We’ve always been at war with my dog’s bladder.
Usually, the conflict is just a little bit of North Korean-style sabre-rattling -- like the times he’s peed on a pile of clothes waiting to get run through the laundry. Or, turning his FOMO into physical form when he knows we’re heading out of town.
But the introduction of diuretics to treat his congestive heart failure has turned a low-key engagement into a full-on shooting war.
Churchill now has to go out every few hours. One Saturday, I had to walk him eight times before noon.
And he needs round-the-clock attention. On his best nights he can go from midnight until five or six in the morning. At his worst, I get no more than two hours of sleep.
The sound of claws on laminate wood flooring can wake me instantly.
It wasn’t a big deal at first. My wife and I worked in walks on our lunch breaks. We took our longer trips when we knew he’d be napping for a few hours.
But for the past month the elevator in our building has been under repair. That means top-heavy, 60-pound Churchill has to waddle his way up and down a flight of stairs to drain the tank.
The first two weeks were fine. Then the Miami summer really set in and every trip in and out left Churchill panting, restless and uncomfortable -- often for hours -- when we got back inside.
And for the first time it was clear the drugs were struggling to keep pace with the liquid building up in his lungs. Eventually, our vet recommended upping his daily dose of diuretics.
So Churchill needs drugs to help him expel the fluid building up in his system.
Those drugs make him pee all the time.
And every time he went out to pee, he came back panting and restless -- which meant he needed more drugs.
Thankfully, the elevator is now fixed. Churchill knows that means it’s an easy in-and-out trip and isn’t forcing us to drag him to the door and down the hallway every time to go to the bathroom.
We’ve struck a truce for the time being -- but we’re pretty sure shots will be fired again soon.
