One of the prices of divorce is the pets. When I left, I left our pets behind. Between my depression, moving out, leaving my ex practically everything, working two jobs, and trying to start over, I couldn’t handle the responsibility of two dogs and two cats. The cottage didn’t officially allow pets, and as much as I loved my boys, I needed to not have that extra responsibility. Pat wasn’t working, so he spent the most time with all the animals, and the dogs had a big fenced yard. I could see them whenever I wanted. I missed them, but it was best for everyone – though I feel guilty about it. They still love me. They all come to give kisses when I visit. Dusty, my darling kitty, always come straight to me, and I’m still the only one allowed to pick him up for cuddles. Mel never fails to give me a disdainful big yellow tomcat greeting. Champ, Kelsea’s dog, generally wants a belly rub and a kiss.  And Roscoe never fails to greet me with a toy in his mouth – I have always been his absolute favorite playmate.

So when Pat called last week to say that something was wrong with Roscoe, I was naturally worried. After all, even though I don’t live with him anymore, he’s still my last baby. We got him at the pound as a teeny tiny puppy only 4 1/2 years ago.  At the time, they thought he was Australian Shepard/Golden Retriever. As it turns out, he’s 9/10ths Great Pyrenees, gigantic, cuddly, and adorable, though not as good as he might be with other dogs, as he likes to play “I’m gonna eat your face” which is a game a lot of other dog owners don’t understand.

Roscoe was moving stiffly and wouldn’t sit or lay down. Pat found a hole in his back, like a puncture. At first, he thought it was a bullet hole (we went through that with our most beloved ever first dog, Tug), but the vet said no, he must have just poked a hole in himself. The x-rays showed no bullet. The vet cleaned up the wound and gave Pat antibiotics to fend off infection, along with instructions on bandage changing and some painkillers.

A few days passed, and Roscoe was no better. I wanted Pat to take him back to the vet, but he insisted on waiting until the course of antibiotics was gone. And the day the antibiotics wore off (yesterday), one of Roscoe’s back legs swelled up to three times its normal size. So Pat took him in. And they did surgery on him last night to remove a 9-inch wood spike that he had somehow driven into his body and broken off.  The surgery took two surgeons, and the incision is down a large part of his left side. It is badly infected. They have a pump pumping pus out of him and have him on massive antibiotics and painkillers.

They are not sure yet that he will survive.

So please set your prayers and intentions, send healing juju, and use any otherworldly powers you might have, to help my Roscoe get through this and get back to his old self, with no PTSD.  I just want my boy to greet me with a toy in his mouth again, and I promise him a good long game of “I’m gonna get you.”

I may not live with him anymore, but I still love my boy.