I’ve faced various horrors and trials in my life, but nothing could prepare me for this.
My little dog, Bella, fell ill. Well, not just fell ill… she gorged herself on all sorts of snacks.
I have no idea where this fifteen-centimeter creature hides six extra stomachs. She demands food with an intensity only seen in professional beggars, and she is never satisfied. Naturally, we fall for her antics and feed her generously. We’re fools, honestly. Loving fools. Incredibly soft-hearted.
How could I not feel sympathy? Her eyes are like the ones in that song my father brought back from his trip to Mongolia, which he sang to me instead of lullabies: “And I sat there, crying bitterly for eating too little and producing too much (forgive me).” Every time she looks at me, it’s as if it’s her last chance. How could I resist giving her a piece of mango or a morsel of fish?
At least she doesn’t drink. I can’t even imagine how we would cope with that situation.
So, there she was, overstuffed yet again, and suddenly fell ill. Swiftly, all at once. One moment, she was a joyful pup, and the next, she resembled a dying swan—her neck twisted painfully. Quick, dear ones, put on some Saint-Saëns!
We panicked and searched for fleas. We even took her temperature. But the thermometer took a turn for the worst; she rolled her eyes at us, said her goodbyes, and lay down to die.
A taxi ride. Traffic. Farewell tears. The best vet in the whole world. When she was healthy and pestering us with her insatiable appetite, I thought, “Why did I ever get involved in this animal business? I should return her to the shelter and be done with it—she’s devoured my very soul!” But as she lay there, I thought: “Oh, my little darling, how will I manage without you?”
We arrived at the vet’s office. The vet pronounced the sacred words: “Cold, hunger, and rest!” A day without food or water, then gradually offer her some, injected her with something potent, and once again took her temperature in the same place.
He calmed our nerves a bit and sent us on our way.
An hour after the injections, Bella started to perk up, we switched off Saint-Saëns, and the same insatiable fire lit up in her eyes. “Food! Water! Give me something! I’m going to die, you rascals!”
She licked the spot on the floor where her bowls used to be until it gleamed. Beneath the table, she found a lid and chased it around the house until morning, hoping it would somehow yield food.
But no, we stood firm. The real horror struck when we remembered that our cat, Oliver, needed to eat and drink too.
Oh dear… The door we held shut together with all our might shook as if Bella was trying to demolish it with a battering ram. But we held our ground as best as we could.
We spent the night in anxiety and dread, as Bella, with her tiny paws, attempted to break into the fridge three times.
She groaned and huffed with such effort that we questioned her condition at least ten times. Then, the poor creature plopped down on the floor right across from my head and stared at me with reproachful eyes until six in the morning, refusing to let me sleep.
Come morning, I decided our family would not eat until we got the green light from the vet because even the sight of a cup of coffee sent Bella bouncing nearly to my cousin’s face. Sadly, he’s already 192 centimeters tall and still has a long life ahead…
By lunchtime, I surrendered. I sneaked over to the fridge. Silently, with one powerful tug, I opened a can of green peas, scooped some out with a spoon, but my hand trembled, and two peas dropped onto my slipper.
Good heavens… I nearly lost my foot… Good heavens… that little glutton inhaled those peas along with the fluffy pom-pom that decorated my house slippers…
And ahead lies a week of dietary exercises.
How we will cope and where we will turn, I truly do not know. I’m writing this from the bathroom, locked inside. Should anything happen, please don’t remember me with ill will.
I fear my body will last her a maximum of three days.
And then? It’s terrifying to think…
