It was supposed to be a throwaway line. Yesterday, as I was saying my goodbyes, I said by dark on Tuesday, I'd probably be throwing up blood from all the stress. I didn't mean to curse the family that one of us would actually do it.
Sunday, Elsa, the dog who choreographed her own happy food dance that she performed perfectly before every meal for ten years, wasn't all that interested in food. In her entire lifetime, I've only seen her refuse one food item, and that was a sugar snap pea fresh from the garden. When Elsa doesn't want dinner, it's a clear indicator that all is not right in the world. She threw up a couple of times too, and it was full of grass, like she was self-medicating. First thing this morning, she did it again, and this time there was a little blood in it. She wanted nothing to do with breakfast. So we watched the clock until the vet opened, and got her in first thing.
It was blatantly obvious that she was in distress. She had to be coaxed into the car, which was a first. She took mincing steps to the vet. She hung her head and wagged her tail almost not at all. There was stress all over her face. The doc looked her over, found her belly was firm and her temp was up, and they asked to keep her for the day, to run blood tests and x-rays. She needed fluids by IV as well.
We picked her up this evening. The doc explained that bloodwork revealed acute pancreatitis. There's some debate as to the cause, whether it's a bacterial infection or a reaction to sudden fat intake, or something else unknown. While he talked, it occurred to us that what took Bump away from us at the beginning of the year was a pancreatic tumor, so we were glad that he didn't immediately jump to the C word. She has had metronidazole by injection, which is a better method because her stomach is quite sensitive, and if she throws it up it does her no good. (I wish I had known that was an option all those times I had to take it orally for diverticulitis!) She has to go back in the morning for more IV fluids and another shot of metronidazole.
For the bulk of this year, especially since Bumpy died, she has preferred to stay on her bed in the garage. It was cool in the summer, and warm on brisk fall days. She has done little besides sleep all year. She is 11 years old now, and most of her active days are behind her. She comes into the main house some, but she acts nervous about it. She thinks she's only there for food opportunities, and once they're done, she asks to go back to her bed. When she got back from the vet, I tried to keep her inside where it's warmer, where we could keep an eye on her. Even Murray had an inside visit, and he thought it was awesome to be out of wheels, on pee-pee pads while daddy graded papers. Elsa was miserable. She stood at the garage door and willed it open. Now it's the middle of the night, and I'm worried about her out there. I wanted her sleeping on the floor next to me, so I could hear her if she has any issues. She refused. I hope one more visit to the vet tomorrow makes her right as rain, and able to relax and have quality family time. I want my Wookiee to feel better.
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