Playing Nurse to a Furby

My little dog is sick. Stops eating and hides under the bed. For two days this goes on and I take her to our veterinarian. He gives her a shot to improve her appetite and another to hydrate her and I leave with strict instructions to feed her nothing but boiled chicken and rice for three or four days. After a day she revolts. I call the clinic, where a technician tells me I can try switching the chicken to ground beef, which has been rinsed under hot water to get rid of any fat. Cooking. Rinsing. Trying again. The dog turns up her small nose. Another phone call. It is suggested  I try plain pasta in place of rice. Anything bland and mostly flavorless appears to be the order of the day. She eats a few noodles but overall is not impressed. Back under the bed. By this time it is Sunday, which involves a trip to the pet emergency clinic. As anyone who has ever used one of these places knows, there is often a long time spent in a large waiting room with several worried looking people holding nervous dogs on leashes or cats howling in crates. Assistants with concerned faces and blue or green scrubs periodically rush through on important-looking missions. Tests and prices tend to mount up quickly. Several name calls later, we are ushered into a treatment room. I lift my dog onto the examination table, where she threatens to bite the technician trying to put a thermometer in her back end. Another technician is fetched. Dog’s temperature is normal. Perhaps a slight bit on the high side of normal but still, normal. The plan is to put her in a cage in a back room until the actual veterinarian can see her, which reportedly will be anywhere from two to three hours. The other option is to wait. I choose waiting, which may have led to a faster evaluation because it isn’t thirty minutes until a doctor arrives. She says it could be pancreatitis and bloodwork can be ordered but she thinks my dog can wait until the next day, which is Monday, when we will be able to see our regular veterinarian. That seems the sensible choice. In the meantime, once again she is injected with something to hydrate her and something to improve her appetite. We go home. A day later we are at our regular veterinarian’s. Blood is drawn and I wait for the results, expected in two days. I come home with antibiotics, a pill to ease any stomach issues she might have, and cans of prescription dog food. No more chicken or rinsed ground beef with pasta or rice. I have little hope for the prescription diet dog food but find if I make it into tiny meatballs and hand feed them to her, all the while lavishly praising her for being an exemplary patient, she accepts it. Pills are hidden in two of the meatballs. Only I knew which ones have the medicine, similar to the magician’s trick with a ball hidden under one of three cups. In the meantime, blood results come back. Turns out my small dog has a significant vitamin B-12 deficiency, which can manifest itself in gastrointestinal issues. Apparently it’s not uncommon but German Shepherds are the ones genetically predisposed  to it. I will give her injections once a week for a month, then monthly for a while. In the meantime, she has to eat special prescription dog food and nothing else. She is back to her lively, interesting self and I wonder if when she sleeps, she dreams of dog treats or maybe even just her regular old dog food. She has one more day of antibiotics. I put on a white apron and drape a towel across my forearm in the manner of a waiter at a fine dining establishment. I neatly arrange the little meatballs of canned dog food in a circle on a dinner plate and present them with a flourish.“Good food takes time,” I tell her as I set the plate down in front of her. She eats.