Published Tuesday, September 02, 2008 1:38 PM
Updated Tuesday, September 02, 2008 1:39 PM
We call our fur-baby Licky Nicky. She's a Jack Russell, minus the manic chip. Nicky is smart, loving, obedient -- heck, she's a Boy Scout.
She worships my husband, Widdle Baby, and he her. I clean her ears and feed her (organic, of course), and get a polite tail-wag in return. She's definitely Widdle's dog.
Or so we thought, until last month.
Widdle takes several overnight business trips a year. On this day he was at a conference in Greenville, S.C. He called and asked about his dog. "She's fine," I said.
And she was, until 2:02 p.m. I remember looking at the microwave clock when she collapsed on the kitchen floor.
I stared as she scrabbled on the linoleum, her back curved in a rigid C shape. "Nic, are you drunk?" I said, because this would be a funny story in a few minutes. Wouldn't it? When she finished being silly and stood up, I'd rumple her ears and call her daddy.
But she didn't get up. She convulsed while I called the vet, while I left a voice mail for Widdle, while I put ice in a towel and wrapped her up like a papoose.
She never stopped seizing, not during the 13-mile rocket ride to the vet's office, not while I was praying out loud, not even when I tapped her glazed, bulging eyeball.
When I slammed on the brakes at the vet's office, they ran out to get her.
Sitting in the waiting room, I lost it.
In 47 years, I've never been hysterical. That streak ended in a plastic chair next to a display for flea repellant.
"That's my child," I wailed. "That's my child!"
I rocked back and forth, blubbering. The receptionist brought me tissues. The other people in the waiting room clutched their pets and stared at me.
Through an open door, I saw the vet and her assistants bent over the table Nicky lay upon. Tears streamed down my face.
"Let me see her," I sobbed. "I need to hold her!"
That's when Widdle called. Poor guy: He had an hysterical wife and, as far as he could tell, a dying dog. He reacted instantly.
"I'm coming home," he said, and the line went dead.
Centuries later, the vet came out and motioned me into an exam room.
"Nicky's stable," she said, "but you've got to calm down. I can't treat humans."
I did some deep yoga breathing. Then Widdle called again. I handed the phone to the vet.
"I'm on the way," Widdle told her.
"Stay put," the vet said. "Your dog is recovering." Tactfully, she didn't mention his wife.
The good news is, Nicky hasn't had another seizure. The bad news is, the original seizure was so long and so severe, she has to take Phenobarbital for the rest of her life.
We can almost laugh about the episode now. Widdle calls it her "Nic fit."
We haven't come up with a label for my reaction. Maybe "middle-aged-childless-woman-meltdown."
Yep, that sounds about right.
Julie R. Smith, who really needs a fulfilling hobby, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com