This Side Up

Perfect cure for a sick dog

Posted 9/29/15

I called his name, and Ollie, rolled in a tight roll, opened his eyes. He didn’t budge, just watched.

Something was wrong. I found the pool of vomit on the carpet the night before. It was a …

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This Side Up

Perfect cure for a sick dog

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I called his name, and Ollie, rolled in a tight roll, opened his eyes. He didn’t budge, just watched.

Something was wrong. I found the pool of vomit on the carpet the night before. It was a yellow sticky consistency that didn’t appear to contain any food, almost like he had coughed something up.

“Want your dinner?” I emphasized “dinner.”

“Dinner” is one of those few words that Ollie knows. Actually, I suspect his vocabulary is considerably more extensive, but it’s a word that evokes a predictable reaction, which is not the case when I say “come.” Depending on his temperament, “come” is as good as saying “flee” if he’s onto a scent, or nothing if he’s stretched out in a patch of sun on the porch. He might open his eyes in that case to see if I have something interesting. That’s it.

But “dinner” resonates even if he’s just wolfed down a dish of kibble. It’s as good as saying, “Go to the kitchen and check out what’s in your bowl.” I repeated the word and he just watched me.

“You all right?” I asked as I reached out to pet him. He didn’t move. This was unusual. Ollie loves having his belly rubbed. He’ll stretch out his legs to expose a galaxy of spots – no doubt why he’s a spotted coonhound – roll on his back and moan in ecstasy.

Not this time. He remained curled up, although he rolled his head when I scratched behind his ears.

This was troubling. I touched his nose. It was dry, but not hot. I rubbed his stomach and finally he rolled on his side, but it wasn’t one of those moments of submission. He looked fine, but he wasn’t getting up.

I can think of no greater sense of helplessness than a sick infant or pet.

Even if he didn’t feel like it, he’d have to get up and go outside at some point. I coaxed him to his feet and led him to his pen. He went straight for his doghouse and plopped down.

This was totally out of character. Ollie usually checks every inch of his pen, often lingering in one spot, nose quivering, like a wine connoisseur breathing in the bouquet of pinot noir that has been gently swirled in its crystal glass. The tree in his pen gets the same attention, only he frequently tries to follow the scent up the trunk. When gravity impedes his progress, he howls that an intruder – probably a coon or a cat – has trespassed.

Better that he be outside than inside. I left him expecting to find him waiting by the gate and for breakfast. Carol was away for the weekend; otherwise, I’m sure he would have been the center of attention.

By 9 a.m. he was still in his house, and it was well beyond breakfast. I led him back to the kitchen where, with an air as if I served up a dish of poison, he bypassed his dish and headed for his favorite living room chair. His disposition failed to change that day, and by evening he hadn’t touched his food. I tempted him with a few bits of chicken, but even that failed to awaken his appetite.

I gave Carol a report that night and she suggested adding chicken broth to his kibble. I made a big deal of mixing the broth and the kibble, garnishing it with a few chunks of chicken as the final touch. Ollie watched and obliged by picking out the chicken and leaving the rest.

It was a sign of improvement, although he lacked that joie de vivre that keeps us wondering what he’s going to do next.

The following day wasn’t much better. I emptied his dish that had become a sodden mash of kibble and broth and considered it was time to call the vet. I tried a few dog treats, which he took gingerly, and some more chicken.

I tried walks around the yard, but he wasn’t interested. I even enticed him with his favorite toy, a short section of knotted rope – the pullie – that he loves growling over and tossing up in the air. I swung the rope, dangled it inches from his muzzle, and gave him my best growl. He watched, turned and went for the chair.

I was running out of ideas to shake him out of his malaise, convinced if he’d eat and exercise that unpredictable manner that made him so lovable yet annoying – like digging under the fence and running through the neighborhood – would snap back to life.

And that happened, although through no doing of my own.

At 5:30 the next morning, I was startled to find a large orange cat staring at me from the kitchen door. Garfield had jumped off the cartoon page and was bigger than life. It was watching me. I rapped on the glass door. It didn’t move. Was it expecting me to let it in?

Then the thought came.

“Ollie,” I called excitedly.

He dragged himself into the kitchen. He spotted the cat and exploded into life. He scrabbled across the tile floor coming eye-to-eye with the cat that held its ground separated only by the glass door. Ollie raced to the front door, which was closed, and then back to the kitchen.

I leashed him and opened the kitchen door. Now he was howling. The hunt was on.

The cat decided it was time to leave, but it took its time sauntering across the yard. Ollie tugged on his leash and finally, when the cat left the yard, I turned him loose. He spent the morning following the cat’s scent, excitedly retracing its path again and again. This is the Ollie I know and can’t control.

That is until I announced, “dinner,” and he was right there.

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