On Sunday, my dog started having seizures.
They were quick and out of nowhere.
First they were small — she would kind of jerk her head and breathe heavily and foam at the mouth for a few seconds, and then run and romp and pounce and want to play for a few minutes.
My friends joked that she was like a Phoenix — this was her way of becoming reborn, of rising from the ashes. I joked, too. That could be why she’s so old, after all.
Then they became more frequent. And I started to get concerned, but decided to wait to call the vet because she’s always pulled through everything else on her own.
Then, around 10pm, shortly after I fell asleep, she had a bad one. Really bad. Like, 5-minutes-long, foaming-at-the-mouth, running-in-place, peeing-herself, barking, forgetting-who-I-was kind of bad.
So I immediately took her to an emergency animal hospital. They charged me $150 to tell me that without me forking over loads more cash, which I did not have on me at the time, they couldn’t do any tests or give me any medicine or tell me anything other than that they think she has a tumor in her brain.
Well, I lied. Technically they charged me $160 and gave me an emergency dose of doggie valium in case one of the seizures gets really bad. Like, worse than the one above bad.
I told Jack to keep it away from me. I also told him I wasn’t kidding. Because I wasn’t. Because with all of this going on, my anxiety is through the fucking roof and I just might be dumb enough to risk my dog’s health, which has me anxious in the first place, for a dose of valium meant for a 5 pound dog.
We got home and went to bed. She had another small one around midnight, and another big one around 3:30am, after my son had woken up and asked me to put his show on and change his pee-covered pants.
And through all of this, Jack was really concerned. Like, thought I wouldn’t be coming back home with my dog concerned. And I could sense the turmoil in his voice, and all I remember thinking is that might not be so bad.
Part of me wanted my dog to die.
Lest you (or I) forget, my dog is my very best friend. (Seriously, go read that post to see just how much I adore this creature.) I don’t actually want her to die. But I couldn’t help but think how much work she already is and how much more work having a dog with seizures is going to be. And how old she is and how maybe it’s just her time.
But it’s not her time. And part of me is incredibly relieved, while part of me is somehow disheartened.
So basically, I might be a terrible person. But I still love her.
Speaking of which, she’s lying on my computer right now so I have to go.