Friday, I went back to the vet.  None of the four vets I had seen in the last two weeks had been able to tell me exactly what was wrong with Squig.  The fifth vet did the trick.  She treated the dog’s mama.  I was a wreck.  I didn’t know what to do and had four different sets of instructions.  She took the time to review every test result and explain what was going on.

I am still spending most of the day holding Squig. But he is better.  When someone rang the doorbell yesterday, he lifted his head and barked--doing his job.  He didn’t get up, but he let them know that “The Dog” was on duty. 

I finally got him to eat something by feeding it to him by hand.  I have a hand fetish.  I can’t stand for my fingers to be dirty.  I wash my fingers a zillion times a day.  But there I was.  Sitting on the floor feeding him by hand.  Messy, gooey, canned stuff. (Daughter Becky told me to try feeding him by hand.) I guess he thought it was a treat if I gave it to him that way.  

We’ll keep doing this.  I’ll suck it up, get my hands dirty, and feed him by hand from now on if that’s what it takes.  He actually ate something out of his bowl yesterday; not much, but that’s a start.  I’m just thankful he didn’t check out on me.  I didn’t think he was going to make it last week.  Now, I am very hopeful.