of Licorice generally hates the vet with the heat of a thousand suns, and today mustered only a mild indifference. We’ll try a different flea medication and probably she’ll be fine. But the vet did mention that there’s some sort of weird intestinal torsion that can result from vomiting, so I should bring her right back in if she gets worse. At least, I think that’s what she said. She said “intestinal torsion” and honestly, my vision started to tunnel. “Chances are good she’ll go home and sleep for a few hours and then be perfectly fine!”
So I gave them a pile of money and we came back home and now Licorice is sleeping on the bed next to me and I’m sure I would feel like a terrible mother if I could stop wiping my nose long enough to really devote the energy to it.
The best part is that before Licorice got sick this morning, Otto tried to convince me I should call MY doctor, and I said I really didn’t want to have to get dressed and leave the house. I’m sure it says something that I was willing to do it for the dog and not myself, but that something may have more to do with my (in)tolerance for vomit than my priorities in general. I think.
I don’t know. I am going to go take a nap.