Life With A Deaf, Blind, Lame, Senile Dog That Thinks She’s My Mother
My dog is on drugs….
anti-flea meds every four days, antibiotics and anti-pain pills twice a day, and prednisone for itching down to every other day. Oh yes, and a diluted vinegar spray every second day until further notice because she’s susceptible to full body yeast infections during the Florida rainy season.
She still limps but has finally stopped itching. And the prednisone is making her hungry and thirsty so she’s eating and drinking for herself and the dog down the street. This is good because it means she’s slowly putting some weight back on a body that looked shockingly anorexic when I clipped all the hair off to get to the source of itching a few weeks ago. It’s also bad because what goes in must come out in almost equal proportions…. eventually. This means that no matter what important job I am in the middle of doing, at no matter what time of day, my dog urgently has to go out at the most critical point. The length of time she takes to decide to come back in is directly proportional to the amount of time it takes me to regain my intensity of involvement with whatever was interrupted when I let her out.
Since I record the voices for intros and outros on a radio station, this doggie in/doggie out scenario usually means that I get the sound of a bark or the clicky-clatter of dog nails on the tile floor in my sound bites and I have to delete and re-record.
Fortunately for both of us, Rally, the dog, is a gentle soul that never barks except when she wants out, loves everyone and everyone loves her. Even the cats love to rub on her. In fact, I have six of them and they love rubbing on her so much they end up herding her around the driveway and sometimes even knocking her down in their enthusiasm.
How can you not love a soul like that? When I open the door to let her back in she stands at the door and waits for me to brush off the debris–leaves, twigs, grass clippings, sand, etc.–left clinging to her fur when she rolled. She won’t step into the house without being brushed even though her sheltie-style coat has been clipped to the skin and nothing much clings to her nearly naked little whip-like tail these days.
I give her a pat on the back, step back, and watch her limp through the door and flop down on one of the blankets scattered around the floor for her convenience alone. Sometimes she prefers the floor and leaves the blankets bereft and lonely. They lay in wait for unsuspecting passers-by (meaning me) and try to catch a toe in a, thus far, unsuccessful attempt to trip. I keep a weather eye out for them and otherwise leave them alone in case the Rally dog wants to use them.
Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like without blankets all over the floor and a deaf, blind, lame, senile dog that barely tolerates medications, is allergic to fleas, and gets bullied by half-grown cats……and I feel my heart break. I think the day is coming when my life is going to be incredibly lonely and empty.