If you’re new, the Tulip Chronicles start here.
Day 1
Tulip whines to go out at 3:30am. At 6:00, she turns her nose away from her breakfast and yorks twice on the door mat.
While I’m at work, she escapes from her kennel, natch, but she’s real sheepish—she won’t even look at me when I let her outside. She didn’t act guilty the other times she’s gotten out of the kennel…? I go back inside and find a red, gelatinous poop on the floor of the spare bedroom. I email the foster organization to see if I should take her to the vet.
Day 2
The org emails me back to say they’re sending me some medicine and I should let them know if it gets worse.
Day 3
Tulip upchucks on my bedroom floor at 3:30am. I can’t get back to sleep. I’m getting a tiny peep into what it’s like to have an infant.
The medicine arrives, or I should say, the medicines arrive—three of them: an antibiotic, an anti-diarrheal, and one for upset tummy. I shoot the pink liquid down her throat. She’s not super-stoked about that. But I give her the other ones smeared in peanut butter. Those go down easier.
We walk in circles. I give treats for sitting. She really does not want to sit unless she’s pretty goddamn positive I’m about to give her a treat.
Day 4
Tulip asks to go out at 4:00am. I sort of go back to sleep after.
When I arise at 6:00, I discover that my tell-tale “you’re about to get a cold” sore throat has revved itself up in the night. When Amy doesn’t get enough sleep, Amy gets a cold. Every goddamn time. Boo. I’m irritable. I don’t want to go to work. I can’t go to the gym. And I may have to cancel the date I have scheduled for tomorrow night.
After work, it seems Tulip is responding to the medicine! Her poops are of a reasonable viscosity.
We don’t walk in circles. I’m too goddamn tired.
Please, oh please, let her sleep through the night.
Day 5
She doesn’t sleep through the night. But she does escape her crate during the day and sleep all day in my bed again.
I’m officially sick. I cancel my date.
Day 6
I do a dog shuffle at 6:00 (everybody outside and back in, in turns) and go back to bed until 9:30. Tulip’s been in the crate all night, so I leave her loose in the spare bedroom. She craps on the floor during that time. Totally worth it. I needed the sleep.
Even though it’s sunny and Saturday, Tulip and I are lounging on the couch in the late afternoon watching Game of Thrones. Out of nowhere, she starts uh-ggging. I pitch her off the couch, but I know we’re not going to make it outside. Gaaaak, right on the floor.
Man. I thought the meds were working. Poor little Tulip. I wonder at what point I give up on the meds and take her to the vet.
Day 7
Tulip won’t eat her breakfast; she won’t even lick up the peanut butter I’ve smothered her pills in.
Enough. I email the organization. They say to take her to the vet. If it’s open tomorrow (holiday), I’ll go; if not, Tuesday.
In the evening, she snarfs down her supper with gusto…?
Ever since I started the training classes three weeks ago, I’ve felt tremendously guilty because my dogs have gotten only tiny walks. I realize that it’s because the longer the walk, the more every muscle in my back is pulled tight as a drum at the end. Walks used to be pleasant: 53 minutes, nearly every day, during which I could zone out and not think about anything in particular. But now they’re different. First, summer has come to Durham, and even meandering causes floods of perspiration. And second, I have to make corrections every ten to thirty seconds, and it’s wearing on me.
I vow to take them on the short loop, about 25 minutes, every day, regardless of the heat and the stress. We do the first real walk in a long time. It’s hot (at 9:30pm) and stressful.
But the dogs are really happy.
no pull harnesses. magic.
I’ve had those in the past. They don’t *teach* the dog not to pull though. They just make them not pull while they’re wearing it.