While in St. Louis, we skyped with jeff's parents, Bob & Jan. Jan lifted our chihuahua mix, Fernando, onto her lap, so Olivia could say hello. Out came a scream that was akin to a freight train applying its brakes. Thank goodness the Schlichtings are animal lovers, so off to the vet he went. Three prescriptions later, one for pain, one muscle relaxer, and one anti-inflammatory, Fernando was one drugged up little dog. When we got to Ft. Collins, my little lap dog, momma's boy, former baby substitute of a dog wouldn't even let me touch him.
He went straight to Dr. Charlie when we got home. An x-ray and blood work was done to rule out the obvious (kind of like ms) and we were asked does he have any beagle in him? Beagle? Not that I know of. Terrier, maybe. Dachshund, definitely. But beagle? He was diagnosed with beagle pain disorder. Yes, that's a thing. Treatable with steroids. But he'd have to be on "kennel rest" until he was feeling better.
So that means no going up and down stairs. If you have ever been to our house, you know you can't even get in without going up a flight of stairs. So picture our sleep deprived heroine with a baby under one arm, a Chihuahua under the other, holding a toddler's hand every time she goes to the basement to attend to the mountains of dirty laundry created by her family.