Alert: Selfish Petty Whining Ahead

I've avoided writing about Cosine recently. She seems to be in some sort of holding pattern, making it easier not to do any "hard" thinking about her. No, instead of thinking about her, I'm thinking about me. Hence the whine alert.

Her life has been reduced to sleeping, eating, peeing and shitting. Oh. And circling. She doesn't wag her tail anymore, but she does eagerly snap up treats when they are waved under her nose. She doesn't enjoy spending time outside yet she loves her chow. Her response to affection includes low groans as she tries to push her head into my leg. Or side. Or arm. It depends on where we are in relation to each other. I often wonder if her head hurts her.

Now to give you a glimpse of how ugly I really am: I'm starting to feel worn down by the level of care she requires and the impact it has on our lives.

First selfish petty whine: she sleeps in the middle of our king-sized bed. If she sleeps at the foot, where she has slept most of her life, she falls out of bed during the night. It is impossible to snuggle my girlfriend when there is a dog between us. Sleeping without snuggling sucks monkey butt (whatever that means).

The second selfish petty whine ties in with the first: she wakes up during the night and teeter-totters around on the bed, waking one or both of us up to steady her and ensure she doesn't fall. Then she wakes up at o'dark-thirty and gets restless, which means we get up early with her. I intensely dislike being rushed out of bed. Intensely.

Why don't we just let her sleep on the floor? Well. She's dangerous. We've old-stumbling-blind-dog-proofed the house as much as possible. Sometimes she gets stuck in corners and under things. It makes her unhappy. She lets us know. More importantly, she's always slept in the bed with us. It's familiar.

Yet another selfish petty whine: We make sure she has plenty of outside time to do her business. I come home at lunchtime if she didn't have a "productive" trip out in the morning. But here's the rub: that doesn't always ensure she is accident-free. While infrequent, they do happen.

Oh and when those accidents happen, they really happen. She circles. She steps in the mess and tracks it around in her circular pattern. Just imagine dog poop squished into all four furry feet and spread around the entire room in a disgustingly odiferous way. Yeah. Nothing like coming home to that, let me tell you. Figero's brand of accident is preferable. Really.

The last time I bathed her, I thought I'd killed her. Before I was done, she laid down in the shower and refused to stand up. I wrapped her in towels and settled her on her bed where she stayed, unmoving, for several hours. That's not a whine. That's a fact. It scared me.

Now that I've laid my selfish petty whines out in pretty words in pretty lines on the computer, I can put them in a big fat bubble and let them float off into the nether. I can remind myself of the joy she has brought, brings, our lives and focus on making her as comfortable as we can.

It's the least I can do.
Don't you agree?

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