The Ruffles Report

Test results came back yesterday. I have zero parasites and the labs look OK. So basically we are back to square one:  what is wrong with me.

Apparently the fungal tests that I thought they were going to do are a great deal more involved then just running my blood through some sort of fungus detecting machine. It would involve another vet visit (boo!), sedation (yay!), and ultimately having my trachea/lungs flushed. Since I am neither a) an automobile radiator nor b) do I have $700 to blow on such a procedure, my two-legs and I have decided to trust in father time and give some more of said time to the pills I ingest every day when he gets home.

Once I finish my tasty treat-flavored regimen of antibiotics we will re-evaluate and see if stronger drugs are necessary. I even heard that steroids are on the table so maybe I will finally be able to wrench a toy out of big-little-bro’s clutches. Unfortunately, the “big C” is still hovering out there; however, I do not lend much credence to that as I retain both my Hungry Hungry Hippo-esque appetite and my penchant for carrying frog around the apartment when my two-legs gets home.

There is however one disturbing development…

He is so mean to me, even when I am sick.

The two-legs in the white coat told him and the skirted-one that it would be a good idea to take me in the bathroom with them as they shower. The humid air is evidently good for my lungs (but murder on my hair). The skirted-one takes me in for her morning shower and my two-legs for his evening one. For the bulk of these steamy shenanigans I am resigned to lay on  the bathmat and contemplate what I did to deserve such treatment. The real humiliation comes at the end, when the two-legs are done showering and proceed to perch me atop the highest shelf in the bathroom (as pictured above). I overheard the skirted-one telling my two-legs that this is better than leaving me on the floor since all of the nice hot, humid air has floated to the ceiling. Since I am a fairly short four-legs who spends most of his time breathing the cool, crisp air usually found 8 inches off the floor, I do not appreciate being made to breathe the torrid, muggy air found 6 feet + 8 inches off the floor.

C’est la guerre.

This may be my last post for the month of July. My two-legs and the skirted-one are abandoning me and big-little-bro in favor of a dog-free vacation in the slightly sunnier city named by Spanish conquerors explorers after their beloved Saint Didacus (whose name they also gave to the ship they sailed in). Incidentally, Saint Didacus managed to heal not one, but two kings even after he had been laid to rest. (this information was directly pilfered from infallible wiki entries, here & here ) Maybe some of that healing power will rub off and the triumphant return of my two-legs will lead to my miraculous return to good health.

Excuses, excuses, I am full of excuses. But this time it is a good one.

For the past 3 weeks or so I have found it difficult to breath. Not just after a good run chasing birds but even when I am just lounging (which we all know I love to do). I do not believe I am that out of shape that I should get winded walking from my food bowl to the couch but there you have it. I wheeze and whistle when I breathe. My two-legs thought it was funny at first. Chalked it up to my getting older and being out of shape. Then I started hacking when I got excited. I never coughed up anything, just clearing my throat I suppose; however, it started to get less funny for my two-legs. Then, on Saturday, it got even less funny, I began to cough little specks of blood.

I am very upset. I am going to jump.

My two-legs and the skirted-one took me over the Animal Wellness Center on Main. They recommended I go to the Pet Medical Center to get some X-Rays. Little-big-bro was left at home for all this. He missed out on the fun.

I did not like it there. First off, there was a non-dog 4-legs just hanging out in the lobby. My two-legs went over and had the nerve to pet her! I got so upset that I promptly hacked and coughed blood on their floor. They then proceeded to whisk me into a little room. I guess they do not like it when you get your fluids on the middle of their lobby floor.

In the tiny room my two-legs proceeded to perch me on top of the little metal table suspended a good 4 or so feet off the floor. I did my best to claw my way back on to my two-legs but neither he nor the skirted one would let me down.

I went through the normal exam. Weight. Thermometer (not in my mouth). And then prodding by the V-E-T. She said my breathing was not normal. (She also said I seemed a bit skinny, suck on that two-legs and feed me more dinner!) Next on the agenda was X-rays. My two-legs was not invited to join us. Frankly I blacked out once I left the room. When I awoke I was in a cage, yelling. I do not like cages. I especially do not like them when I can see my two-legs standing 6 feet away looking at pictures of my innards. I was not a good dog.

They drew some blood (again I had blacked out at this point as my two-legs and the skirted one had left me alone in a cage) and soon I was back in the arms of my master.

Tests are currently being run. Word on the street is I have largish specks in my lungs. It could either be fungus or cancer. I am rooting for fungus as I do not think I will look good bald.

I should know more this week and will keep you posted. And in case you missed it, I posted another one of my back dated posts. I can’t believe in another 3 months I will have been here a year!