“Bubba,” I call out and give a shrill whistle.
Relief rushes through me when I hear the scrabble of his nails on the wood floor, and he comes around the corner from the living room. Tail is wagging—obviously delighted I’m home—but he’s moving weird. Head slunk low, and he looks uncomfortable.
Letting the duffel slide to the floor, I squat with arms outstretched so he comes into me. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask gently, accepting licks on my face as his tail continues to wag. But I can tell he’s not feeling well.
I run my hands along his ribs, over his haunches, and through his thick brown and black fur, under to his belly where I press in to see if that causes him any pain, but it doesn’t.
Taking his face in my hands, my eyes lock with his soulful brown ones. “I wish you could talk, buddy. I can tell something is off, but I’m not sure what.”
That earns me a lick from chin to nose, and I laugh, followed by a long rub on the side of his neck. I press my forehead to his and stand up. “How about some dinner?” I ask.
Normally, that word sends him into fits of rapture, accompanied by excited barks, but now he just stares up at me with mild interest. I frown, because my dog is food motivated, and he’s clearly feeling ambivalent. Still, his tail is wagging, a sign of contentment—probably because I’m home—so I put my fears aside.
I tell Bubba all about my adventures in Mexico as he sits and watches me prepare his meal. Only the best for my boy, which includes high-end kibble that I mix with a dehydrated brand for flavor. I add fresh green beans for his constitution and set the bowl on the floor.
Bubba doesn’t move, but that’s his training. He’s not allowed to eat until I give him his release command.
“At ease,” I say, motioning toward the bowl. Any other day, he’d make a diving launch for the food, but now he just saunters over and sniffs. His eyes lift to mine. “Go ahead… eat, buddy.”
He samples some of the food but then turns away from the bowl.
What in the fuck is going on?
I follow Bubba back into the living room. He doesn’t lie on his bed, though, instead pacing around while intermittently panting. I whip out my phone and call Julie.
The adult daughter of my neighbors across the street, she’s been Bubba’s dog sitter since I moved here. She lives with her parents due to a recent divorce and works as a dental hygienist. She’s a dog lover and has taken over the role of his caretaker when I’m on missions, so I don’t have to board him. During the day while she’s at work, one of her parents comes over to let Bubba out and check on him, and then Julie stays with him at night.
I know she’s at work and have no clue if she’ll answer. I’m relieved when she does on the third ring.
“Hey, Julie,” I say as soon as we’re connected. “I’m home, and Bubba’s acting a little weird. Wouldn’t eat dinner.”
“That is weird,” she says, knowing my dog’s love of food very well. “He was fine this morning. Ate his regular breakfast, did fine on our walk. Want me to call my parents to see what they say? I know they were just there at lunchtime.”
“No, I can do that.” I thank Julie again, and as soon as I disconnect, I e-transfer her money owed for her services as I’d forgotten to pay her.
I consider calling Julie’s parents, Rae and Dwight, but my gut tells me no matter what they say, I’m not going to be able to sit back and wonder if this is serious or not.
“Let’s go for a ride,” I say to my dog, and his ears perk up. The word ride is usually right there with the word dinner on the excitement scale. Bubba’s tail wags harder, and he runs to the kitchen door where his leash hangs.
It makes me pause because, at this moment, he seems fine.
But he wasn’t fine when I got here and when he wouldn’t eat.
So hard to know what to do when your dog can’t speak your language. There’s really no debate needed, though, because I’ll always err on the side of caution. A trip to the vet is money well spent if it helps him and gives me peace of mind.
?
When I moved to Pittsburgh, one of the first things I did was find a good veterinarian. I thoroughly checked out Cove Lake Veterinary Practice and was pleased to learn that the vet had been there for almost thirty years. I met with her—Dr. LeAnne Schoen—and liked her a lot. She gave Bubba a good exam, but it was essentially a meet and greet, as he wasn’t due for any vaccinations.