My dear dog Mrs. B, the greatest mutt in the whole world, is not faring well. She's throwing up a few times a week and peeing, pooping and gag -- eating the poop then throwing it back up just about every day. We think she had an ulcer, but I got pissed at the vet when I took her in three separate times and the answer every time was even more tests (read: cha-CHING). It also happened to be with three different vets, and I realized that they all had differing opinions on what her deal was. So in April I called the vet I liked and said look, I need you to make your best guess as to what is up. We can't afford to keep coming in for multiple tests, and we definitely can't afford to pay $55 to walk in the door. So, she called in a prescription for some ulcer medication. That seemed to work great, and she wasn't throwing up. It also has helped to give her Pepcid every morning and night. But she continues to lose weight, so she's now a scrawny little thing and generally seems unhappy. Which makes me want to bawl my eyes out. I can handle the mess, though it is taxing and well, gross. But I can't handle the thought of her being in pain or unhappy. This is the dog I call Baby Dog. She moved across the country for me. When Pete and I dated and broke up for a bit, Mrs. B was the one who had trouble reconciling with him; she'd sleep between us in bed. This is my dog. My beloved dog. She'll be 14 this year, but she's a terrier mix and they live forever, right?
Armed with our (only) emergency credit card, we are heading to the vet Monday (it was the soonest appointment with the doc we like). Please say a little prayer for my little dog. I am optimistic and hopeful they will be able to treat her and we'll have a bit more time with her, perhaps with her tail wagging.