A peaceful night. Dusty raises an eyebrow and gives a couple of wags as I feed her her Vivitonin in a ball of tinned dog food. I tell her to stay while I prepare the Eliza Stannah lift. 1. Put on protective jeans. 2. Put on protective jean jacket. 3. Beat Dusty to stairs. 4. Sit on step below Dusty, who is hovering at the top, ready to launch herself down. 5. Encourage her to step on to my lap, which, gingerly, she does. 6. Down we go.
She trots straight over to her bowl, but has to wait half an hour for the medicine to go down before golloping her hearty breakfast. Sits by door waiting for her walk. I put her on the lead and take her up the track. She is leading me. Pulling. Trotting. There's a barely perceptible Tesco-trolleyish skew to her gait, but I think she had that anyway. She pulls vehemently to go into the river. I deny her this pleasure, given the steep scramble to get out. Home again and she's now snoring at my feet. This is my kind of nursing.
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