Lyttle weighs 8.8 pounds. That’s about 0.8 pounds up from last year, and that is fine by me. He is a rescue, adopted several years ago by someone who became a dear friend of mine (but that will be a different musing). Best estimate is that he is currently 16 years old.
Due to his early abuse he has permanent nerve damage in his lower back and legs, and a kink in his esophagus. He’s got attitude, the good kind, and gave me a fantastic stink-eye the first time I met him.
Walking him has always been an exercise in patience, between him being a bit wobbly, a bit fearful of bridges, and a bit of a busy-body. In the last few years he has become a bit less fearful, but that was an unfortunate companion to him going blind. Walking is still an exercise in patience, mostly because it takes more effort to be a busy-body with only partially functioning ears and a decidedly questionable sense of smell.
He’s strong. He’s dependable. He likes keeping to a schedule. He lives with us now after he stayed with my friend until her dying day (yup, another musing).
We visited the vet today after 24 hours of him not keeping anything down. I was a wreck. He was stoic. Poking, prodding, an anti-nausea shot, and blood drawing. All with a bit of stink-eye and a smile. Until I took him outside to get a urine sample. At that point, I put him on the ground and he fell over. This isn’t THAT unusual, I’m sorry to say. So I tried again. And he fell over. He stared at me as only a blind dog can, and I got it. Weary, he said. I’ll be okay. Just a little weary. So we came home.