It's been a few days and all the ideas for what I could blog about today (my PCOS research, the famous expert doctor I'd love to see but can't afford, how I never get shit done on The Husband's days off, Buttercup and her tile snow-angels because we live in the desert and imagination is key if you wanna make one) but it all went out the window today when the Veterinarian looked at me with sad eyes and told me my dog has a very slim chance of surviving. Her name is Catherine the Great and she's an angel of a Rottweiler. At 6 and a half, Cat's permanently etched herself into our hearts, and cemented her place in Buttercup's history as The Dog Who Helped Her Learn to Stand.
When Buttercup was 10 months old and getting brave enough to explore the world on two feet, she would crawl up to our then 90-pound Rottie and grab on to the folds in Cat's skin, as if securing herself on a cliff like a rock climber, and slowly hoist herself up. Cat would just sit quietly on her belly, turning her head to seek approval as Buttercup gained confidence with each pull. All she asked for was praise and acknowledgment that she was being a good girl before sighing contentedly and placing her head back on the floor between her paws, happy to be mothering my baby.
We've always been conscientious about our dogs and vet care, so when my mother reported to me that Cat fell asleep standing up last night and woke up only after her legs gave out on her, I high-tailed it into the vet's today for what I hoped would be a simple and easily treatable condition.
But her labored breathing changed everything. An ex-ray showed only 25 percent lung capacity. The rest of her chest cavity is filled with fluid.
I don't have all the medical terms straight in my head. I can only explain that Cat pranced back into the exam room like a brand new dog after the vet drew 8 huge syringes of fluid from her body, not only providing her great relief, but allowing for adequate testing.
She weighs 78 pounds.
I'm waiting for the call tomorrow. Either it's a miracle, or it's a death sentence.
I don't want to answer the phone.