Puppy Love

My oldest child just turned six in July. He weighs 144 pounds and stands 32" at the shoulder. He is the color of summer wheat, just starting to darken for the winter. His mask is black, shot through with the silver that announces his advancing age.

Like any good kid, Argus alternately makes me incredibly happy (feeble attempts to be a lap dog; not minding the occasional tutu around his neck) and drives me crazy (inhaling the cupcakes meant for Charlotte's NICU nurses; eating two sticks of butter intended for cookies; barking at dangerous-looking Chihuahuas while ignoring the magazine salesman at the door). His tricks are limited to balancing a cookie on his nose, bounding at the window barking when you say "Look!" and maintaining his dignity as he slides on his butt down a freshly mopped hall.

But he is my puppy love--the first dog I ever had. (My mother thought only boys should have dogs, while cats were deemed appropriate for girls--I'll get to that post one of these days.) I never knew I was a dog person until we found each other. Last week I dropped him off at the vet to have his teeth cleaned. Three hours later, Dr Schmidt called to say that his Alk/phos was high and not just a tad high, but three times the normal range. So they cancelled his cleaning and started throwing around words like "internist" and "ultrasound" and "liver biopsy."

So while we're sure it's nothing, Argus has to have an abdominal ultrasound done tomorrow afternoon. They are going to check for tumors, stones, and other things I don't want to think about right now. And when they don't find anything he'll still need to get his teeth cleaned, because though not kind, Hannah rightly keeps telling the poor guy he smells like he ate a catfish.