A Dog on Lasix

When I was a kid, if a dog got sick it died. Or ran away and died. Or ran out in the road and died. We heard there was such a thing as veterinarians, but they were sort of like the Maytag repairman; the only people who ever saw them were lonely widows whose lives depended on a single old cow that must never be allowed to die.

Now, of course, we have such an attachment to our animals. It's like what we've done with children except it's an extension of that. They're precious and must never face a challenge greater than dodgeball, and sometimes not that. The dog barely knows what outside is; it's the wallpaper on the windows maybe.

Well, the dog has to go outside. But the world is just a big toilet to her. The city park, a toilet. Streets, a toilet. The only thing that apparently isn't a good enough toilet is the yard, where all the smells must be too local.

Now with the snow, it's tough taking the dog out. And add to that a trip to the vet the other day to find out what all the hacking's about, hack, hack, hack. I thought maybe it was just a leash that strained her throat when she was straining for a squirrel once day. But no, it's congestive heart failure, which is treated with Lasix. That means more bathroom trips. And with the huge snow, that means a lot of carrying (Pomeranian mixed with something else and about 17 pounds) and looking for a fit spot.

Lasix, to get fluid out of the system. Except now she drinks water all the time and I think that might just be adding to the problem. But at least the hacking's gone!