Midnight. Emergency. Jolene.

Jolene is fine. But if I’m driving my truck and it’s midnight on a Saturday, it just means one thing. I’m taking a dog to the all-night emergency clinic. Usually on a holiday weekend because the wait is longer then. Let me start at the beginning.

The week was going well. The dogs got their nails done. Mister has the toenails of a buffalo, and I considered asking my farrier to borrow his nippers. But I don’t have to do all the hard things. It’s something new I’m trying out.

When Mister first came, he fought me tooth and toenail, so I hired a pro. Getting him through the door was a battle, and then they baby-talked and grabbed at his belly. Which he hates as much as I would. We finally found Saint Rachel at the treat store. Now I take Jolene too out of sheer laziness.

On this visit, the new person behind the counter came out and cooed to Jolene. Could she say hello? I nodded, and she picked Jolene up, shocking both of us. And immediately put her back down, as Jolene, well, let’s say, isn’t into cuddling strangers. The woman chuckled apologetically and said five Cattle Dogs would be easier than one Vallhund. It’s so nice when people recognize the breed.

Jolene was a salon diva, and then it was Mister’s turn to go back. We were waiting when we heard the front door open, and a matronly dachshund entered. She probably had curves when she was younger, but she was full-on sausage now, with a gray muzzle and a bit of a quiver to her hind. Her little ears folded like hankies on either side of her head. Jolene thought the old dame would love her, but sometimes the lesson is that we don’t have to be friends with everyone. For the times people let their dogs run at my reactive dogs, I asked Jolene to respect her elders. We stepped back. Jolene sat, got praise for being still, and the dowager dachshund made it out alive. Her companion nodded a thank you with obvious relief.

And that was the excitement for the week, I thought. Good manners should count for something. A gold karma star for us.

The next night, we were out in the camper. The house was hot, and this bed is more comfortable. I was writing, and sometimes Jolene likes to sit on the author. I’m a sucker for canine flattery, so up she came, and then she was outside for a bark or two. This went on for a couple of hours before she hit the sack. She rubbed her nose with her paws. Not too much, but then it was. I noticed her bulldog profile. No offense to the squished-nose lovers, but yikes. Her nose is the same size as her head. Do I have any Benadryl? No.

Sometimes a dose of antihistamine does the trick if there isn’t too much swelling. She could breathe, but was fussy and uncomfortable. I know about the possibility of anaphylactic shock, and I’m over a half-hour away from help. Best to be safe since she’s a puppy. Our usual emergency clinic with the Blake wing said they were too full and sent us to a new clinic. It was miles farther, but Mister and I got her loaded. Baby’s inaugural trip to the emergency room. A baptism of sorts.

In Jolene’s defense, she hasn’t brought a live bird into the house in a while. She has always been a prodigious moth killer, but they are dusty and tasteless. She must have eaten a wasp. They fly with a different flap. They are crunchy spice-nuggets. And they come with a noisemaker inside. Irresistible.

We strapped in, the GPS was chatting conversationally, and the roads were empty. Except for teenagers hanging half-out of car windows. Speed bumps in the making. Then, Jolene vomited for the first time. And she retched again, both times directly onto Mister. Who is now looking a little queasy himself. I mop what I can with the half-used napkins and only make it worse. We don’t speed. We don’t dawdle. We do roll down the windows. Throwing up is a bad sign, but we’re almost there.

They take her straight back after a dozen questions but before I’m done filling out forms. There’s a DNR order having to do with whether I want CPR. The discouraging sheet says it’s less than 10% effective, but very expensive. Not the usual sales pitch. I get DNR orders when I go to the doctor now. Mortality, ick. But it’s not Jolene’s first one either. She was born at half the weight of the other puppies in her litter. They thought she might die then. I don’t think she’ll die today, but dog stories all end the same way. It feels like there’s an anvil hanging from my lungs by fishhooks. But I’m fine. Really.

Procedure these days is that they take the animal back but don’t let you go with them. I’m really an old coot about this. If you have horses, not only do you see every bloody part, but you’ve assisted with difficult procedures. These youngsters can’t imagine what my eyes have seen and how capable I am. They seem to think it’s my first paper cut. I think I deserve special privileges, but I bite my tongue. It would be a bad idea to frighten the terribly young women at the front desk. But I am not built for watching them take my dog away.

I worry-pout, and listen for Jolene’s bark, which would carry through the walls of an underground bomb shelter. Nothing. No yelps or screams. Way too quiet. Tick-tick-tick. Finally, I hear several voices, different octaves. Laughter comes closer until the door swings open, smiles all around. Great, she’s made new friends.

They gave her a dose of Benadryl, and we have to wait to make sure she’s okay. Jolene sits on my lap. When she was little, she tucked her snout into my neck, but she’s a big girl who doesn’t need me now, so instead, she presses her tailless rump into my belly. I put my hand over her heart and breathe. She seems okay; then in the most delicate way possible, she leans to the side and pukes again. 

They wrench her from my white knuckles … 

Okay, fever dream. I let them take her back again. More shots; steroids and an anti-nausea med. This time she returned with a bandage on her leg. Another waiting period before we go. Mister barked a welcome, and Jolene started quietly tearing the bandage off as soon as we got to the truck. We were home by 2 a.m.

 She was up and down every hour; sometimes she barked. I held her little paw. She was saccharine. I knew it was the meds, but still. More Benadryl, the swelling was receding. Mister seemed relieved that the band was back together and wanted to celebrate with treats. He’s pragmatic that way. 

Joline let me know she isn’t as tough as she acts. She lost her confidence on stairs; she had an accident on the back porch. She seems vulnerable. I am not as tough as I act either. Once we were home safe, I got scared. No one needs to remind me that life is fragile.

Jolene gave me a look more serious than puppy love. It went straight to my soul. Defenseless, I held her eye. With some herding dogs, there’s an unspoken vow, something greater than honor or loyalty. An ancient oath as eternal as the night sky. Humans have no words for this, but dogs do.

[Part 16. Read all the episodes of Jolene’s Story here.]

…

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