I should be writing about the delightful concert Dana "Short Order" Cooke and his friends -- Chris Weiss, Judy Stanton, Jeffrey Pepper Rodgers and Wendy Ramsay -- performed last Friday night at Onatavia Church just outside LaFayatte as part of their First Friday concert series.
Or telling you about the amazing lunchtime sessions Joanne Perry has been doing the last two Thursdays at Sugarpearl Espresso Bar and Lounge.
But I'm still recovering from nights of no sleep and obsessive worry about our sick dog. I know, he's only a dog, but you know, Rupert's like a child to us, the one that Chris and I really should have had.
Rupert is a survivor. He's actually named for my favorite participant on the television reality show "Survivor"...we met that Rupert in Central Park one day quite accidentally. Our Rupert was the sole surviving puppy from a litter of eleven; the rest had died of parvovirus. For the most part, Rupert has been a healthy, happy dog, suffering from mild asthma in the summer which limits his Frisbee catching on hot, humid days. He is eager to please, extremely intelligent and a loyal companion.
Last Saturday morning he began vomiting shortly after our morning walk. This is the only accident he ever has inside, and that's very rare. We thought he might have had a little bit of a cold, went about our day. And then around ten o'clock that evening the diarrhea began. Hubby slept through most of it. I walked up and down Green Street every hour or so with Rupert as he relieved himself, thankful that it wasn't snowing or raining or bone cold. This continued all day Sunday and again all through Sunday night.
By Monday morning I didn't know my name. Hubby came home from work early and made me go to bed and he took over the poop detail. Poor Rupert was at the point then where he was no longer squatting outside; he just sat down and let go. I was cooking rice and chicken to replace his usual dog food but Rupert had stopped eating and drinking completely. On Tuesday a repairman was here to do some work on our roof and Rupert did not even lift his head from the bed when this man was running around on the roof outside the bedroom window.
A trip to the vets led to Rupert having fluids pumped in via IV and a bunch of meds administered. Our vet at Shop City Animal Hospital, Heather Danboise, is the best I've ever seen, and she gave Rupert the usual tender loving care. He even kept his tail at a slow wag while she had the thermometer shoved up his butt. It's as if he knows she makes him feel better.
He's on the mend. His eyes are bright again, his fur soft to touch, his bark back when someone rings the doorbell. He's eating and brings me the ball to toss, and I'm happy to stop writing and toss it for him today.
Another time I'll write about some of the other stuff going on. But today, I'm glad that Rupert is doing well and that I have a cold nose butting against my elbow as I type this. I'm going to go play now.