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Liz Jones's diary: In which there's another setback

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'In which there's another setback'

So, on Saturday I took the puppies and Michael for a walk.

Mini will now jump in the back of the Land Rover unaided, Michael needs a bale of hay as he is now so stiff and arthritic with age, while Grace Kelly shivers and shakes, exposing her pink tummy, so I have to scoop her up and deposit her on a blanket. Jess stays at home in the warm, given she is now 17.

We found a lovely valley, with a view of the river, and so I let all three off the lead.

The puppies went nuts chasing rabbits, while I sat on a stone and contemplated where I am at: alone, cold, but slightly more optimistic about the future.

After a few moments, Gracie came back, and I noticed she had a terrible cut on her left front leg. ‘Oh no! Oh poor Grace Kelly!’

She squirmed on her back while I had a look at it: I could actually see her tendons.

Mini came for once, and we walked as quickly as we could back to the Land Rover.

I drove for about five miles before I could get a signal, and arranged to meet an emergency vet at the nearest surgery.

When I got there, we all trooped in. Gracie was shaking like a leaf, and the vet pronounced she would have to have surgery, and go under general anaesthetic. ‘Can I wait for her?’ I said, suddenly teary and desperate.

‘No, it will be some time. I will call you when she has come round.’ He carried Gracie off, her little meerkat face looking at me beseechingly, her long, thin limbs in a tangle.

After a long day, I was finally able to go and pick her up. It was dark, and late.

She refused to go in the back or even sit on the passenger seat, so we drove, her snuggled up on my seat, taking up a good half, pointy nose in my lap. I’m to keep her on a lead, and give her antibiotics twice a day. It’s one thing after another.

 

Already it’s been one disaster after another. Anxiety off the scale

The floods have finally receded, and it’s warmer.

I managed to get Lizzie and the ponies in during the worst of it: they just followed me, not even wearing headcollars.

I changed Lizzie’s rug, and texted Nic, still in London in my flat on holiday, to say I thought Lizzie was quiet for a change.

‘What is she doing?’

‘Well, she didn’t try to kill me when I put on her rug. And when I turned her out in the field again after the storm, she just stood there, staring. And her lips look grey.’

‘It might be the stress from the move, or the weather.’

On Sunday, it was mild, so I took Lizzie’s rug off first thing, to change it to something lighter.

And I couldn’t believe my eyes.

She had suddenly become very thin: her neck is concave, her withers exposed, and I can feel every rib.

This is not like her at all: ever since I have had her, the problem has been stopping her getting too fat.

The trimmer weighed her every four weeks, and was always emailing me notes, telling me that ‘Lizzie needs to lose weight’. I emailed Nic. ‘Lizzie has dropped weight,’ I told her. ‘I’m really worried.’

  More... Liz Jones's diary: In which I overdo it again Liz Jones: In which exhaustion sets in Liz Jones: In which he won't commit

‘You too are far too thin,’ she sent back. ‘She is mirroring you. She always does.’

Nic finally got back on Sunday night, and so this morning we checked Lizzie first thing.

She agreed she didn’t look right, so I called the vet.

Already, I’m repeating patterns from Somerset: one disaster after another. Vet bills piled upon vet bills. Anxiety off the scale.

We found Lizzie in the field, and the vet examined her. ‘Hmm, she does seem very quiet,’ she said, listening to her heart, and feeling her ribs.

She said she would have to take some blood, which she did. I told her Lizzie had had a blood test in October, a routine one to check for worms.

She had her teeth rasped in September. She visited an eye clinic last January.

A holistic vet came and spoke to Lizzie in the summer, and prescribed alternative medicine for possible stress.

‘I think it is liver failure,’ she said, looking grim. I now have to wait until Wednesday to get the results.

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