This morning I wake up to a nice and bright day, full of opportunities to go to work and earn a living. I go outside, grab my pug, swing him around in the air while yelling, "Good mornin'!" - and then shriek in horror. My pug, lovely pug that he is, has a big face full of wrinkles. Today his face has doubled in size, and I detect a red undertone beneath his fur. I glance at the clock - 9:05. I've got 15 minutes to get to work. But work smork - my baby is in trouble! I don my Pug Mom cape and pack up the dog, rush to the car, and drive like a madwoman to the hospital.
Not to worry, says the jolly ol' doc. It's just an allergic reaction to something - we don't know what, but heck, he probably won't go into anaphylactic shock. Somehow, I'm not reassured. After a shot or two, I wait with the pug. And wait. And wait. The pug looks at me with red little eyes that seem to say, "Moooommm? Mooomm? You're overreacting, Mom. I'm bored, Mom. I wanna eat. Food, Mom! Foooood!"
Finally we're given the OK to go home, and we pack it up and leave. Of course, the hospital's number is on my speed dial in case the pug bloats up again like a balloon. We get home, I nearly cry from relief that his face has gone down to it's normal, un-football like state. I feel him half a chicken, he wags his little tail in greedy devotion to the Almighty Chicken, and then plops down on his bed and snores away. I stare at him. He's wiggling around in contented slumber, and my pulse is still beating away like a jackhammer. I think I worry enough for the both of us.
....or Get Off the Pot
3 weeks ago