Okay, for those of you who read the 15 February 2011 confessional, well, let's say if I had an delusions of intelligence, I've been disabused of them.
Thursday night, I was really, really tired and didn't notice I hadn't plugged in my cell phone (which I was using as an alarm clock for Razzle's meds). I feel asleep around 8:00 PM. Surprise, surprise, the miraculous Verizon paperweight ran out of juice, the upshot of which was that I missed his 11:00 PM Tramadol dose and ....
and ...
and ...
The fink slept through the night like a baby on bendryl. Not a peep, not a whimper. I wake up around 7:00 AM when his NEXT dose of Tramadol and Gabapentin was due and he was still sleeping like an innocent angel (which he is NEITHER). He got up out of bed without so much as stretch-and-rumble and ambled up to me for a pet. Had I been shoving pills down him for days, no, for MORE THAN a week, for no apparent reason? Really?
Yep.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it takes a while for the drugs to work out of his system. But there was only one way to know. I decided to take a risk. I'd make him go cold turkey.(Cruella has nothing on me!) Nothing. No drugs at all. No Tramadol, no Gabapentin, no Codeine, Nada. So we went for a walk (even had a tail wag), had our breakfast (okay, we had it in bed) and waited.
and waited ...
and waited ...
and ...
and ...
Nothing. Not a peep. The only drug he got yesterday was the Pepcid (as he is still trying to eat grass when we walk I know his tummy is upset). He's been more mobile, more engaged and DRINKING MORE WATER (he did not drink much water at all over the last couple weeks, which, for flushing out our insides is not a good sign). Dr. Neary suggested fresh ground ginger to settle his stomach and the long stares at his sides have stopped.
So I guess I should slap on the handcuffs and turn myself in for puppy pill pushing or abuse by medication or something. The only thing I know for sure is that I was utterly taken in by the random screaming, the prolonged wails and moans and the irrational clinging guilt my utterly rational mind refused to acknowledge I was capable of. I couldn't be taken in, after all. I'm too hard, too disciplined, too intellectual to turn into a blithering guilt ridden idiot whose soul is being torn out by the slightest cry from a dog ... right? Forget it, marshmallow insides, wimp, pushover, (a.k.a. pusher), you've been busted. You've been HAD. By a great big brown-eyed con-artist.
So. Here we are 36 hours after his last pain meds and he's sleeping like a baby, pooing up a storm, drinking like a fish and whizzing wonder pee.
Anyone know where I can get "Sucker" tattooed on my forehead ... cheap? Oh, I forgot, it's already there; it's a magic doggie tattoo only visible to canines and panhandlers.
My grandmother hand a word for it.
Snookered.
1 comment:
Hi Irene
Just wanted to let you know I've been following your posts on Razzle. In a way, I am envious. Razzle told you fairly early on that something was wrong. I wasn't so lucky. By the time we knew something was wrong with Amy, the cancer had spread. All we could do was keep her comfortable until she told us it was time to go ( only 5 weeks post diagnosis). And we'd just lost a cat to renal failure. May 2009 was not a good time.
Much love and support to you two.
Holly with Cherry, Sophia, and Sandy the Cat
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