So I worked yesterday, which was a raw bitter spring day, and by the time I left work and dragged myself as far as the bus stop I had to make a choice: alter my route home in order to pick up some beer, or just go straight home and risk a beerless Saturday night. And, uncharacteristically, I chose the latter. (I know this is usually a sign that I am dying of something, but honestly, it was so cold and damp and I was so tired that I just couldn't find the strength to go out of my way instead of straight home.)
But it's just as well, because I came home to a very sick little Fusspot. He'd been a little wobbly for the last couple of days - like a lot of old dogs, he has a degenerating disc in his back that gives him trouble, and I had noticed on Sat morning that he was roaching a bit and wasn't interested in breakfast and walkies meant a quick pee and heading for home. So I tucked him up in his donut bed (I didn't want to leave him on the big bed, in case he tried to jump off) and went to work. When I came home from work he wasn't in his donut bed. He was asleep sitting up and leaning against the bedroom door, because he was in so much pain he couldn't lie down. I tried (as gently as possible, I even carried him down the steps) to get him outside for a pee, but he refused to go. His back was roached and his little face was scrunched up with pain. I put him on the big bed and dosed him heavily with Tramadol, and then I lay down beside him. He threw himself on me and fortunately the Tramadol started to work quickly, or maybe he was just exhausted, because he fell asleep soon afterwards. So I got nothing done last night and slept in my clothes (well, yoga pants and a t-shirt) in case I had to make a run to the emergency vet. If I left the bed he cried. So I stayed. I think I slept a bit. He did not eat, drink or go to the bathroom for twenty-four hours.
But you know, Tramadol must be a helluva drug, because this morning he got up and shook himself, then barked to go out. So out we went and he had an epic pee and a perfectly normal poo. Then we came in, he had a huge drink, and then barked for breakfast. Which he got. So although he's still a tiny bit roached (and I can feel the inflammation in the joint) he's feeling a whole lot better. On the other hand I am a wreck. I got no laundry done and no dinner, I missed Groupthink, and I spent a lot of the night snivelling at the thought that this was the beginning of the end for the Fusspot. So I don't care if it's 2 in the afternoon ... I'm going back to bed.