“Lucy has had major back surgery. It is imperative that her movement is restricted. Keep her confined. Make sure she does not twist, pull her back, or slip in any way.”
*****
Three physical therapy sessions a day of doggie bicycles and such are not really a problem. It’s the dosing of the medicine that is proving a little more “involved” than I thought.
I strap my son into his highchair to keep him out of the way.
I approach the stitched together pup with caution.
As I open the cage, the filled syringe of medication drips slowly onto my foot. I must place the syringe into the corner of her mouth and… just dribble it in.
No problem.
Except she sees me coming. She knows what’s up.
She starts wiggling.
*Crap, she’s gonna hurt herself*
I lunge forward and hold her little back still. Then I attempt to place the syringe in her mouth. She eyeballs it, as it approaches her face.
She tries to twist her head around- exorcist style, in a desperate attempt to always keep the syringe at least two inches from her face.
*Shit, she could break her back*
“Shhhhhhh, baby, calmm down.”
I’m talking to her, and to myself, as my anxiety level rises.
I approach- she twists her head.
I approach- she twists her head.
I scoop her up and try to hold her in one arm, brace her head between my chin and neck, and shove the syringe in her mouth as quickly as possible.
It does not work.
She swats me away with her left paw a total of of five times- because despite being paralyzed in the hind quarter, she is somehow a prize fighter up front.
She also yelps.
*I’ve snapped something! Oh my God, she’s gonna die.*
I gently put her down…
for a few minutes…
and cry.
She seems fine, but looks at me with accusatory eyes.
I attempt to reason with her, cupping her face between my hands, and looking into her eyes:
“It is very important that you work with me, here. You need this medicine. It will not hurt you. It may taste bad, but it’s for your own good.”
I lay her down. I gently, but firmly press her head down to the floor to keep her from moving it. I pry open her mouth with my fingers, and slip the syringe in. I squeeze a few drops into her mouth before she starts flopping like dead fish to get away.
“Oh, stop it! Stop it! Stay still. Shhhhh. Stay still, girl.”
I breathe.
Just a few more ml to go.
I straddle her to keep her back straight, making sure not to sit on her (a suggestion from the surgery tech), and try to cover her eyes so she doesn’t see the syringe coming.
Beads of sweat are forming on my brow… I think… or, I may have squirted myself in the face.
I bring the syringe to her mouth chanting, “Stay, stay, stay, stay”.
And… Bam… I squeeze the plunger, the liquid goes in… I pull the syringe out… and it’s empty!
“Good girl. I love you. I’m sorry. GOOD GIRL!”
She looks up at me, and I see that about 50% of her medicine landed on the side of her face.
That means half of it made it down the hatch!
I’m queen of the world.
Only three more different meds to go.
Then we’re good…
for four hours…
til we do all four meds again…
Piece of fucking cake.
*****
*****


















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