My poor dog is not well.
We had a very upsetting day with him yesterday. He hobbled and panted and couldn’t get up the stairs or on the bed or even into his nest on the sofa.
He could hardly stand up enough to go out to be emptied, so we carried him around patiently, putting him down sympathetically in the middle of the Library Gardens for a while so that he could sniff things and wee occasionally. When we got home I put him down gently on the sofa under a blanket, where he lay shivering and occasionally whining and didn’t move all day.
When we came home from work at the end of the night he was groaning painfully and could barely walk at all and I worried dreadfully that he might be going to die.
When he walked he hunched his back and tiptoed, so we thought that there must be something wrong with his stomach, because that is what dogs do when their digestion is upsetting them. At first we thought that he must have eaten something dreadful, but couldn’t think of anything, because he hadn’t been anywhere where you might find poisonous things lurking about, apart from our kitchen floor, and he is used to that.
We gave him some of the sort of medicine that you give to children who have got some vague kind of anxiety-inducing ailment, but when he was no better this morning we were mystified, until Mark remembered suddenly that we had not considered his very tiresome habit of chewing up sticks. He does this a lot, and leaves unpleasant splinters all over the carpet, which have to be hoovered up. It occurred to us that perhaps he had swallowed some.
This theory was proved correct when he had an extremely uncomfortable looking wood-filled poo half an hour later, reminding me unsuitably of an Oliver joke, what’s brown and sticky?
This did not completely solve the problem, I think there might be quite a bit more to come yet: but it did make him a little better, and he has been slowly recovering ever since, and can now stagger to the door to greet us when we come in. I am still sympathetic, although slightly less so now that it is clear it is entirely his own fault for being an idiot.
Apart from that we have been mostly at work, I had a very nice old couple in my taxi last night who told me happily all about being married for sixty years with lots of children and grandchildren and now great grandchildren. They were in the Lakes for their granddaughter’s wedding, and they were jolly proud of all of them. When we got to their hotel there was a shriek, and several tall young ladies erupted excitedly out of the front door and flung themselves on the pair, who could hardly get out of the car for being hugged and kissed, which made me laugh, how splendid to see such a happy family.
It has rained today, in huge amounts, so much so that there was no point in going out to work until it had cleared up. This is because nobody goes anywhere if they are likely to be soaked to the skin during their first six steps, they stay indoors and wait until it stops.
This suited us splendidly, and we milled about the house contentedly until eventually the sun reappeared and we could set out. The roads were covered with what used to be big puddles and now are called flash floods, but somehow they all disappeared in the sun, and everywhere smelled magnificent, green and tropical.
We are at work now, popping back home occasionally to make sympathetic noises at the dog. With any luck he will be better tomorrow.
The picture is of the rain. It doesn’t really show quite how very wet it was, you will have to imagine that for yourselves.
