more wrigley love.

Things are much improved on the Wrigley front, a full week after we picked him up from MedVets in Columbus. Last Saturday, he kind of laid low; he was full of meds, tired and discombobulated, and he was wary of eating much. Through the weekend and into the week, we saw marked improvement every day in his energy level, appetite and ability to sleep through the night. All was looking good ...

Until ...

On Wednesday, I came home at noon to let him out and discovered on the kitchen floor the handle (only) of his doggie toothbrush and the plastic cap and shards metal from the tube of chicken-flavored toothpaste. Seems our not-so-smart friend, honked off at being locked in the kitchen all day, raided his toothbrush and toothpaste from the box o' dog accouterments by the back door and ATE them. As in, ingested.

After a frantic call to Dr. Bev (again) I drove him up to her office for a quick X-ray. Sure enough, there was the bristle head of his toothbrush. The X-ray didn't reveal any brain, however. Keep in mind that after about 6 weeks of intestinal inflammation that we'd just finally gotten ahead of, having abrasive material in his GI tract was NOT a good thing.

So we waited.

Sure enough, Wrigley urped up the toothbrush and larger bits of the metal tube overnight Wednesday night, and then rid himself of the smaller shards of tube over the past couple of days. I think we've cleared things out of the system at this point.

Regardless, we took Wigs to Findlay Market today, where he charmed the crowd as usual. One lady we'd met before said, "It's a good day when I get to say hi to this dog." Yesterday on our walk, a gal told us she sees us walking in the neighborhood all the time, and that Wrigley always makes her smile.

This is Wrigley's job: making people smile. And our job is taking care of Wrigley.

he's scrumptious.

Yesterday, we picked Our Hairy Friend up from MedVets, a specialty clinic in Columbus that Dr. Bev had referred us to. Wrigley stayed there Thursday and Friday nights after having been hospitalized at Dr. Bev's place Wednesday. We were all glad to get him home.

What we're learning is that Wrigley's illness is going to take time and patience to manage. That, plus a whole pharmacy worth of meds. Including a weekly injection of Vitamin B-12, which I am too squeamish to give. It's all very confusing: some things are given once daily, some every 12 hours, some with food, some on an empty stomach. Some things make him queasy, so we're trying hard to manage his food intake.

Fortunately, he's hungry, but we're figuring out what, when and how much to feed him. Carrots are the new Jump And Sit Bits: The new restricted diet (low-fat food, no table scraps) allows carrot, which he loves. So last night, as he was scarfing down carrots, I kept feeding them to him. Bad idea. Half an hour later I was collecting barfed-up carrot from the lawn. This morning, we've gradually given him about a cup of crunchy dog food, which has (knock wood) stayed down. Our task for today is to eat well without barfing. Baby steps.

We drove up to the Coffee Emporium this morning and spent a lovely hour outside with some good java and the NYTimes. Wrigley charmed the other patrons, most of whom asked if he's a puppy. Some folks noticed the shaved patches on his forelegs where he's had IVs this week. We simply said, "He's had a bit of work done." One person referred to a 30,000-mile tuneup. We laughed.

A pleasant older woman in a preppy-pink skirt said, "He's scrumptious!"

As he lies here next to me, napping comfortably, I have to agree.

our hairy friend.

"Oh my gosh, what kind of dog is that?"

"He's adorable!"

"He's like a party in a dog suit."

"Wrigley is God's own ambassador."

"He's a person."

We often get friendly compliments on Wrigley (and he takes them graciously) when we're out and about, whether it's here at home or somewhere we're visiting. There's something about this dog that's just, well, magical. I know that all dog people think theirs are the best, but I have to argue that Wrigley is The Best. He stops traffic. He makes people smile. He attracts little kids (and is endlessly patient with the ear- and tail-tugs). He has a mission to bring a little bit of joy into the world. And he's certainly changed our lives.

Which is why we are working so damn hard to get him healthy again.

life dreaming.

Over the weekend, in a fit of wine-induced nostalgia, I dug out a list that I'd made back in the day when Rob and I were dating -- it's a list of things that I imagined for our life together. Like, that we'd have a dog we'd walk together, that we'd drink wine together, that we'd cook together, that we'd leave each other sweet notes and comfort each other after tough days, that we'd live in the city (which, at that time, meant Chicago, since we spent a fair amount of time there).

I'm amazed at how prescient that list has turned out to be. Thinking about it now, I see that many of the dreams I had for the two of us were really just grown-up versions of the stuff we liked to do at the time.

I didn't have to dig too deep to find that list; I'd included it in a scrapbook that I made for Rob in 2000 in celebration of our 10th wedding anniversary. As the 20th anniversary of our engagement comes up this summer, I find myself thinking of what I imagine for the rest of our lives together. Truly, I can't envision it getting any better than it is now.

my assistant.

I'll take a quick timeout from the work projects I'm tackling at my home office this afternoon to note that it's nice to have a hairy executive assistant keeping me company. No matter that he's sleeping on the job and that he smells funny. Neither of these things is his fault -- he's been under the weather for a full month, and I'm guessing he's tired of feeling (literally) crappy. But we're working with our friend Dr. Bev to figure out what's gumming up the Wiggle Works (actually, quite the opposite is true) and get him fixed.

In spite of not feeling good, Wrigley has maintained his cheerful outlook, hearty appetite and interest in weird smells. After the doggie equivalent of a colonoscopy last Thursday, Wrigley had a big weekend, making his season debut at Findlay Market to much fanfare, treats and queries of, "What kind of dog is that?" We also took a big walk up to Hyde Park Square on Sunday morning to bark and cheer for the runners in the Flying Pig Marathon -- especially Rob, who ran a leg of the relay.

In spite of my concern over his health these past few weeks, I am decidedly NOT worried about him. Which surprises me, but also tells me that I know something about this dog. I feel bad that he feels bad, and I am impatient to treat him. We're inching toward a diagnosis and, most important, a plan to get this boy back in full swing. I'm sure all three of us will feel better when that happens.