dramatic bitches

Dear {over-dramatic} Skye {with no pain tolerance and a predisposition for self-injury}:
I thought you were dying.
I cried and held a hot water bottle to your ass. I called the vet at 10:30 p.m. and left a message on his emergency voicemail. I Googled hip dysplasia. I fed you cottage cheese with aspirin and wondered why you wouldn't pee or walk.
I took you to the vet this morning and you were so excited for a car ride. You spun in circles and jumped into the back of my car with no problems. You drug me into the vet's office and put your front legs on the receptionist's counter. We sat down and you were in my lap. You weren't crying anymore or moving stiffly.
When the vet called us back, you jumped on his windowsill and would not be still. I couldn't figure it out and he laughed.
He said you likely pulled a muscle and that you're a bit over weight. The fact that he called you fat vindicated the embarrassment I felt over bringing in my dog-who-couldn't-walk. He gave you some muscle relaxers and sent us home.
You seem to be fine now, and this momma-heart is much better, too.
Thanks for being you in all your dramatic-ness, and thanks for not being on your death bed.
Love,
Mom