It's More of a Commute, Really...

The Dawg, he of the creative and ever more bizarre medical issues, is DRIVING ME NUTS.

He wanders from food bowl to front door and back, doing the circuit over and over, with a crazed look in his eyes that says "if you died right now, I would quite happily eat you. If you don't die soon, I may have to take you out myself. It's nothing personal. Oh, and could you manage to snag the handle of the fridge on your way down?" I'm worried. I have decided that I can't continue to subject him to these high doses of steroids, no matter the outcome of taking him off of them. The misery of being hungry all the time, of never being sated, is too much. Last night we were out until 2am and he ripped into Luna's food and ate, I kid you not, about twenty pounds of dog food. He was STILL HUNGRY. This is not good.

Every day it gets a little harder. I look at him, this dog I love, this longest of long term relationships, the closest thing I have ever had or may indeed ever have to a child, and it pains me so much to watch him decline. He's been with me for so long, through my entire adult life. He's gone from old, to ancient, to positively -- well, what's older than ancient? Whatever it is, that's the category he's entered. Until the Pemphigus came along, he was in amazing shape for a dog his age. The vet says his liver, heart, lungs, kidneys are still as solid and healthy as can be. He doesn't suffer from arthritis, or incontenence like a lot of elderly animals do. He looks like hell, but other than the skin disease, and the meds (the symptoms of which appear to be almost as bad as the disease itself) he just ticks along. So what can I do?

I suppose I must try to be patient, and follow the best advice of the expert dog skin disease vet I'm hemmhoraging money at. I hope the dog, or the vet, will let me know when it's time to let him go. For now, he roots around the table at my feet, ever on the alert for tiny scraps, veritable molecules, of FOOD, FOOD, FOOD.