Once upon a time I was gettin' my hair did up at Headlines where my favorite people do their magic. Miss Rhonda was trimming and we were looking at the paper and there was just the CUTEST pup featured in the weekly humane society deal. Faith was grown and I needed a puppy for Christmas. Being the poor gal that I am, I posted that baby's picture on the bulletin board at work, asking for donations to go toward the adoption fee of $40. Alas, there were no takers except for my good friend, the little general. She forked over the money and away I went to check out the cages. For the life of me, I can't remember that puppy's name, but he or she was smooth gone when I showed up with cash in hand. They're all so damn cute when they're little, but one in particular caught my eye...a tiny little brindle rat terrier mix. She peered at me with those really sad eyes that say "pick me!" and so I did. She wore a red plaid ribbon around her neck for Christmas that year, a gift to me from Big Ernie and little Sharry. Faith, who was also a Miss Rhonda pick, didn't take kindly to having a younger sister. At some point, Hope
Terriers are notorious for being nervous and Hope was no exception. She shivered constantly when the temp dipped below 60 and barked at the moon and the critters and just because she could. That was when BG changed her name to Butterbean and it stuck. When I picked her up from the vet's office Friday, some guy in the waiting room remarked about that name being unusual. Not in the south, ya'll.
Faith and Butterbean LOVE to ride in the car. Faith hangs her head out the back window lappin' up the breeze and Butters mounts the console, looking straight ahead at life whizzing by in the trusty old Camry with her mama at the wheel. Three hubcaps, no driver's side door handle, lots of bumps and scratches and almost paid for after eight years of hard labor with only 60K miles and a new engine thanks to cousin Kenny and the big fat honking oil gel settlement against Toyota. Yes, that is a run-on sentence, thank you very much. Sue me.
Anyway, I'm rambling. A few days ago, Butterbean began to look "funny" which is a red flag to a pet's best friend. I kicked the other two to the curb, and focused on her. She slept next to me on the pillow, breathing in my ear like when she was a pup. And then she couldn't get up.
That's when we started the journey to the vet's office where they run all sorts of tests and make a clinical diagnosis. Cassie Rae drew her blood for free and we ran the labs on instruments designed for human blood to save a buck. Two hundred thirty dollars later, she was diagnosed with a ruptured thoracic disc. BG had dropped her off and I picked her up several hours later in the pouring rain to come home for a few more days. We have puppy drugs that seem to keep her out of pain, but she still can't get up. Her sister and brother are keeping watch on the couch beside her, giving her kisses and not the least bit jealous anymore. They know, according to C.
It's almost med time.