Ever since we’ve been staying at Blake and Skye’s house, the little Westie hasn’t been her usual self.

At first I didn’t pay much attention, she may have been missing her humans and in need of some extra care and attention.

It had been 9 months since we’d last spent time together and I didn’t have all her little habits and zany quirks memorized.


But when, after a few weeks, she stopped eating her morning and afternoon meal and refusing to poop or drink water, I began to notice lots of other things I’d grown to love during last year’s stay at her house in Turkey Creek.

Endearing habits that appeared to have gradually fallen by the wayside of her puppy life.

When it was time for ‘walkies’ she used to be the first out on the porch, snatch a few gulps of water as she passed her bowl and fidget making the attachment of her lead to her collar impossible!  She’d crouch impatiently and snap at the air, turning her head this way and that until I had her hooked.


When I was on my bike ride she’d take up sentry on the front porch and as I rounded the corner she’d stand up, tail wagging, watch me climb the stairs, jump up at me and run around in happy circles, whispering little yelps of joy,

“You’re home, you’re home, you’re home!” she’d snap, clicking her teeth together and rolling on her back for a rub.

Wherever I went she’d follow, to the bathroom, my office, the bedroom, under the table at mealtimes on the back porch, beneath my feet in the evenings watching Netflix, on my yoga mat in the mornings.


She’d be the one, on our early morning walks, to start the race down the road after armadillos in the bushes, cats in the gardens, rabbits frozen in terror under the cacti, squirrels in the trees and along electricity wires, warning them all that if she really wanted to she could come after them,


She’d be the first up the steps after a walk, eat her meal first, get in the car first, wade in a puddle first.


Slowly she wound down.

She still walked the long walk in the mornings, but her heart wasn’t in it, she stayed beside me instead of running riot with Blake.

As we turned the corner for home, instead of being on the alert for pesky critters she’d slow down and walk past the house dreading the climb upstairs.

After gentle coaxing she’d hurtle headlong up the stairs squealing in pain, she’d stumble and arrive at the top nervous and shaken.  I thought in her recklessness she’d maybe twisted an ankle.

Then I began carrying her upstairs because her little heart was pounding so hard when she reached the top she’d take cover under the dining room table without eating or drinking.

I gave her a warm bath and massaged her back and hips, rotated her ankles in search for whatever was causing her to cry out in pain.  She enjoyed the massage and I gave her a cuddle.

I added water to her dry food, with a few sardines and a sprinkling of parmesan and watched while she ate, hand feeding her the first few bites.

She was not herself at all and I called the vet to rule out anal glands before the expense of X-rays were considered in search of arthritis or a slipped disc.

Anal glands it was…but there was no booty walk, no licking, no typical behavior to hint at her discomfort, no drainage or even a nasty smell to give us any clues.

No wonder she just sat and looked imploringly at me trying to tell me with her eyes what was wrong.


A week later she is almost back to normal, eating her breakfast and her evening meal without any extras,


drinking water and slowly perking up like a wilted plant.

Welcome back Skye-ster!



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