What a Fright....
Our little black-haired Button leaped down from her night-time perch - her bed nestled on the loveseat in our bedroom - as she usually does, around seven in the morning. That's the signal for Irving to get up and go downstairs with her, to let her out into the backyard first thing in the morning. He rises several times throughout the night to fulfill a like mission of necessity for himself.
Each time passing her bed on his way to our own, to cover her with one of her blankets that she often tosses off, turning in the night. She once slept at the foot of our bed, on top of the blankets, with her own little pillow and her own blanket tossed over here. This was a habit she abandoned two years ago, distancing herself physically from us at night. The comfort of our near presence in the same room seemed sufficient.
As usual, he followed her to down the hall to the top of the stairs. Where she stopped. Stopped, stiffened, arched her back and then froze. He stood, watching, wondering what was amiss. She finally moved, dropping down to the first step, the next step. Then stopped and froze again, arching her back. Something was obviously very wrong. He stooped to pick her up, cradled her in his arms, to find she was shivering uncontrollably.
Brought her back to our bedroom, sat himself on the loveseat with her in his lap, and covered her with one of her blankets, where she permitted herself to lie, limply, exhausted, still trembling. Button is our independent girl, always on the go, informing us in no uncertain terms what she expects of us and firmly reminding us of our duties toward her. She is vibrantly intelligent, and inexhaustibly active.
She is not as she was now, limp, exhausted, trembling and content to lie there, comforted in the lap of her great good friend, helpless to do anything for herself. The thought that ran amok through both of our minds was that we were, suddenly, with no prior warning, witnessing her end. Something swiftly cataclysmic was claiming our little poodle, and we shivered with dire apprehension.
An hour he sat there, her on his lap, and we quietly spoke together of our fears.
Memory nudged me faintly, as I dredged up an image of something similar having occurred many years ago. But I couldn't be certain, and he couldn't quite recall, it's been so long, and so many things have occurred in the intervening years. It was entirely possible something akin to this event had happened before.
After another half hour, I rose, dressed and took Riley downstairs, so he could go out to relieve himself.
Irving, following me with Button in his arms, sat on the sofa in the family room. Button raised her head, appraised what was happening, and evinced some interest for the first time in several hours. We sat and watched as the trembling ceased and she finally gave some dim indication that she too would like to go out.
As though the morning wasn't sufficiently miserable, it was darkly overcast, steadily raining.
She wasn't yet ready to negotiate the steps leading from the deck to the back garden, so she was taken down, and weakly she performed. Shortly afterward, because she appeared a bit more lively, although she moved with extreme sensitivity and stiffness, we decided to try her for breakfast, and I moistened her kibble with chicken soup, warmed it in the microwave. And she slowly, steadily ate.
Then slowly lapped up water, long and at her leisure, albeit awkwardly. Later, she was taken out again to the backyard and seemed slightly more sure of herself. While we had our own breakfast, she took herself to the rug in front of the dining room windows. Her usual resting place at that time of day would be the sofa or the loveseat in the family room. She was obviously in no condition to leap onto either.
By noon she had improved sufficiently to make her way up the stairs to the second floor of the house, following us as we trod upstairs. Physical mobility and ease of movement had returned. She hadn't, after all, suffered a stroke. She had, more likely, somehow twisted her spine, hurting her back, when she leaped down off the loveseat first thing in the morning.
A trifle; something she does countless times throughout the course of the day, week after week, every month, year on year. She is well. Thank our good fortune.
Each time passing her bed on his way to our own, to cover her with one of her blankets that she often tosses off, turning in the night. She once slept at the foot of our bed, on top of the blankets, with her own little pillow and her own blanket tossed over here. This was a habit she abandoned two years ago, distancing herself physically from us at night. The comfort of our near presence in the same room seemed sufficient.
As usual, he followed her to down the hall to the top of the stairs. Where she stopped. Stopped, stiffened, arched her back and then froze. He stood, watching, wondering what was amiss. She finally moved, dropping down to the first step, the next step. Then stopped and froze again, arching her back. Something was obviously very wrong. He stooped to pick her up, cradled her in his arms, to find she was shivering uncontrollably.
Brought her back to our bedroom, sat himself on the loveseat with her in his lap, and covered her with one of her blankets, where she permitted herself to lie, limply, exhausted, still trembling. Button is our independent girl, always on the go, informing us in no uncertain terms what she expects of us and firmly reminding us of our duties toward her. She is vibrantly intelligent, and inexhaustibly active.
She is not as she was now, limp, exhausted, trembling and content to lie there, comforted in the lap of her great good friend, helpless to do anything for herself. The thought that ran amok through both of our minds was that we were, suddenly, with no prior warning, witnessing her end. Something swiftly cataclysmic was claiming our little poodle, and we shivered with dire apprehension.
An hour he sat there, her on his lap, and we quietly spoke together of our fears.
Memory nudged me faintly, as I dredged up an image of something similar having occurred many years ago. But I couldn't be certain, and he couldn't quite recall, it's been so long, and so many things have occurred in the intervening years. It was entirely possible something akin to this event had happened before.
After another half hour, I rose, dressed and took Riley downstairs, so he could go out to relieve himself.
Irving, following me with Button in his arms, sat on the sofa in the family room. Button raised her head, appraised what was happening, and evinced some interest for the first time in several hours. We sat and watched as the trembling ceased and she finally gave some dim indication that she too would like to go out.
As though the morning wasn't sufficiently miserable, it was darkly overcast, steadily raining.
She wasn't yet ready to negotiate the steps leading from the deck to the back garden, so she was taken down, and weakly she performed. Shortly afterward, because she appeared a bit more lively, although she moved with extreme sensitivity and stiffness, we decided to try her for breakfast, and I moistened her kibble with chicken soup, warmed it in the microwave. And she slowly, steadily ate.
Then slowly lapped up water, long and at her leisure, albeit awkwardly. Later, she was taken out again to the backyard and seemed slightly more sure of herself. While we had our own breakfast, she took herself to the rug in front of the dining room windows. Her usual resting place at that time of day would be the sofa or the loveseat in the family room. She was obviously in no condition to leap onto either.
By noon she had improved sufficiently to make her way up the stairs to the second floor of the house, following us as we trod upstairs. Physical mobility and ease of movement had returned. She hadn't, after all, suffered a stroke. She had, more likely, somehow twisted her spine, hurting her back, when she leaped down off the loveseat first thing in the morning.
A trifle; something she does countless times throughout the course of the day, week after week, every month, year on year. She is well. Thank our good fortune.
Labels: Companions, Personally Dedicated
posted by Pieface @ 12:55 PM
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