We're very fond of our little dog. On Wednesday he wasn't quite right. He leapt as if electric shocked. He ran as if chased by demons. He panted. He sweated. He was hot and damp.
He looked at me with white-rimmed eyes. I am a poorly dog. Brace yourself, I may be dying.
He didn't bark at the postman. He didn't even look out of the window. He just lay, rigid, in his bed, eyes wide. I'm not well at all. I'm a very sick doggy.
At lunchtime he sat, sorrowfully, in front of his bowl of doggy dinner (he has such a sensitive stomach, he has to be fed three times a day, yes, I know, spoiled, anyway...) he sat sadly looking into his bowl of untouched lunch for 20 minutes. I'm far too poorly to eat. I'll just fade quietly away.
When H10 and R8 got back from school Scamp had a bigger audience. He threw himself to the carpet like a swooning Victorian maiden in too tight corsets on a hot day.
He shivered. He shook.
"Aw! He's cold!" cooed the girls, wrapping him up in fleecy blankets. Outside the thermometer hit 23 degrees Celcius on the hottest day of the year so far.
The dog shivered pathetically from the depths of layers of fleece.
"Is is like Lucky (recently deceased guinea pig) is he going to (gulp) die?" The girls were worried. I reassured, not feeling terribly confident. Things did look bad. Had he eaten poison? Caught a virus? What was it?
Brian came home from work. The dog threw himself at his master's feet, rolled over onto his back, legs in the air. Sorry master, this is it.
"Hmmm," said the Boss, reaching down onto the dog's pitiful belly and plucking something small and hoppy from it. A flea. A flea? Is that bad? Is it the end? Goodbye, I've enjoyed being your dog will you miss me?
"You big wuss," we chorused. Disgusted. All that drama over fleas?
|Fleas is not fatal then?|
He was bathed in anti-flea shampoo. All bedding has been washed and both dogs have had flea drops applied. He's right back to normal now, eating like a horse and barking at the world. What a drama queen!