The Hank Scare

Helpless.

That is how I felt when my little Hank screamed in pain.  He couldn't walk, and when I tried to pick him up, he cried so hard that I started to cry, too.

We don't know what happened to make him hurt.

Thankfully, I noticed he wasn't quite right yesterday morning, so I took him to work with me to keep an eye on him.  Thankfully, I had the foresight to call the vet.  Thankfully, they could get him in.  By the time his appointment rolled around, I was desperate.  Hank couldn't stop crying.  I loaded him into --what else--a US Postal Service box and rushed him to the vet.

The doctor said Hank's pain was at a nine (on a scale of one through ten).  The doctor, being a Very Good Man, gave Hank narcotics (if he were a Very Great Man, he would've given me some as well).  And then he told me to leave until the screaming stopped.

That was a long hour.  Scott (who had just arrived from a work trip from out of town) told me not to worry, but he hadn't heard the screaming. 

The Good Doctor took xrays and a blood sample.  I took a look at the bill and considered giving the doctor a need for his own xray and blood sample.   But he held my dog's life--and a possible narcotics prescription--in the palm of his hand.

Hank is now doggy-stoned and home, after the doctor determine absolutely nothing about what is causing the little guy pain.  Doctor is supposed to call this morning with the blood work results.

Doctor is also supposed to be able to fix him, because after the amount of money we just had to fork over, he damn well be to cure world peace or something.

But in the end, I realized just how much I love this little guy, and truth be told, there is not a price I wouldn't pay for him.