It finally happened. I always knew he is intelligent, but yesterday morning Johnny Lee, my Lhasa-poo son, showed me just how much a dog can intentionally affect our lives.
Rising rather late from bed, I walked into my bathroom adjacent to the hallway in our house, and the door opened as Johnny walked in. I said, "just a minute, let momma get ready first," and I closed the door leading him out again. I noticed his head was kind of droopy like he looks when I get ready to go somewhere and he realizes he can't come with me, but thought, "He'll be OK."
While in the bathroom, I go through my morning routine, brush teeth, wash face, take meds, change clothes and then I'm ready to face the world.
When I walked into the living room, I noticed Johnny was now sprawled on the doggie bed next to our couch. I called to him and he didn't move, just raised his sad little eyes up to me and lay there like a rag.
Feeling guilty for having kicked him out of bathroom I baby-talked, "Hi baby, are you alright?" Usually he responds with at least an ear twitch, but no, nothing, just more of the same pitiful, listlessness.
I picked him up and again, just like a limp rag, he just hung there in my arms.
Panic struck me now..."Is he sick???" "Did he get hurt???"
Taking him to the chair I cradled him and quickly checked his gums thinking, "if he's sick, his gums will be pale."
No, gums looked good...still limp..."Oh God! what is the matter???"
I'm thinking...why haven't we gotten pet insurance???? No actually, the words were hysterically screeching around in my head.
I call my husband at work and manage to utter, "Some thing's wrong with Johnny! He's limp! He was trying to tell me when he came into the bathroom but I kicked him out!!!" I practically shouted as the guilt and fear rose within me. You can just imagine the primal scream forming in the pit of my gut can't you?
My husband, not picking up on my hysteria at all says, "He stepped on another bee this morning! He was running through the cemetery and started limping so I picked him up and found another stinger in his paw."
Weeellll, as my husband likes to say...you could have bought me for a nickle!!!
All the fear and hysteria suddenly rushed out of me like flood
as I sat there with the academy award hopeful for best actor 2010 in my lap and the previous day's events replaying in my mind.
I'd been sitting in my living room when Johnny came in through the dog door and I noticed he hopped in on only three paws while holding his left front paw curled up tight to his body.
I jumped up, rushing to his aid and picked him up, as my mind began to formulate the inevitable costs of x-rays, surgery, the overnight stay at the vet's....
Johnny is now in the moment with me, crying out in pain when I gently probed his paw for a fracture or the severe laceration he'd surely obtained out in that wood yard he loves to patrol for bad guys.
His cries sent me running to my husband who happened to be in our bedroom where we lay him on our bed amid even more howls. I rushed around trying to take the girls (my other two doggie-kids) out of the room in order to relax my injured little boy.
"Here it is," said Dale cheerfully. "He's been stung by a bee."
Shocked, I walked over to the bed where Dale stood over the pathetic, injured party. Now wild-eyed and sprawled flat on his back and there it was! Right at the tip of one of his toes, what looked like a gooey, wide base of a goat-head sticker. I gently picked it out ensuing even more cries of distress, and it came away effortlessly. Between my fingers was the "painful, menacing" culprit; a tiny little bee stinger.
We cheered like idiots and assured him the awful stinger was out and he seemed to understand that he was indeed going to live after all.
Which leads me to this realization. So traumatic was the first bee sting that being stung again while out with his daddy; the recurrence of the same tragedy on the same paw... the very next day... was more than he could take.
He just had to find a way to let me know that yet again those mean, surly bees had inflicted their painful, stingers into his poor little foot.
When we hung up with daddy and everyone was calm once again; he seemed to forget his great malady and eagerly trotted behind me (no more sign of bee trauma) into the kitchen for a bite of his favorite duck breast treat.
All is right with the world now and Momma now knows to look out for a little drama when it comes to bad bees and smart little doggie-boys.
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