The Dog

I love my dog, and I am afraid he is going to die. Not because he is acting like he is going to die, but because he is old. 

"He's at life expectancy," said the vet last week. Pomeranian-Chihuahuas can live as long as eighteen, but not all. We don't know how old he really is, as he was a rescue. I've had him for twelve years, so he's at least thirteen as he wasn't a puppy when we got him.

It took the pup to the vet because he was having some loose stools. Nothing major, but it would come and go and not really get better. 

At the vet, they decided to do a chest x-tay because he has a cough that hasn't gone away for a year. They wants to see if he had fluid in his lungs and would need a diuretic. (He doesn't.) He has a floppy trachea, a slightly enlarged heart, and a few compressed vertebrae near his tail. Nothing too epic or noteworthy for a dog his age, which is good.

The worst part was the trauma of the x-ray for Fox Dog. I asked if he needed sedation, and they said nope, he would be fine. Did they want me in the room? Nope, not worth exposing me to excess radiation. That's all well and good.

The worst part was the aftermath of the x-ray. I imagine they had to manhandle my eleven pound lapdog who isn't used to rough-housing like big dogs who like to wrestle. Fox was exhausted. I have never seem him so tired and stressed. The torture wore him out, and I was worried. I stayed home Friday night, with him on my lap.

Fox is the only remaining part of my old family. A few years ago, I had two kids, a husband and a dog. 

Now I have a dog, and he is so dear to me. I wish to release my fear of his dying to the universe, so I can enjoy him as he is today, while I have him.

Forty-eight hours after his x-ray, he bounced back to his usual cheerful and chipper self.