Let's see if I can actually write each day of the week! Wouldn't that be somethin!
The reason for my absence has been mostly because we have been playing nursemaids to a one Miss Georgia B*** (yes, she has my last name and no, I didn’t ask them to give it to her. It was actually weird when I called the vet’s and they asked for her last name…I suggested mine and sure enough, they pulled Georgia B***’s file. Odd, like finding out you have a child)
Anyway, this all began after an innocent day when I arrived home from work. Georgia had vomited on the couch and was shaking helplessly. I tried to console her and ushered her outside in case she had other business to do, but still she would not stop shaking…or vomiting.
As Joe arrived home I related my concern to him, but not wanting to jump to conclusions (or a hefty vet bill) we decided to wait just a little longer to see if she snapped out of it. After one more round of vomiting, we finally agreed to call the vet.
I explained her symptoms and asked if they sounded serious enough to merit a visit.
“Well, that’s up to you, but if it’s a concern, then we can see you around 7 p.m.?” the nurse said.
Not wanting to risk it, we settled on the time and before long we were sitting in the examination room, waiting for the vet’s diagnosis. When she finally came in she looked Georgia over and in only a few seconds felt a golf-ball size lump on her lower belly.
“Have you ever noticed this before?” she asked. Joe and I, both speechless, shook our heads.
“Ok, well, this concerns me a bit so let me take her with me and get some X-rays done.”
Again, we both quietly agreed, and as she and the nurse carried Georgia away, I suddenly began to freak out. All these questions came tumbling into my brain: How had we not seen that? Is it fatal? What if there’s nothing she can do? What if she needs surgery and it’s thousands of dollars?
While I was playing a torturous game of 20 Questions in my head, Joe relentlessly tried to keep me calm. One way was in trying to guess what animal the skeleton in the examination room was supposed to represent. It did help; I am still convinced it was a cat, but Joe assured me it was a dog.
After what seemed like forever, the vet finally came in and told us to follow her to the surgical rooms. She had on her computer screen an X-ray of Georgia’s bowels- or should be. I was still reeling from all the questions and fears commandeering my head that I could barely understand what she was saying. Thankfully Joe was taking it in and later managed to explain to me what was happening.
Essentially, Georgia had gotten a hernia, which had swollen so large that her intestines had somehow managed to become entangled, preventing her poop to move through her. She suggested we try some antibiotics for the night and then the next day we were to bring her back for a follow-up. If the medicines were working and she improved, then she would be fine. However, if things began to look dour, surgery might be necessary.
That night, while petting Georgia and pleading with her to get better, I felt the weight of fear really engulf me. Though she was just a dog, there was so much more. She had been given up on and left in the SPCA, hoping someone would take her. She was still so young, barely out of her puppy years yet. And she was good, despite her occasionally chewing or jumping; she was a good dog.
It was then, as I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, with tears in my eyes, I made the decision that no matter what the cost, no matter the recovery, we would do it. We rescued her before- we would do it again.
The reason for my absence has been mostly because we have been playing nursemaids to a one Miss Georgia B*** (yes, she has my last name and no, I didn’t ask them to give it to her. It was actually weird when I called the vet’s and they asked for her last name…I suggested mine and sure enough, they pulled Georgia B***’s file. Odd, like finding out you have a child)
Anyway, this all began after an innocent day when I arrived home from work. Georgia had vomited on the couch and was shaking helplessly. I tried to console her and ushered her outside in case she had other business to do, but still she would not stop shaking…or vomiting.
As Joe arrived home I related my concern to him, but not wanting to jump to conclusions (or a hefty vet bill) we decided to wait just a little longer to see if she snapped out of it. After one more round of vomiting, we finally agreed to call the vet.
I explained her symptoms and asked if they sounded serious enough to merit a visit.
“Well, that’s up to you, but if it’s a concern, then we can see you around 7 p.m.?” the nurse said.
Not wanting to risk it, we settled on the time and before long we were sitting in the examination room, waiting for the vet’s diagnosis. When she finally came in she looked Georgia over and in only a few seconds felt a golf-ball size lump on her lower belly.
“Have you ever noticed this before?” she asked. Joe and I, both speechless, shook our heads.
“Ok, well, this concerns me a bit so let me take her with me and get some X-rays done.”
Again, we both quietly agreed, and as she and the nurse carried Georgia away, I suddenly began to freak out. All these questions came tumbling into my brain: How had we not seen that? Is it fatal? What if there’s nothing she can do? What if she needs surgery and it’s thousands of dollars?
While I was playing a torturous game of 20 Questions in my head, Joe relentlessly tried to keep me calm. One way was in trying to guess what animal the skeleton in the examination room was supposed to represent. It did help; I am still convinced it was a cat, but Joe assured me it was a dog.
After what seemed like forever, the vet finally came in and told us to follow her to the surgical rooms. She had on her computer screen an X-ray of Georgia’s bowels- or should be. I was still reeling from all the questions and fears commandeering my head that I could barely understand what she was saying. Thankfully Joe was taking it in and later managed to explain to me what was happening.
Essentially, Georgia had gotten a hernia, which had swollen so large that her intestines had somehow managed to become entangled, preventing her poop to move through her. She suggested we try some antibiotics for the night and then the next day we were to bring her back for a follow-up. If the medicines were working and she improved, then she would be fine. However, if things began to look dour, surgery might be necessary.
That night, while petting Georgia and pleading with her to get better, I felt the weight of fear really engulf me. Though she was just a dog, there was so much more. She had been given up on and left in the SPCA, hoping someone would take her. She was still so young, barely out of her puppy years yet. And she was good, despite her occasionally chewing or jumping; she was a good dog.
It was then, as I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, with tears in my eyes, I made the decision that no matter what the cost, no matter the recovery, we would do it. We rescued her before- we would do it again.
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