For “the longest story ever,” there’s only two parts. Rest easy, friends.
Here’s Part 1, aka The Scary Part.
Part 2, aka The Silly Part
Considering Bryson’s symptoms—throwing up and having an Exorcist-style eye spasm—Clayton and I were both thinking he’d had a seizure. But, in addition to her craptastic “diagnosis,” the vet explained doggie seizures don’t really look like human seizures. Dogs may just zone out for a few seconds, and many of them snap and bite at the air, like they’re trying to catch a fly.
So that’s what Clayton and I filed away to watch out for in the coming weeks. Fake fly swatting and an abnormal disregard for our baby talk. Done and done.
This seemed simple enough. Then one day I was sitting in the office in our apartment and B-dizzle was out in the living room. I heard the unmistakable sound of his non-athletic legs lunging across the room and his uncut nails (coughdad’sjobcough) dragging along the carpet. It’s the sound he makes as he unsuccessfully lurches for a toy we’ve thrown two inches from his face. Seriously, it’s awkward.
I immediately thought “SEIZURE! RED ALERT!” because, um, no one would be in the living room tossing a toy for him to whiz right by stupidly. I thought he must be galloping across the living room chasing down imaginary flies.
When I went to inspect, he didn’t seem odder than normal. Just a little out of breath from his newfound game. As it turns out, there actually was a fly buzzing around the living room. Relief. The fly was a welcome find. That time.
Cut to about 10 days later, and we have some sort of freakish fly infestation that induces seizure scares every 20 minutes. I blame that damn Irene. Bryson spends his days lounging around, then instantaneously leaping at the air, mouth agape, head flinging in every direction. He will come back to his senses, look around, then do it again. Most of the time, we find an actual culprit and swat it to a painful death. Or we try to with similar graceful agility, slicing the air with a dish towel or pot holder or piece of mail or, on one gloriously victorious occasion, a running shoe.
But this has made it extremely precarious to judge whether or not our dog is on the brink of a serious medical emergency or is just a moron. We always lean towards the latter. God love him.
I wasn’t going to write about this because how could you know this is even true? Who has a sudden outbreak of disgusting flies at the same time their dog is supposed to not be biting at the air like an idiot? And, if that did happen, why on earth would you share that your house is a filthy sty with the internet?
I have no answers on those fronts. But I do have pictures! After a bazillion failed attempts at being smarter and faster than the flies, Bryson was able to inflict a near fatal injury on one. It was better for my photographic direction if I let the little booger flail around for awhile and keep BryseFace interested, rather than humanely putting it out of its misery. We all really, really hate the flies. And are inevitably carrying around some seriously funky diseases. Maybe Clayton will gorily morph into Jeff Goldblum soon.
So that’s the longest story of my dog, to date. I am so thankful it has a totally silly ending, and we have lots more days of smooching, photographing and making fun of Bryson ahead of us.
And we still have no idea what to do about those flies.