I knew something was wrong when Maggie refused her breakfast. She sat on my lap most of the morning, but was more than ready for her mid-day walk. Those of you with dogs probably know how ominous that raspberry jam looking diarrhea stool looks. Maggie had that symptom once before when I had wallpaper removed and drywall refinished. She licked the dust from her feet and became very ill.

I brought her back in the house where she begged for a treat. The treat came back up. I let her drink and she kept the water down. She walked around the house with droopy ears and a tucked tail.  A trip to the vet was in order. She started trembling before we even got out of the car. I let her snuggle under my coat as we waited in the reception area.

Oh, the indignity of what a vet-tech will do: First the scales—10lbs-9oz, then the reluctant retrieval of a stool sample.  Poor little Maggie, I’ve never heard her cry like that. A word to the wise: Take a sample with you to the vet’s office.

When the doctor came in he listened to her heart and gave her a basic exam. He recommended an allergy shot (she’s allergic to grass and budding trees and who-knows-what else) and a bitter-tasting pill to be taken twice a day. He tried to make amends by offering her a soft chew treat, but she was not going to be wooed into forgiveness so easily. She will never take treats while she’s in the office even if all she’s been there for is a nail clipping.

Exam finished and pill bottle in hand we stopped by the receptionist’s desk to get a treat from the biscuit jar. Maggie nosed it from my pocket as soon as we got in the car. I went by McDonald’s and bought a plain cheeseburger. She ate a bite of burger and bun, medication hidden inside, with relish. I let her have a few more bites. Her ears perked up and her tail waved.

Eighty-four dollars and a cheeseburger later she’s right as rain.