25 Is The New 60

Yesterday it got up to the twenties and I was so incredibly happy. It's a sad day when the native Texan is happy to see 20 degrees F. I took our big dog on a long walk that completely flattened me because I kept walking instead of coming back inside. I had to take advantage of not freezing to death in five minutes.

Last week it was cold, and it was a hard week. The dogs had been getting really bored. I was playing with them a lot on Wednesday while my fiancee was at work, throwing squeaky toys and getting cute videos of them. My dachshund got really riled up. He seemed fine, if a little bit extra bratty, but he's got a lot of personality for a little guy so I didn't think much of it.

Then he started throwing up. I'll spare you the details, but it was very very strange. The texture and smell were really off. He also went to the bathroom in the house, like he couldn't hold it. And he went from overly-boisterous to really quiet and curled in on himself. He looked really miserable. I got worried; I thought maybe he'd eaten something off the floor. My girlfriend called the vet and luckily he could meet us at the office (by then it was after hours).

Usually it takes me a good ten minutes to bundle up enough to go outside, especially when it's below zero like it was that night. But I wasn't going to take up precious time with my dog so miserable; I was scared for his life. I threw on a jacket and my double hats, leaving gloves, scarf and warm under layers behind, and ran out with him to the car.

I was in pain by the time I reached it. My face, neck and hands felt like they were going to come off, then went numb. By the time we had driven the five minutes to the vet's office, I was shaking and my teeth were chattering. Lesson learned: at least grab the gloves, you moron!

We were glad we took him in- he has a slipped disk, which is super-common in dachshunds. He was in a lot of pain (hence the vomiting), but it wasn't a serious case; he won't even need surgery, he's just on pain pills and stuck in his crate for two weeks. He got a shot that helped him feel much better that night.

On the way home, I was even colder. The temperature had dropped while we were inside the vet's office, I still had not nearly enough on, and I was crying the whole way home from relief. He was going to be okay; I wasn't going to lose my best friend, my little micro-manager, my first dog. The tears froze to my face on the way into the house. I sat by the fire and shivered and cradled my dog in my arms with a cold pack pressed against his back.

It took me two days to recover from the fear and cold shock and relief I had felt so overwhelmingly that night. I was worn out completely for days, and it was made more difficult by all the new things I needed to do to help my dog recover- special feedings, carrying him outside and back in, not letting him walk; the cold pack and then its replacement, the heating pad.

Sure enough, he improved drastically that first 48 hours. He's still healing fine, though he thinks being stuck in his crate is lame. A couple of days ago, the weeks of below zero ended at least temporarily. My dog can actually have time to go to the bathroom without getting too cold even under three sweaters and a windbreaker! Yesterday he got to smell in the yard for the first time since his back got hurt, and his brother, our big dog, has been getting good walks again.

I want it to be March, but that always happens to me in Midwestern January. We Southerners have this weird conception that below zero windchill is completely overrated. No idea where we would get such a crazy idea. Maybe someday we'll live somewhere sane...