It never fails. Whenever my husband Doo goes out of town and I’m anticipating a few days of beautiful alone time, the proverbial stuff hits the fan. Kids, house, weather – some crisis ensues, and I’m left to deal with it. Recently, while my husband Doo was at his fantasy draft, it was our Lab Libby who frustrated my weekend.
Our younger son had noticed that she was acting weird. Labored breathing, constant licking of a bald patch on her dog elbow, and a warm nose. “But I’m headed downtown for a birthday party, so good luck, Mom!” When I got home from school, sure enough, Libby would not stop panting, even though she’d been lying around in the AC all day. She didn’t eat dinner and kept trying to crawl under tables. I was certain she was dying and wouldn’t survive the night. Naturally, I blamed Doo. How dare he leave me to deal with this! Rude.
Luckily, Libby made it to morning, but our vet had us go directly to the ER, fueling my worst fears. Two hours and $1,300 later, though, we left with a mostly healthy, albeit extremely irritable 80-pound dog, unable to walk straight due to a SETI-sized satellite dish around her head. Apparently, she’s in good shape for an 11-year-old, except for a nasty ear infection and nagging arthritis. It took the rest of the day for the painkillers and antibiotics to work, and the poor thing kept getting stuck in corners and on doorframes, but she’ll live!
Unfortunately, my highly anticipated weekend of relaxation couldn’t say the same. And I completely blame Doo for leaving town. Just plain rude.
Peace out.
