a maximum. That, for the uninitiated, is O'Toole's Corollary of Finagle's Law (Finagle's Law being Anything that can go wrong, will—at the worst possible moment)
For the last decade, we've had a pair of rescued basenjis--until July, when the first of them turned out to have cancer and decency--kindness--required us to euthanize him. I miss him; he was a gentleman among canines. The other is the stereotypical misfit; we suspect she was separated too early from her mother and litter and raised away from other dogs. She's never quite been right--but she was good with people (except that she could never be reliably housebroken). When her comrade departed, she mourned in the most painful, vocal way. Basenjis are not like other dogs in a number of ways; their vocalizations are one. Eerie and evocative mourning.
She didn't do well and we ended up determining that she was diabetic. So we all learned the ins and outs of treating an aged diabetic dog. And she seemed to be doing ok. Not great, but ok. Better. Then she ended up at the vet (naturally while we were out of town and our goddaughter was minding the place and the pets), having not been eating much. An outrageous amount of money later, she was home, boney and... somewhat better. For a while.
But not for long; she's not been eating well for days and so she's not been getting insulin, and the vet didnt' return one call and then the answer was (of course!) bring her in and we'll keep her for a day and (oh, yes, this is what they did the day when we racked up an obscene bill that... isn't repeatable). So today we had a long talk with the boys about where this looked to be heading.
Only tonight, for the first time in about a week, she actually ate a normal amount and got insulin.
This, of course is all stacked up on a wide range of things that have all of us feeling worn, stretched, tired...
Laughter is all that's left. And turning in early, I think. Tomorrow will be boils and clowns, I expect, and one really must be well rested for that. To properly appreciate it.