Monday, 24 June 2013

Gordie: The Don Quixote of pugs



We decided to get up the courage to take Gordie to the vet today.
I found myself in tears on the elliptical this morning.
The general rule when a dog is old and ill is the 50-50 rule. If he enjoys his life more than 50 percent of the time, he's probably good for a few more months or years. If less, then, well you know.
I got up this morning and decided to make an appointment. It had to be done today.
Part of my decision was because he's had a few good weeks. He's walking a bit more, though he does teeter and list to one side quite often. He's been barking, though he's somewhat like Don Quixote, a bit demented and swatting at unknown windmills.  He's also been coming to his food bowl and whining at the smell of bacon.
And yesterday, yesterday, was the biggest news of all.
Yesterday, he sat outside with his schlong hanging out.
I haven't seen the angry little knob for years now. But there is was, airing out like a bright red pencil crayon.
Normally, I would have been completely disgusted.
But not yesterday.
Yesterday, I was as happy as a hooker expecting a big paycheque.
Of course, he did shit on me while we were watching television.
But that's maybe 10 percent bad.
Anyway, it will be what it will be.
To save a little money, I volunteered to collect the urine sample, which isn't easy when you're chasing a male dog who's a few inches off the ground who doesn't lift his leg anymore. I sort of had to feel for it and got my hands soaked.
But I have a crystal clear sample.
I don't think his pee is the problem.
I think it's old age. Maybe the thyroid.
Hopefully not diabetes.
If it's anything really bad, he'll go to the light.
I'm writing this now to pass the time.
I don't want to imagine that he could take the walk down the Green Mile just yet.
With dogs you never know.
I'll keep you posted.
 

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