3:00 a.m. chicken

Matilda got her teeth cleaned on Thursday.  All went well and she only had to have two small front teeth removed.

The vet told me that she came out of the anesthesia very well, but when I picked her up late that afternoon, she was still woozy and had difficulty keeping her eyes open and holding her head up.  I was a little concerned because I’d never seen her like that before,  but I chalked it up to a combination of her age and the anesthesia,  so I just kept a close eye on her.

During the ride home, she started this sad, pathetic, pitiful whining cry.  It was gut wrenching.

She was very hungry because she hadn’t eaten since 5:30 the night before, so she scarfed down half of a can of wet dog food.  I’ve never seen her eat that much at one time.

After she ate, she started whining again.  This time the severity of it ebbed and flowed.  It lasted all night.

When I left for work on Friday morning, she started whining again and would stop when I came over to pet her.  After the third time, I explained to her that I had to go to work, but that I would be back soon.  She looked at me with those sad, pitiful eyes as if she understood.  The whining stopped and I left.

I came home early that day.  She could barely hold her head up and could care less about going outside.  She refused to eat.  Later that evening, I found that she had thrown up everything she ate on Thursday.

Saturday was more of the same.  When I found that she had no interest in bacon, I knew we had a problem.


That evening, instead of watching the world go by outside of our window, she curled up in my lap and stared me in the face.


In the middle of the night, she drank some water and showed some interest in the snacks I left out for her.  When she got up to approach the snacks, she fell over.  I swooped her up and ran down the steps to the kitchen.  I took her food out of the fridge and sat down in the middle of the floor.  I begged her to eat her food.  She refused. I begged her to eat some sweet potatoes. She refused.  As she tried to walk away from me, she fell over and didn’t try to get up.  She looked at me with her tired and sad eyes and I couldn’t tell if she wanted help or was saying goodbye.   I gingerly picked her up, craddled her like a baby and rocked her back and forth as the tears streamed down my face.  I told her I loved her and begged her not to die over and over again.  In between the words, a deep gutteral moan would come as I tried to catch my breath and pull myself together.  Finally, I told her that I hoped she enjoyed her time with me and if she needed to go, it was okay.

I stood up and put her food back in the fridge.  Right before I shut the fridge, I remembered some chicken I had cut up a week ago to make chicken salad.  I grabbed the container and sat back down.  It had been two days and she hadn’t eaten a thing.  This was my last hope.  When I opened the plastic take-out container, the crackling sound made her ears perk up and she turned her head to see what I had.  I said a little prayer and broke off a teeny bit of chicken.  She ate it!  After seven or eight pieces, she was done.  She was still pretty wobbly, but I felt a lot better.

She ate pretty well on Sunday.


She refused the sweet potatoes and the pill of antibiotics, but ate all the chicken.


I thought we were out of the woods, but when we went for our evening walk, she fell over before we could get out of the yard.  I scooped her up and ran back into the house.  She ate another half bowl of chicken and was ready to go.  She did okay on our walk, but couldn’t make it all the way home.  I had to carry her for most of the way back to the house.


I’m praying that she’s on the mend.  We’ll see what tomorrow brings.


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