I’ve said it before, but this seems like the perfect opportunity to reiterate that I love both my dogs beyond any sense of reason or logic. That’s the only reason I can think of that would have had me at the emergency vet at 1:00 in the morning on a Sunday with a Bulldog that wouldn’t stop throwing up even when there were no cookies left to hurl. I’m not a fancy big city vet, but I do know that no well animal blows chunks nine times in three hours. I’m enough of a diagnostician to know that gums are supposed to be pink and not gray. And of course being paranoid as I am, that let to an early morning visit to the closest emergency vet clinic. I’ll say up front that I’m glad they were open and I didn’t have to wait until Monday to have him seen by someone.
The good news is that after a metric crapload of scans, samples, and IV meds, my boy seems to be holding his own and I should be able to bring him home tonight. The down side, of course, is that the estimated bill for treatment and an overnight stay is somewhere in the neighborhood of $1500. Seriously. $1500. If that’s what it costs to fix him up, fine, but in the back of my head I can’t quite shake the thought that I’ve just spent 3/4 the cost of a new bulldog… or put another way, as much as it would have cost to adopt ten dogs from the pound. You can’t exactly put a price on the love and loyalty of a good dog, but we’re definitely getting into the neighborhood where one might start having second thoughts.
So yeah, consider this official notice that Christmas is cancelled this year. Gift money has been sent directly to VCA Animal Hospital. I won’t feel nearly as bad about dropping the cash when he’s back here snoring in the living room, but at the moment it’s feeling like a kick in the gut. In case anyone is wondering, when the vet called with an update at 9:00 this morning, the diagnosis was “yeah, we think he ate something that disagreed with his system.” I’m glad it wasn’t the intestinal blockage I was worried about, but still that’s a damned pricy upset stomach. Better safe than sorry. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.