Why does a dog need to have it's day
Kelly Allan
I woke up with a stinking hangover but ready to share the gossip of the previous night. 'Did the dog eat her dinner, do I have any irn-bru?' were the first words mustered. The reply was not in the affirmative. The dog hadn't touched her food, (extremely unusual set of circumstances) and the house was devoid of our other national drink.
I scrambled out of bed, head throbbing; pulled on the remnants of party clobber, grabbed the dog's lead and made a slow, painful attempt to alleviate my pain by crawling to the corner shop for my 'medicine.' I managed a rue smile though. As sick as I felt I did have some very juicy gossip to share; just as soon as my head stopped spinning.
It is wholly ironic then, that fate decided to intervene, that life would change suddenly, hideously, irrevocably on that day, without a whisper never mind a warning and the tales of gossip would never leave my lips.
As I stumbled towards the shop I was aware of Daisy, the dog, stopping a few yards ahead of me. 'Oh please Daisy...I beg...' I began to mutter, as the thought of being a responsible owner and 'picking up' would surely have tipped me over the edge. However, Daisy had not stopped to relieve herself. She had simply stopped...stopped, stock still. To stare, stare frightened as I did at the dark purple liquid leaving a sombre trail where usually her yellow urine ran.
Now, 10 months later I torture myself with that moment. A realisation, hungover as I was, that life was about to implode.
I opened my lungs and screamed, screamed to my husband that he must come, come to her aid, come to stop the nightmare that was beginning to unveil itself.
Hah! Isn't fate a tricky character though? As he came running from the house I knew there and then, in an instant: there was no hope. A single, despicable magpie sat on the ground and watched my horror unfold by displaying its damning message of 'one for sorrow' very clearly as it pierced me with a steely, triumphant stare.
The next few hours were amongst the very worst of my life. An examination by the vet, a diagnosis: AIHA, 'What's that?' Anemia. 'Well surely that's ok, a couple of iron tablets...?'
More hours; blood transfusions, prayers then absolute begging, pleading, imploring to one God, all Gods', any God to help her, make her well, let us have this one thing and we'll be good?
A wholly unsatisfactory response from the Vet - surely a healing God 'time will tell, we'll call you if there is any news for further concern.' Tick-tock, tick-tock. What day is it, what hour; can there be more than 24 torturous hours in a single day?
It was the last night of the festival, the culmination of Edinburgh's yearly contribution to the global arts...my own tragic piece of drama was also coming to the worst, possible conclusion against the backdrop of the thunderous firework display.
At 10.40pm the telephone rang and it did ring, it didn't shout, bellow or pierce, it rang as it always rings but the news it wrung out did pierce, and wound right to the very core of being, a real, physical pain, HEART ACHING, gut wrenching pain: Daisy dog's day was at an end.
