"More food!" says the vet. "Give that dog even more food!" His food dish is already loaded high twice a day, higher than it ever has been before, way higher than poor Riley's, who finishes his breakfast in about six seconds and then looks mournfully in Boscoe's direction. Boscoe is King Henry VIII, leaning over his bowl and chewing away forever, wiping his greasy paws on his ermine cape.
But he's losing weight. He's been losing weight fairly steadily since being diagnosed with diabetes last May, when we were in Ireland.
He had another day-long glucose curve test on Tuesday, as we continue to try to figure out the proper amount of insulin he needs. He did great on five units for the whole summer, and I thought, diabetes, no problem!
But then in late September he started stumbling, and drinking lots of water, and we upped his dosage to six units of insulin twice a day. That did the trick for a mere three weeks, and then he started drinking gallons of water and peed all over the much-abused red rug in our front hallway, the same red rug that he peed all over in May and alarmed the pet-sitter.
So last week Dr. J. told us to up the dosage again, this time to seven units.
He did fine for a only few days before defiling the hall rug again, and so on Tuesday he went in for another test. We'll find out the results on Wednesday, though midday reports on Tuesday said he's doing pretty well and we'll likely bump him up to eight units of insulin. But he's skinny! He's so damn skinny! He's lost two pounds in the last three weeks, which would be great if he were, say, my size, but being his size he has no pounds to spare.
He's down to 42.2 pounds, the least he's ever weighed as an adult dog and a full ten pounds less than at his most robust.
So--more food. The trick is getting him enough calories while still giving him only high-fiber, low-fat food to control his diabetes. So no meatloaf. No spaghetti or pizza. No ice cream. No chocolate malts or birthday cake or lemon meringue pie or grilled steak or pie pie pie. No pulled-pork sandwiches, or deep-fried cream-cheese-filled wontons, or mini-donuts or potato chips straight from the greasy bag. No waffles. No butter. No strawberry jam.
Just more of the cardboard-brown, high-fiber, low-fat W/D Prescription Food. We'll supplement it with a little boiled chicken. To be honest, I'm not sure he can eat much more. But he's going to have to. Poor old guy is wasting away before our very eyes.
He's still a sweetie, though. The first thing Dr. J said, when I called, was, "He gave me a big smooch on the nose. He's a crazy old dog!" And that he is. Above is a picture of said Crazy Old Dog, back when he was a Crazy Young Puppy fourteen years ago.
The second half of "Music Lessons" is on its way. Thanks for your patience....