The love of my life has been sick this week. The menace has
a name—the
common cold, and it has been, as my mama would say, a booger to deal with.
I’ve played the role of nursemaid, dispensing drugs, multivitamins,
chicken noodle soup, and the best medicine for my wife: Diet Coke. But my TLC
cannot hold a candle to Kiki and Ivy, the two Chihuahuas that share our home.
These pups have a sixth sense, a medical intuition that is amazing. Well, it’s
amazing to me, the observer. Maybe not so much to the sufferer, the woman
sneezing beside me. For her, at least at the moment, it’s not amazing, but annoying.
Ivy
seems to know that my wife has a headache and sinus issues. She keeps trying to
position herself on her face, placing her throat and chin directly across my bride’s nose
and forehead. Kiki has realized that the cough that erupts in the evening hours
comes from the chest. She insists on laying across my sickly mate's lungs. The dogs believe they are helping.
It’s good medicine.
This is not uncommon. I’ve seen trained service dogs for the visually
impaired, folks with other physical disabilities and epilepsy. It came as no
surprise to me when I learned that Labrador Retrievers had been trained to
recognize low blood sugar.
Chip, the chocolate Lab that was a part of our family for over 15
years, had that ability, and he never had any training. After my dad died, Chip became my mom's companion and caregiver. He would sleep beside her bed or rest
beside her chair. Inexplicably, Chip would know when my mom’s blood sugar
would drop, and he would instantly respond.
Low blood sugar slows everything down. My mom would lose her ability
to put words together. Her eyes could not focus. When that happened, Chip would nudge her
hand. If she didn’t respond, he would lick her hand. If that didn’t happen, he
would bark. Usually, though, Chip’s licks were enough to rouse my mom. She
would grab something sweet to eat, and, satisfied, Chip would settle back down beside her. He did that until my mom died.
In fact, when my mom was in the hospital, persisting, but not thriving, we began to wonder if she was waiting to say goodbye to Chip. My wife and I were devising a plan to smuggle Chip into the hospital on the day she went home to Jesus. I would have done it. They were that close.
This may be why dogs are called man’s best friend. Despite her protestations, Mrs. Kudzudad loves
Kiki and Ivy. She has complained when Ivy would not get off her head. She has
fussed with Kiki would not get off her chest for her to stand or change
position, but she wouldn’t trade them for the world. Right now, they’re on the
couch. Kiki is laying on her chest, under the quilt that is keeping them both
warm. Ivy? She’s on top of the quilt, ready to spring into action should that
nasty headache return.
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