Visited the vet earlier this week because Sprocket was poo-ing yellow liquid with loads of compressed air. Clearly, all was not well with the poor blighter's innards. Firstly though, I checked the internet for probable causes. Seems he might be suffering from Guardia Canis (or some such title) which meant he might have drunk from a puddle containing flies' eggs, or eaten 'bad' cow poo, or, more likely, both. Ooh, he's a lad!
At the vet's, I explained the problem then hauled him onto the operating table. The vet then shoved a gloved hand up his arse (Sprock's, not the vet's) and inspected the yellow liquid. Sprock was not best pleased. Then the vet gave him an injection (ever tried holding a feisty terrier still when all he wants to do is escape or sink his fangs into whoever's trying to attack him with a sharp needle?!) and issued us with some tablets and white liquid stuff which I've been adding to his grub for the last three days. Things appear to have improved; his poos are now the correct colour and consistency, and are delivered without the previous, er, releasing of compressed air. He's well down the road to recovery.
As if one sick animal in the house wasn't enough, I then developed toothache. Nothing serious at first, but it soon got worse. Hardly slept on Tuesday night. I kept waking up every couple of hours. Found an out-of-date pack of paracetamol in the cupboard and downed three in one go. By morning, I'd developed a painful and worrying lump (an abcess perhaps?) on the side of my jaw and I felt as though I had a temperature. Not good. Spent the day on the sofa, under a blanket, watching crap telly. In mid-afternoon I forced myself up and gave the dogs a quick stroll, then headed down to the doc's.
Hadn't made an appointment but, luckily, he squeezed me in after the last patient. Strangely, he took one look at me and immediately took my blood pressure. Said it was 18 over 10 (whatever that means). Apparently somewhere below 15 over 9 is considered normal. Then he asked my weight. Didn't know, so he stuck me one the scales. I now know I'm 105 clothed and probably 100 naked. I presume that's 100 kilos, though it might be just 10. Then, even though it might be a complete waste of time because I'm obviously about to die due to lethal blood pressure and horrendous over-weightedness, the doc finally got round to inspecting my lump. Told him I'd been to the dentist a few weeks back and, possibly, that was one of the teeth he'd operated on - I think he may have replaced the filling because it may have gone a bit rotten. Prodded my lump and shone a torch in my gob. Then issued me with a prescription for two different tablets. Advised that I go to the dentist again if the problem persists.
Dropped in at the pharmacie on my way home and picked up the pills. At home, I prepared the dogs' grub and added a tablet and the white liquid to Sprock's nosh. Then I downed the two 'big-hitter' tablets that the doc had prescribed, plus a single white one from t'other box. Thought about having my customary evening scotch but vaguely remembered being informed that alcohol can reduce or negate the effects of medication. Sat down outside with a cranberry juice. Three minutes later I'd swapped it for a scotch and was somewhat gloomily pondering the likelihood of snuffing it at any moment due to heart attack caused by sky-high blood pressure. Give up smoking, give up alcohol, get more exercise. Pah, rubbish!
Took a snap of the lump yesterday. Tweaked it a bit to show how it felt, not how it was. Seems to have gone down a bit today. Maybe all those druggy things are working.
The road to podcasting
1 week ago