It's common for people to say their dog is another member of the family, but like most relationships, it's far more complex than four words can encompass.
Nobody in your family is ever *always* thrilled to do whatever the hell it is you're doing, and I can't remember the last time anyone practically wet themselves over the simple fact I came home.
Except, of course, for Wally the Wonderdog.
So when your wife runs into the family room at 6:13 a.m. and tells you Wally is having a seizure, I didn't finish typing the sentence before I went to see what the hell's going on.
I found him standing stiffly and staring out the sliding glass door -- before he turned and growled at me. Which meant something was wrong.
Then he went attack-dog berserk and actually charged me, and for a split-second I wondered if I was going to feed him a forearm to keep him away from the vital bits.
Yeah. Something's really wrong.
And as quickly as he'd become a mad dog the switch was thrown and he was back to Wally -- tongue hanging out, tailing wagging like I just fed him a hamburger, happier than ever to see me.
The Intertubes suggest the seizure left him disoriented and probably blind for a while, and I don't believe he would have bitten me, but, you know.
Damn.
The veterinarian said it sounded like classic adult-onset epilepsy -- apparently a not-uncommon condition in dogs.
A little research ties canine epilepsy to everything from diet to brain tumors, and it's disconcerting that the vet simply gave us phenobarbital (a sedative used to control seizures) without really exploring the other possibilities.
Which the L&&T and I are doing now.
The Wonderdog has always been the family tank; an indestructible, goofy presence who managed to fall off a mountain, get hit by a truck and avoid euthanasia by an hour.
In our universe, he's a constant, like gravity or the speed of light.
When he stumbles, you can feel the earth rumble beneath your feet.
See you researching things, Tom Chandler