Poor Maple was sick for most of the week.
Sparing the gruesome details, she lost control of her faculties and had to be squeezed in as an emergency at the vet's office. Bobby took the car to Montreal so I had to take a 20-minute cab ride across town to the vet.
You don't know the meaning of nail-biting until you've taken a speeding cab with a dog that's liable to crap herself at any moment. I was eyeing the driver's newspaper the entire ride, ready at a second's notice to fold it like origami into a makeshift diaper.
Thankfully, that wasn't necessary.
I spent much of the week washing rugs and sheets... and alternately administering caramel-flavored goop via a syringe and pills that I hid in peanut butter. (Skippy solves all).
After a couple of days of medicine, she started to seem like her old self. We took a nice, long walk in the rain yesterday and she had fun posing for photos.
Bobby came home from Montreal yesterday after a long week of consoling his mom and handling the unsavory bureaucratic part of death that people rarely think about - claiming the body, taking names off bank accounts and dealing with the will. He spoke very little about it during our phone calls but I have no doubt it was an emotionally draining five days.
I figured if ever there was a need for homemade chicken pot pie, it's now.
So I roasted a whole chicken that I'd stuffed with carrots and onions, and made a nice, comforting meal for Bobby to come home to.
The three of us hung out on the couch all night, watching Mamma Mia and feeling super full from dinner. The movie was meh but it didn't matter. Bobby was home and Maple was feeling better. In my eyes, it was the perfect end to a not-so-perfect week.