Poor Matty

 Whenever I tell one of my friends about a story my sister’s dog, my friend responds, “poor doggie,” except she uses the dog’s name.

Granted  the stories I usually tell involve him being the butt of Fame’s bullying or those very rare occasions when he chooses not to use his finely honed intellect.

But this tale totally merits my friend’s normal response.

My sister’s dog has seizures, which until two weeks ago were controlled by medicine. 

But two weeks ago he  began having them again, four in one day. He went to the emergency vet  and had another.

They kept him overnight and put him on another drug. One of the side effects of the new drug is temporary ataxia.

He came home and was doing OK, except for wandering around like a drunk or someone with Friedreich’s ataxia.

But on Wednesday he vomited. 

This was particularly bad because my niece’s first parents’ weekend was that weekend.

They eventually went, leaving him in the care of me, my nephew and Mom. I did nothing really.

He looked awful that weekend. He was on rice and broth, so he had nothing in him to counteract the drug. Plus, his mom, my sister, was gone.

As soon as she got back, he started improving. At the two-week mark — today — you can see the ataxia but only if you watch closely.

I want a two-week ataxia.