Last week, I decided that Merlin needed to go to the vets.  ”Why?” you ask?  ”What was wrong with your adorable puppy?  Well, ever since we’ve had him, he’s had an upset stomach on and off.  We thought it was food allergies, so changed his food, and he’d be fine for a while, then it would start again, so we changed his food again.  He’d been wormed, so we assumed it wasn’t that.  Then, over the last couple of weeks, he’s also started scratching/biting himself.  After what happened with George, I didn’t want to take any chances, so Mum and I took him to the vets.

We weighed him – he was a perfectly health 26.5kg – then took him inside, told the vet, and she nodded in agreement as she spoke.  She also laughed when we said we’d treated him with flea and worming stuff from the supermarket.  ”They don’t work.”  I’m still undecided as to whether she said that because they really don’t, or so that we spent more money at the vets.

She did a blood test whilst we were there, asked for a faeces sample (which Mum took over the next morning), and also gave him some stuff to be treated for fleas and worms again.

One thing that I still remember was whilst we were talking to her, Mum mentioned George.  She mentioned how I saw the look in his eyes and that something wasn’t right, and she didn’t believe me, and he died without any of us having helped him.  She didn’t outright admit it, and she’d never say it to my face, but the implied meaning was there: I was right.  My mum has never admitted that I’m right about something before.  Ever.  But she said it to that vet, and I’m still in shock about it now.  My family don’t admit to being wrong, and they certainly don’t admit it when their children are right over them, so it’s probably something that will never happen again, but it was a nice feeling, being told that my gut instinct was right and that she should’ve listened.  Perhaps it was too late, but this conversation came just a couple of days after I’d been talking to my counsellor, whinging about how people always told me to trust my instincts but couldn’t do the same themselves and could never admit it when I was right and they were wrong, so I got my wish, and I’ll always hold on to that.

Today, on Friday 13th, we got the results back of his tests.  They didn’t find any allergies, but they did find that he’s slightly anaemic and there were small traces of bacteria in his system.  He’s therefore got to go on a special diet and a course of antibiotics for a month, then the vets will do another blood test and re-evaluate.

Hopefully changing his diet (again) will help, but when he goes in for his next blood test, I might ask about making his food myself.  At least then I know exactly what he’s eating and can make sure he gets exactly what he needs, after all, most dog foods are full of crap these days…

My mum has talked about taking our dogs swimming for a long time (since we had George as a puppy), so I shouldn’t have been surprised when she text me saying that she’d booked Merlin in for a doggy swim session on Saturday night, despite the price (£16 for half an hour).  I didn’t like the price, but it was her money, her decision, so I went along for a laugh (and to lend my car, since she just had a new one yesterday and didn’t want fur/wet dog in it).  Below is a video and some photos of his journey…

Merlin preparing himself…

Merlin, resting by Mum’s leg after his first swim.

Mid-swim…

On the way home, clearly not impressed.

Nearly home…

Sometimes it’s difficult to tell who’s going more senile in my house.  There’s Nan, who’s eighty one, has the best memory out of all three of us, but tends to burn foods and sometimes get names mixed up.  There’s Mum, who used to have hearing like the BFG but now can’t hear people shout in the room next door, then there’s me and my terrible memory (I have to write almost EVERYTHING down).

I got woken up this morning by Mum shouting Merlin from her bedroom window to get him in from outside.  I went downstairs because he wasn’t listening to Nan and was ignoring the invisible voice, then when I went back upstairs, went into Mum.  She told me that Nan had been shouting for a Marlow, which would explain why Merlin didn’t come in.  Supposedly when she mentioned it to Nan, she said that his name was Marlow, despite the fact that she’s spent the last six months calling him Merlin.

When I asked Nan what his name was, she replied, “Marlon,” with a cheeky smile.

Mum said she was really worried about Nan calling him Marlow, but she used to get our other dogs confused all the time (Candy was Cindy, George was sometimes Candy even, despite being bigger and male), but she’s done quite well not getting Merlin confused (probably because she likes him the least).

I can’t help but laugh whenever I think about it though.  Maybe it’s because I’m trying to work out who’s crazier and where this new name came from.  But wherever this Marlow came from – whether it’s Nan getting names mixed up or Mum going deaf – a part of me thinks that it’s a pretty cool name…