As you know, from your Big Book of June Events, Volume 67, Edsel has congestive heart failure.
Well. That’s a broad term. Like “pit bull,” which incorporates a bunch of breeds.
Edsel, who is most notably not a pit bull, has an enlarged heart and also a leaky left valve, which apparently one day will become congestive heart failure. I think. Really the vet either didn’t describe it all the way or I was too in shock to hear.
But what I did do was go home and Google his medication and it scared the SHIT out of me with all the congestive heart failure nonsense and how did we scare ourselves before Google?
Anyway, he’s on his way to congestive heart failure. He’s a heart failure apprentice. And so what I’m supposed to do is give him his two pills each morning and night and then take him in every six months to get assessed. To see where we are on the heart failure highway.
Naturally, whilst Googling the crap out of this disease, I read up on signs of how you can tell The End Is Near, because that is what I do for fun. One thing they mentioned was that dogs with congestive heart failure get up in the night, roam around, because fluid buildup makes them uncomfortable. “Especially dogs who sleep on their sides.”
I want you to consider this a moment. How the hell else do dogs sleep? They don’t sleep on their backs with the covers up.
Anyway, Eds sleeps in his million-dollar special dog bed with foam to accommodate his hips, which are also giving out on him. He’d be welcome to sleep in my bed of action with me, but he resents any movement I make and has even on occasion showed me his TEETH when I move one inch, which makes me want to punch him right in the liver, so in order to keep the relationship going, he sleeps at the foot of my bed in his dog bed made of gold.
His dog bed might have cost more than my bed, which I got on sale during one of those mattress sales they have on Labor Day or Memorial Day. I’ve hated it ever since. We should switch beds.
Anyway, he’s woken me up lately because he gets up and paces the room. Usually I keep the doors closed to my bedroom (yes, my bedroom has two doors. My mirror only has one face, however) so I don’t also have to sleep with 90 cats, so Edsel can’t pace far. He just paces around me.
This worried me, as I have read the signs, and also I saw the sign, so I put down my Ace of Base and called the vet. Did I have to bring him back in early? We’re due to return in April.
“Here’s what you do,” the vet said. “When he’s asleep, count his breathing.”
“Watch him take one breath. In. Out. That counts as one. If he breathes more than 36 times in a minute, you need to bring him in now rather than April.”
Also, don’t you hate it when someone spells it “breath”? “I couldn’t breath; it was awful.” You wanna know what’s awful? Is an adult not knowing how to spell. That’s what’s awful.
I was dying, just dying, to get home and watch Edsel breathe, or breath, but I had my trainer first, who of course was stuck listening to me talk about Edsel and his 36 breaths a minute. She made me do a lot of planks to shut me up.
Then I screeeeeeched home, knowing full well he’d be awake and excited to see me and so on. We did all our evening things and then I settled in on the couch, hoping he’d fall asleep on his less-than-million-dollar-but-still-cute-shabby-chic-living-room bed I got him at TJ Maxx awhile back. It’s a pink paisley. He’s okay with it. Eds secure.
That rat bastard with the bad heart? Would.Not.Fall.Asleep.
Oh my god. It was like he was on a sleep strike.
Dudes. I’ve lived with this dog almost 10 years now. I know the way of his people. He falls FAST asleep ALL the time in the evening. You might say it’s his signature move. It’s what he does. It’s his trademark.
Not last night.
Oh my god. He even, at one point, got on one of the chairs, and I thought, Perfect. Now he’ll fall asleep where I can stare right at him rather than having to mince over the edge of the couch and peer at him in his little shabby chic bed.
Nope. Apparently he was going to sit in that chair with eyes wide open, and stare at me unblinkingly while I tried to pretend I was watching TV.
I even went on the YouTube and got Soothing Sounds for Dogs or what have you, which we played at work when we had all those shelter dogs in.
It only gave Eds more energy.
I JUST WANT TO COUNT YOUR BREATHING, I was screeching on my insides. Finally I gave up and went to bed. Often I’ll retire to my room for a bit before bed, and Edsel will lie on the bed
while I read or peruse the internet.
Oh my god.
No one has stayed awake longer than Edsel. He was Jerry Lewis on Labor Day weekend.
Finally—FINALLY—he started to seem drowsy. I was considering getting something swinging and trying to hypnotize him to sleep. And just to torment me further, he’d start to shut his eyes and then
them open, just to annoy me. But finally? After being aware of that damn dog’s every move for more than three hours?
Fourteen breaths a minute. He takes 14 a minute. I measured it three times. Oh my god, he’s completely fine, other than a little heart failure.
So that was my productive night last night. It was a real snoozefest. Bah.