Lewis

Lew is ill. It began Friday morning around 1 AM when he vomited. Then, again at 3. He was restless, not Lew-like at all. I opened the door and he stood there, bathing in the chilled night air. I got my blanket and Kindle and leaned against the washer while he laid with his muzzle on the sill. After being ill in the wee hours of Friday, he remained subdued but began taking an interest in life later that day. My dad came to stay the night and Courtney came for dinner and Lew was happy to see both. Then Saturday, again around 1 AM, he vomited and simply could not settle, spending hours at a time standing perfectly still next to my bed, head down, staring at the floor. His movements were slow, his tail drooped, his shoulders were hunched and his head hung low, as in the photo I took this morning, but worse. He stood by the door wanting the dark rainy air to wash over him. Eventually, he heeded its call and, softly plodding, zombied down to the corner of the yard where the grass is deepest. There, he laid down, his head on his paw. I put on my jacket and boots and followed him, my nightgown wicking dry his path, because that’s what best friends do. Each day he accompanies me on all the inexplicably repetitive and circuitous routes that I take circumnavigating our small home. He never knows why we are on our way again to the laundry room, and as I age I find he’s not alone in his not knowing, but he never questions or chides me for not organizing 4 trips into 1 and adds depth of heart to the journey, if not speed, by slipping one of his feet into my slipper, my knee being warmed by the soft fur of his head. Because that’s what best friends do.

Saturday I left my father sipping his coffee in my living room and helped Lew into my car. We went to the vet who took test after test, and finding no masses, said he thinks Lew has pancreatitis. He gave him anti nausea meds and injected fluids making him look as though he was sneaking 9 hamsters from the building between his shoulders, under his coat. The doctor said no food until Sunday and then to fashion small meatballs from cottage cheese, white rice and bits of cooked chicken, along with his meds. I received my instructions in a bit of a blur, my enormous relief that he was coming home dulling my taking in what he said. Lew spent all of yesterday outside in the drizzle, moving from grass to bricks and vice versa, so I put up the yard umbrella and sat where he could see me until I was too frozen to stay in my lawn chair. I made him a bed on the bricks, which failed to tempt him, so I brought the umbrella to outside the glass door window and he laid on the top step, dry and silent, while we held each others gaze off and on. We remained like this all day till after 7 PM; me in my inside chair a-Kindled, protectively willing him to improve, he a black bath rug of illness, infrequently turning brown eyes to look in saying ‘boo’. Even Philip, who came to be babysat around 5, elicited no response from Lew. Philip said, “Sydney sad. Lewis sick. Lewis is better on Monday” and then he put his hand on the door glass. Two of my best buds, we’re an unusual trio, but a family we made last evening united in worry.

Lew came inside around 7 and fell fast asleep which I took as a good sign since he’d gone without sleep for so long. He even dreamed a little, his feet gently waving and I heard his first sounds in 2 days. So that’s where we stand now, or rather where we lay, he’s sleeping again and I’ll limit my movements so as not to disturb this rest that he needs.