So it read on the back of the dump truck in front of me in morning traffic: “Do Not Push.” After 7 days alone with the kids and the dogs, it came as a divine intervention.
I’m exhausted, and it ain’t over yet.
First things first. Dub is fit as a fiddle, far as the vet can tell. He has the resting heart rate of a champion and the dog can catch a frisbee mid-flight with the grace of a gazelle, IF said gazelle could catch a frisbee and as far as I know, gazelles are not nearly that capable or entertaining.
Our fine vet, Dr. H., thinks the seizure was a fluke; he hasn’t had another. The blood work came back clean. And the vomiting was likely unrelated. Or as I summarized for DH on the phone the night he called from Pune, “he’s a puker.”
But I am growing rather attached to the puker. He takes his cues from his humans, following us everywhere, resting when we rest, running when we run. Bam-Bam is learning this lesson the hard way – he knocked her down during an overzealous game of — and I quote — CHASE! ME! DOGS! He has a cold black nose and looks so very interested, when he cocks his head just so, in what I have to say.
He also barks his head off at anything that walks, rolls, or glides past our house, and we live on a very busy corner. But I’m just moving into day eight of ten home alone, and the dump truck has spoken. I won’t think about that now. I’ll think about that tomorrow.