I'm late this morning, because we spent a good portion of last night at the emergency vet with Buster.
He's OK. (And thank you for your concern.) It wasn't exactly an emergency, but he needed to see a doctor, and our vet is on vacation. Apparently so is everyone else's vet, because the place was packed. This brings us further complications, because Buster can't be around other dogs (except his Cody). So we waited outside: I stay on dog-alert, while Allan runs Buster back and forth across the street as all the dogs in the neighborhood go out for their walks. Eventually an exam room opened up, so we could wait in there. This too brings complications: Buster spends the whole time shrieking and crying. Ah yes, a very pleasant four-hour wait.
As for Buster, he's having the same intestinal trouble we've been battling off and on for two months. Through it all, he seems perfectly happy, not distressed in any way or in pain. But he's losing weight, and his coat, normally shiny and lustrous, is dry and brittle. I am worried about my B.
When our regular vet comes back from vacation, we're going to step this up a notch: sonogram, radiograph, possibly an endoscopy. I was hoping to avoid another labor-intensive veterinary process. I kind of don't need one more thing to do, y'know? But the easy stuff clearly isn't working.
More than any of our dogs, I worry about Buster. He's been high-maintenance since the day we found him. He almost didn't make it then, and something inside me still half-expects to lose him.
I can't explain the love I have for this animal. His love for me is so intense. Of course, that's how dogs love, it's what they do. But a dog who was alone, frightened, on the edge of death, whose life begins again - their love is beyond human comprehension. Buster's devotion to us, and his neediness, makes me love him even more.