By Christie Keith
July 24, 2010
Yesterday, Rawley destroyed my bathrobe while I was in the shower. Last night he had a tummy ache.
The two things might have been connected. They might not. It didn’t appear he’d eaten my robe, just shredded it, but you never know.
What I do know is that I’d have been a whole lot more worried if he hadn’t been waking me up every half hour to rub his tummy, kiss his little nose and tell him he was a good dog. He curled up on the pillow next to me, shoved his head under my arm, and nudged me awake whenever I stopped petting him.
The reason none of that worried me, despite being totally unlike my scrappy little boy dog, is because I’ve learned over the years I’ve had Scottish Deerhounds that the more trivial the illness or injury, the more histrionics they’ll engage in.
A stubbed toe? A Deerhound will hold it pitifully aloft while screeching his three-legged agony.
A tumor consuming all her vital organ systems? Nothing you couldn’t chalk up to getting older, or hot weather.
That’s why I wasn’t worried (although of course, I poked and prodded his tummy many times, always concerned about bloat and torsion). All that drama was a pretty sure guarantee nothing too bad was going on.
How about your dogs? Drama pooches when it comes to the small stuff, stoic and silent when it’s serious? The opposite?
Photo: Remember when? Rawley in an earlier angelic time.