Not Knowing is the Worst

The Vet has said Zush has canine dementia. I think I have said it in the blog before. The vet would like to take a more of a homeopathic treatment option, which, unfortunately, doesn’t get here until tomorrow from Amazon.

Here’s a shot of Zosia going up the handicapped ramp. She is mobile, she’s eating and drinking. Hell, if you have the right thing in front of her, she’ll eat your fingers off if someone is holding food.

She is mobile but very vocal, and if I go next to her and sit with her, she quiets down a wee bit.

I know the cataracts are scary, and verbally all I can do is massage her with lavender to take some of the stress from her. When what the vet order arrives, I am sure I’ll learn it all new again.

The trick is to hold each second in my heart for eternity.

I love you Zush with the last “nth” of my being.


So I should be happy: the x-rays show no impingement in my knees. However, down here, they only know how to treat with one thing…physical therapy.

Really? I’ll be stuck with therapists who really don’t give a rat’s ass about you, except to process your encounter sheet for payment from insurance. It is the times like this that I wish I were back in the city, where the therapists actually care about you.

I am going to call insurance tomorrow and see what lousy spot I have to go to for therapy. They never send you anyplace convenient for you. I guess if I am ever blessed to get to Medicare, then I can go see whoever I want to.

They wonder why patients get depressed. Walk a mile in my shoes, doc, and you’ll see my pain.