These past two days = teh serious sux.
From here on down, we have lengthy rambling rant + Possible Puppy Illness TMI. Really, if you have an easily squeamish stomach, stop here.Two nights ago, we were woken up by Jett moving around the room with extreme jitteriness. It unsettles me when she's unsettled, so I tried to coax her back to bed. Not to mention the fact that it's freaking freezing, and I didn't want her out in the cold. Far better to do like normal and wedge herself between me and Mike under the covers. She resisted all my usual attempts at foggy, half-awakened persuasion.
Now she only does that when she's seriously spooked about something. Jett's a pretty empathic dog, and I thought maybe one of us had made a noise while asleep that set her off, making her think she was in trouble. Thus the adult-to-puppy sweet talking began. She came to us, but her ears were back like she was still afraid of something. We soothed her down as best as we could, and she got between us again. All was well.
For about 90 seconds, then she jumped up and off the bed again, returning to cowering in a corner. By now we're getting pretty concerned. Jett goes to hover by the door, so Mike opens it and follows her out. Jett races downstairs while I fumble for my glasses. Before I'd even fully gotten them on, Mike shouts upstairs that Jett threw up. The time is 1.30am. I'd been asleep for a little under an hour.
I go downstairs to help with the clean up effort. She threw up twice – once in the den before Mike was able to get her onto the tile by the door where she did it again. He told me keep her there on the linoleum while he cleaned, just in case she had a second bout.
She didn't, exactly, but boy am I glad that's where we had her.
Have you ever seen the
South Park episode where Kenny has explosive diarrhea? I never really appreciated how this bodily function could be described as "explosive" until the wee hours of Tuesday morning.
Literally, this stuff just explodes out of Jett. One second it's not there, the next second it is. And
HOLY GOD the stench.
By now Jett's pretty freaked out (as am I ) and she runs. Mike manages to corral her into the kitchen where there's more bless'd tile in time for the second volley. At this point we're in a battle against time to get her outside before all hell breaks loose. Since he took care of the first cleaning duties, I volunteer the second while he take sher outside.
I've never gagged so much in my entire life. But while I'm cleaning, I notice something she must've snuck downstairs and done just before bed last night. Obviously the prelude to that night's activities. It doesn't smell so much, but it sure as hell left a bigger mess. On, of course, the carpet.
As Mike returns, I'm just pulling out the carpet cleaner. Still left to do is try and exorcise the demon stain and scrub the tiles with soap and hot water. He reports that outside was an encore performance, but at least it was outside. He takes scrubbing. I make a silent apologies to my neighbors who this is certain to wake up, and fire up the carpet cleaner. 20 to 30 minutes later, it's pretty much impossible to tell anything happened. Aside from looking a little drained, Jett seems fine. We sigh and return to bed. The time is 2:24am. I'm too awake now to fall sleep immediately, so I spend the next half-hour reading then flick off the light and drift off once more.
Approximately an hour and a half later, we're awoken by Jett fidgeting around the room again. More alert to the signs, Mike jumps out of bed with far more energy than I possess and rushes her outside. A little more vomit. A lot more diarrhea. But better in that out (and better disposed of out than in). Jett comes back in and laps up some water, much to our relief (dehydration becoming a concern now) and seems otherwise fine. She ever has the audacity to bring us a toy, like it's not 4 in the morning and I'm functioning on less than three hours sleep. "You're crazy, dog," I tell her. She licks my hand. All is forgiven. We go back to sleep.
Only to be woken up around 5.30am by an extremely disgusting wet sound, qucikly followed by The Smell. Once more, we sit bolt upright and flip on the lights. This time we missed the warning signs (if there were any), and our bedroom has paid the price. We assume our roles quicly and without word – Mike rushes Jett outisde while I revisit the carpet cleaner. I don't really remember dragging it upstairs, nor do I actually remember the cleaning process, but I do know that when it was all done at a little past 6am, we both gave up in getting more sleep. This decision was aided by the fact that we threw all the upstairs windows wide open to try and air out the stench, and it was something like 27° outside.
The time between getting up for the day and taking Mike to work involved approximately three trips outside for Jett. Now bearing in mind that it's not just a case of taking her out, her doing what needs to be done and coming back in. Each of these is like a mini-event involving Ritualistic Spot Selection, a deeply involved process that can take anywhere from eight to eighty minutes. During all of this is the running back and forth, and one of Jett's favourite outside hobbies, "How can I pick up this rock I just found and now love with all my heart without anybody noticing?" For each of these trips, there was a little more bowel activity ... though said activity was really more like this sort of thick water just ... yeah. I've had better times with my dog.
I took her out just before preparing to drive Mike to work, and when she came back in, she slurped up some more water. Again we yay, for this means she will not crumble to dust in the wind like all the SUVs in that commercial. Only maybe not so yay. Less that five minutes later, she threw up again all over the upstairs landing.
I do a quick clean while Mike rushes her outside once more, then he has to go make money to pay for the water bill that's sure to double after all this. When I come home, Jett has thankfully done nothing else, so I can concentrate on trying to finish cleaning upstairs. This involves a terribly unpleasant twenty mintues or so where I have to dig clogged hair out of the carpet cleaner.
I scrub my hands until they bleed.
After some conversations and research, I confiscate all water to prevent more damage from vomiting it back up again. I'm happy to report that since the landing incident, there's been no more cleaning necessary as a result of the top half of my dog.
The rest of my yesterday is spent trying to write (and failing miserably), trying to stay awake (and failing miserably) and running Jett outside the second she so much as moves.
Now throughout all of this, I haven't focused much on Jett herself, and that's primarily because, aside from stuff coming out of her more than it should, she's been just fine. You wouldn't know there was anything wrong with her if you saw her. She's been a little bit more attached to my side, but given how she must not be feeling too well, that's understandable. Otherwise, she's bright and alert, running around, wanting to play, and generally being Jett. She doesn't appear to have a fever or feel all that under the weather, so I'm not particularly worried about her (though should this not have improved dramatically by Friday morning, she's going into the vet).
Again, I mention how taking her outside isn't quite as easy as it sounds. Every hour, practically on the hour, I was taking her out, whereupon she'd proceed to spend a good 15 minutes before doing anything – and sometimes not even then. I've definitely not gotten enough sleep myself and, to top it all off, (and here's some Jet Wolf TMI) I have cramps. Simply put, not having a good day.
Still, I arrange to meet Mike for lunch, agreeing with him that I probably need to get out of the house for a little bit. I take her out just before I leave. She doesn't do anything except make me late. When I meet Mike, I'm not exactly a ray of sunshine, but we have a nice time anyway. After, I make a run to PetsMart to pick up a replacement for one of Jett's toys that got caught in the, erm, crossfire and had to be thrown away, as well as come enzyme-dissolving floor cleaner for the remnants of some of these stains. I also stop by Freddies' to get ice cube trays, so that Jett can have those to lick on in the absence of water, and a jar of baby food to mix in with the rice that she'll be eating in the next couple of days, provided all goes well. I get home at around 2.20pm.
Jett has, of course, made another mess on the floor. I sigh and return to ye olde trusty carpet cleaner. First though, Jett and I see another trip outside. Another 10 minutes or so later and I'm fighting with my by-now extremely short temper when she doesn't do anything but try to pick up more bloody rocks and run through the leaves. While inside, I begin to clean, but only barely start before I notice that she's acting very strangely. We rush outside again, and this time she does in fact make the trip worth my while. I thank her for not making me clean another bit of carpet. She brings me a rock and wags her tail.
By the time I get the the floor and machine cleaned, Jett seen to, the ice cube trays in the fridge, and assorted other groceries put away, it's almost 4pm. And I haven't even gotten a chance to open my Word doc. I sit down and almost immediately zonk out until it's time to pick Mike up at 6pm. I don't remember the rest of the night really. Mike was a complete sweetheart and, despite having only a bit more sleep than me and having worked all day, takes over practically everything, from Jett duty to making dinner.
I write off Tuesday as a complete loss. Jett is able to keep down her occassional ice cube. She continues to sometimes do something outside and it's still nasty and watery, but it's not inside and she's still bright, so we just keep to the plan and hope for the best.
Last night is much better. She gets us up at almost six, but Mike gets her outside in time and then just stays up. I nod off again for another few hours, and feel almost rested. All goes well up to getting Mike to work. I come home and Jett hasn't soiled the carpet in my absence. For this, I am joyful.
I give her a test quarter-cup of water. She laps it up and keeps it down. Three hours later, she gets a little more and, for the first time, some bland, easily digestable food – two tablespoons of rice mixed in with a teaspoon of turkey baby food for flavoring. This is actually the first time in Jett's five years on this planet that she's ever had people food. It's a huge thing. She scarfs it down. I am happy.
We make another fruitless trip just before I hit the showers. Then I come out.
Well shit. Literally.
About an hour ago, I finally got to sit down again. I'm frustrated and really pretty darned sick of cleaning up after Jett. I'm not angry with her. She doesn't feel well and that's not her fault, but it's times like these when I wish I had my own place with my own back yard and a doggie door, so Jett could just run out when she needs to go and my poor carpet can stop being a warzone.
And I can get some writing done finally. <sigh>
My poor puppy.
"Normal Again"
