This reminds me of one of those fancy old-fashioned dog portraits. Wouldn't it make a cool painting, a monumental Chet against the patrician backdrop of the Colonnade? I'd omit the tiny person dribbling from his chin, as well as the crooked harness...I'm sorry. This is not going to be an uplifting, funny post. Chet Baker is at the veterinarian's clinic overnight, running a fever of 103.4. He has been lethargic since Sunday, the day after we returned from Chautauqua, and his veterinarian thinks he may have picked something up from one of the myriad dogs he met and played with. I'm trying to think of it as I would with one of the kids--they're disease-free all summer, and then they come in contact with a bunch of kids, and before you know it they've contracted something. After ten years of childhood diseases, I usually know what's going on with the kids. Dogs are another matter. He seems to have a sore throat, foul breath, swollen lymph glands, runny nose, and general malaise. The scary part is that I know nothing about what dogs could catch, and not knowing is hard for a science monkey with a vivid imagination. I pray that it's bacterial, and can be addressed by drugs.
Needless to say, leaving my heartbeat in the vet's arms this noon was not easy. She administered an injectible antibiotic and wants to see if that addresses the fever before releasing Chet back to our care. Coming up the sidewalk, bereft of his joyful bouncy greeting, was not wonderful. All day long, I kept looking over my shoulder, holding the screen door open long enough for him to follow me out; absent-mindedly breaking off a piece of my dinner for him to eat; listening for the click of his toenails on the studio floor.
I love this little dog too much, as I'm sure you're aware. I'll let you know how he's faring as soon as I hear.
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