Apoplectic fits, as Jeffe so kindly defined in Sunday's post, are "sudden paralysis with total or partial loss of consciousness and sensation."
I had such a fit this weekend, concurrent with observing my bairy heast having such a fit. My beast of typical boundless energy and zeal had become listless in the matter of an hour. Uninterested in food, unable to take stairs, unwilling to move at all.
I'm no vet. I don't pretend to have a clue on the inner workings of people much less animals. Feed. Walk. Love. Force the occassional pill. I'm totally down with the basics of dog maintenance. However, I am fairly certain insta-flop is not a good thing. And, of course, beasts being beasts, and I not having a shape-shifter translator at hand, couldn't ask, "Dear doggy, whatever is wrooooong?" My brain immediately conjured twelve different horrifying ways my dog was dying Right. Before. My. Eyes.
I'm not too proud to admit it. Noooooo. I had a fucking apoplexy of the figurative sense believing my beloved beast was suffering it literally. Three days of emergency visits, scans, tests, pokings, proddings, and invasive procedures for which I'm fairly certain my dog will never forgive me (gods bless KY), resulted in a diagnosis of...
Dog Flu. Canine Crud.
Day four and he started his day by racing to the door to greet the repair man. There has been begging for boiled ham and absconding with the cheese. Oh, and wiping out on the ice exacerbated his arthritis, so no, no he will not be keen on the stairs for a while. But hey, there's a pill for that.
So, now that my heart has returned to a somewhat regular pace and I'm no longer sweating expletives, I'm beginning to recover.
They're the new millennium version of antebellum vapors.