Miss Limpalotamus

I wake up every morning with her and, unless she’s moved to the floor or downstairs to the couch during the night, she’s awake and eagerly awaiting my first stir. When I open my eyes, she greets me with perky ears, nose in my face, and tail thumping like a drumstick keeping time on the mattress. She's been waiting for me. I smile. I can’t help myself. Sometimes I gently put my hand on her head and firmly say “ssshhhh, go back to sleep” and she sighs and reluctantly flops back on her side and puts her head atop my leg. Sometimes I tackle her and throw the covers over her. That gets her pretty worked up and ready to play. And sometimes, I pat my chest and say “come here,” and she scoots toward me an inch. And I pat again and say, “come here” and she scoots another inch or so closer, and waits for me to say it again. We play this little game until her big brown head is on my chest and her gold eyes are looking at me, and her tail is drum beating. Then she’ll flip over on her back, turn her head toward me and look at me and say, Please rub my tummy. And then we start our day.

This morning was not the usual though. I had to give her a pain pill last night and she was still fairly groggy from it. If she had a snooze button, she would have pushed it more than once, I’m sure. She didn’t run and play too hard at the cabin this past weekend but the real limping started on Saturday. She's been favoring her back legs lately but it's more pronounced now. She can barely make it up the stairs. She can’t get into the car by herself, or the couch, or the bed. I’ve been calling her Limpalotamus, and I’ve been calling myself Nervous. We have an appointment at the vet tomorrow morning.