Lamb, our precious, dumb, sweet, beautiful six year old boxer, is dying. Yesterday she swore off food (only to be brought back by a liberal soaking of her dog food in chicken broth). Today she again gave up food, and only the beef roast we had for dinner could make her change her mind (2 pieces!). We have yet another prescription for steroids, which will hopefully bring her appetite back for another week or so, but she is very close to leaving us.
Nevertheless, a boxer girl cannot change her nature, no matter how ill she is, any more than the leopard could change his spots. Yesterday afternoon, I was snuggling her and telling her I'd do anything to help her feel better - if only I knew what that was. Husband spoke as Lamb (we often do this to one another - just bear with it): "You could smack my brother for me." So I leaned over and gave Knight a small pip on the bottom. Lamb wagged her tail vigorously. "Do it again, mom" said "Lamb's Voice" and I did. Again, the tail wagged and wagged.
Once a boxer beyotch, always a boxer beyotch. I'm so proud of my tough little mixer!