Yesterday, I had a 100-pound poor baby. He was vomiting, not eating, and only wanted to snuggle in mom’s lap. It’s hard to explain that mom can’t sit on the couch all day and be a pillow because you ate too much concrete or something else no living being should ingest. Mom doesn’t need the temptation to spend the day doing absolutely nothing.
Instead, the electric pressure cookers worked overtime to make chicken broth, chicken breasts, and plain rice as a tummy soother. I noticed that the more I worried and fretted about Haas, the more I kept calling him by the wrong name.
My last dog, Stump, wasn’t well for the last year of his life. I loved him terribly so I often made his food at home and was more responsible with his medication than I was with my own. I kept trying to call Haas by Stump’s name both in my head and to his head. Haas only outweighs what Stump did by 75 pounds but they are equally fuzzy so I am using that as part of my excuse.
Of course all of my dogs only get sick or infections on Sundays when there is no vet open so I stressed all day. My head knew that he was probably fine because he was still functioning, just in a subdued manner. His breathing was fine, he could move fine, he was really okay, and it was just me being a worrywart. My over-reaction was confirmed when he snarfed his chicken and rice. This boy is never an enthusiastic eater and often only finishes his bowl just to keep it from Percy (which is good for Percy’s waistline). This time, there was not so much as a crumb left in the bowl. If Dad hadn’t had to clean up the mess from earlier in the day, I would think that boy scammed me.
Today was a new day and Haas is back to his old tricks of breaking out of his crate and hopping around the yard. I don’t have to worry about anything more than slobber marks on my work clothes and I am good with that.