I am keeping things simple. My goal for next weekend is that no one from this household will go to any emergency room of any kind. And yes, I am knocking on wood about it.
Last weekend I ended up in the ER for my turkey burned hand.
This weekend, I went to run errands on Saturday and came home to find J out in the yard with the dogs. He said he’d been worried about Argo because he was acting funny. Argo was sluggish and crabby and kept making a hacking noise, but then when J brought him outside, he acted fairly normal.
I decided that Argo just missed me and missed getting individual attention (because I need to believe he’s as codependent with me as I am with him), so J hung out with Stella and I let Argo hang out with me while I put the groceries away. I was pretty worried about him, because J doesn’t get worried often, so his concern made all the alarms in my head go off. I decided I’d take Argo for a walk to observe him more. His leash was in the car, and when I went to get it, Argo jumped in the back seat and refused to move. Usually, he’s very eager to please, so the fact that he wouldn’t budge was weird.
I got some cheese and came back to lure him from the backseat with it. He still wouldn’t budge. I gave him a piece to show him that it was really good cheese and he should want more and come out of the car for it. He took the piece of cheese, tried to chew it, spit pieces of it on the car seat, and then whined as he tried to eat the pieces. I ran in the house to get J.
When we got back, Argo was drooling badly, still not budging from the backseat of the car. So I called the Vet ER and we drove over there. It’s more than twice the cost of a regular vet exam just to walk in the door, so going is not something to be decided lightly. But we both felt like it was too serious to take a wait and see approach. I had visions of something stuck in his throat or poison, or, my biggest fear, a massive tumor smothering some vital organ or pathway. I try to shut those fears down, but after Argo’s cancer last year, it’s hard to. And he was lethargic and drooling and whining about eating cheese.
Over two hours and a gazillion dollars later, we left with painkillers (which caused Argo to vomit all over the living room floor) for his tongue. Yup. His tongue. He bit it. Badly. And it probably hurt like hell and throbbed and made him crabby. And it probably didn’t feel good when he chewed. The vet thinks he was hacking because he was swallowing blood and drool and it doesn’t go down easily.
It’s a good thing the pain killers made him dopey, because I hugged that dog more times than even he could probably tolerate in a normal state. And it’s a good thing J and I decided against doing gifts for each other this year, because I think our gift came in the form of a whopping vet bill and a swollen dog tongue.
Next weekend, we are all sitting perfectly still and not doing ANYTHING.