3am at The Small Animal Hospital

 It's 3am and I'm sitting in my car, outside the Small Animal Hospital, staring at the moon.

As is usual in my life, I don't know if I have over-reacted. 

Earlier in the evening, the dog, aka Sita, aka 'Bum Cheek,' had suddenly looked very ill - coughing, retching and - the clincher - she seemed to be struggling to breathe - a rapid, nostril rasp. When I tried to open her eyes, she looked like she was 'slipping off' somewhere. 

I cacked it. Francis joined in. The kids were asleep, thank goodness. 

The Small Animal Hospital - somewhere I had never been (is the hospital small or are the animals small?) was a 7 minute drive according to Google Maps. 

They offer to 'triage' Sita, so I drive off at midnight, down velvety-dark city roads, past free-flowing foxes and hand in my poor baby dog to masked vet-nurses in scrubs. 

They throw out a few scary phrases like 'heartworm' (!) and 'lungworm' (!) and cart her off to do 'bloodwork'. 

I sit alone in the empty car park and mentally rehearse how I might tell the kids that the dog is seriously ill. Or worse. Don't be daft, I tell myself. It won't come to that. 

It's late, but I send off a Facebook message to the Rescue Charity chat group. The co-ordinators say I have done the right thing by taking her to the emergency vet. This makes me feel momentarily better. 

Finally, the female vet phones me from inside the lit building. The tests have ruled out a few nasties, but 'she has a temperature and is not acting like a normal puppy'. I can take her home and follow up tomorrow.

The vet brings Sita out on a lead - Sita is skulking and nervy. I pick her up in my arms and feel her doggy heart tremble. I smell her fur, a hint of wet sand. She is the size of a small child. I drive her home and she wags her tail and is revived enough to eat a Weetabix and soya milk. 

I have joined the gang of people who have 'dog dramas'. Give me a rosette and a chew stick.

Earlier in the evening, we were playing Scrabble. With kind sincerity, I  heard Tess explain to the pup, - Sorry you can't play Scrabble, Sita! -you don't have thumbs. 

Yup, our pup is only a dog thumb away from a few triple word scores. Here's a selfie she took earlier. If she had thumbs, she'd be Annie Leibovitz or David Bailey. 

We adore her, that's for sure.