The beautiful boy stayed home alone again this afternoon and was fine when I got back. I still can't get over the progress he has made. But yesterday his brain struggled with a very simple problem: what to do when you are bursting to go outside. He usually goes into a deep sleep once he's been fed and walked, these days at around 4pm, and then he rallies at around 9 to join me in the sitting room so that he can sleep on a different sofa. He was a bit restive all evening, following me around a bit, but I didn't take much notice. At around 9, stretched out beside me in the sitting room with the woodburner crackling away in front of us, he started licking his lips and swallowing. This continued for a while and, thinking he was about to be sick, I took him into the kitchen and poured some fresh water. He took a sip, but that wasn't it. Still not having a clue, I opened the back door and out he shot to the fence by the side path. Minutes later, I do not lie, he was still peeing. This has never happened before, and is an obvious result of the extra fluid he took on yesterday. But why oh why did he not get up and walk to the door, making me see he needed to go out? I know he's not the cleverest of dogs. He still hasn't got the hang of 'paw'. But something as basic as needing to go to the loo? Does it even take a brain?
As I write that my heart wrenches in my chest. His suffering, his courage, his forebearance! He's the darlingest of boys, affectionate, funny, eager and earnest, desperate to please. The thought of him lying next to me in agony but not knowing what to do about it is heart breaking. Don't worry Hugo, I'll be your brain in future. I will anticipate your every need and try to interpret your signs with a bit more creativity than I did last night. And I'll only add milk to your water in the morning when you have the whole day to expel the excess. We'll get through this.
This morning we walked as usual and came across Charlotte, a young girl who lives with her husband in a cottage across the fields from me, a few hundred yards away. I met her at a drinks party in the village earlier this year, and she's frightfully kinety (county). Real Suffolk or kinety, that's all my neighbours. Only me somewhere in the middle. Good morning, she called. Hi lovely to see you again! So this is the famous whippet! We stopped and chatted, admired the beautiful day and each other's dogs, and made the sort of small talk you do on these occasions. What's your little person called I asked, not wanting to be too gender specific in the absence of being able to focus properly on its undercarriage in the strong sunlight. Ember, she said. Ember? I replied. Yes, Ember, she said clearly. Given her kinety accent I don't know if it's posh Amber or truly Ember, called after glowing hot coals or wood. It could have been either. The dog was ginger.
No comments:
Post a Comment