one sick puppy

I use to take some degree of pride in never having set foot in the Smokey Mountains. I preferred Paris to Pigeon Forge and Nuremberg to that Gatlin place. I was awful like that. Anyway, a few weeks ago I had to pay a visit to the University of Tennessee’s School of Veterinary Medicine after hearing on strict authority they were the best of the best. (As a side, The Small Animal Clinic there was far superior, and in better form than any NHS Hospital I’ve seen in England. Ever.) The patient in question was my mother’s 2-year-old 3-pound Yorkshire Terrier, Muffy. Yes. Muffy. The prognosis – bad.

Muffy has both congenital and acquired portosystemic liver shunts. And even though shunts are what the folks at Tennessee do best they weren’t able to help her. At all. So, her days are numbered…drastically. She’s a bouncy little thing most of the time, but this could change at any moment. Arrangements have already been made with the local vet to attend upon my mother’s home when the time comes.

I’m not really an animal person, rumours to the contrary aside. But this even breaks my heart.