Yesterday my dog Raymond got sick. He had bad diarrhea. (Sorry, I know that was indelicate of me)
I’ve had dogs all my life. When they get this you give them boiled chicken and rice and they recover but my recent situation with Elvis made me forget all that and I panicked.
It didn’t help that Ray kept staring at me accusingly while he lay around like a noodle.
This dog doesn’t look happy on his best days, you can imagine how he looks when he’s under the weather.
But let me cut to the chase.
He appears to be cured this morning.
He’s well enough to start destroying his toys.
And making demands.
But last night was another story.
It was so painful for me to watch him that I had to take a tranquilizer in order to calm down. I slept fitfully, occasionally waking up and feeling his wrist in order to check his pulse in order to see if he was still alive.
Luckily he pulled through.
Now I’m thinking, am I really cut out to have a pet? Maybe I’m too crazy.
Actually there’s no maybe about it but too crazy? I don’t think so. I think I’m just crazy enough.
Every time I walk in the room and he’s sleeping on the dining room table is it crazy that I can’t get over how cute he looks?
When he wiggles his hot sweaty body under the covers of my bed in the exact place that I was thinking of putting myself does the fact that I move over and make room for him make me crazy?
I could go on and on but that would be crazy.
And as the Everly Brothers say “Love Hurts” so I’ll just have to take the bad with the good.
“What Raymond, you want to sit here? Okay I’ll move”