Shake, shake, shake

"BANG! scritch, scratch, scratch" were the sounds that awoke us at 4:00 this morning. Bleary eyes staring at the clock I thought, "what the hell was that?" DH, barely more awake than I grumbled, "Picasso (more like Piiiicaaassssooooo...)"
"You think it's him?" I asked. "He never tries to get out of his cave (he's closed in with some plastic crates, that's all). "Should we go check on him?" I mumbled. "hmmphh..." was DH's reply. At that point Ally jumped off the bed and went to investigate on her own. I figured I'd better check it out. I threw on my warm, fuzzy turquoise bathrobe and made my way to the kitchen. I unbolted the door and new immediately something was wrong.
Half the red plastic carton barricade was scattered about the floor and there at the end of the hallway lay Picasso in a pool of his own vomit. He wasn't moving, but breathing very rapidly and heavily. "Oh god," I thought, "this is it. I'm going to witness this poor dog dying." I went to him and crouched next to him on the floor, petting him and trying to speak soothingly trying to calm him down. DH and Ally appeared and he took over watching over Picasso as I ran to get my keys, let myself out the back door and ran upstairs to Picasso's owners apartment. I stood there in bare feet with only a bathrobe on ringing the doorbell and banging on the door. No one answered. "C'mon, wake up, " I moaned to myself. I yelled down the stairs to the slightly opened door, "They're not answering. " I gave the bell one more looong ring and then went back downstairs. I put on some clothes, got my cell phone and attempted to call our neighbor. I couldn't successfully dial so I handed over the task to DH and took over watching the dog who was now suffering from seizures. No success with the phone.
Luckily, DH once had a dog with epilepsy so he had a general idea of what to do for Picasso. We got a blanket and wrapped him in it and when he started seizing we held him and stroked him and let him know we where there. DH took over trying to wake the neighbors, he banged on their door and finally started hitting our ceiling under their bedroom in an attempt to wake them. While he was banging away at the door I was alone with Picasso and I admit I lost it. He tried to stand up and kept falling and I couldn't get him to lie down again. He kept walking into things and didn't seem to know or see where he was going. It was heart wrenching. I tried to hold him and tearfully begged him to lie down, but there wasn't much I could do. Finally, after about 40 minutes they woke up. We stayed with Picasso as they (or at least she) tried to get ahold o f the vets. She was so worried that he had been poisoned by licking the Frontline she has put on his butt that evening. I thought that was pretty absurd, but didn't say anything. There was nothing poisonous in his cave, the garden, or our house that he could have eaten. by the time she had gotten a hold of the vet DH was covered in bile and nastiness I was tear-stained, but not quite as filthy as he was.
We went with our neighbors to the vets. I sat in the back of the car and stoked Picasso the whole way. Thankfully, he didn't have any seizures in the car. By the time we got to the clinic he seemed a bit better. Breathing heavy, but no longer having seizures. Oh god, when he would seize I was so worried he would swallow that big tongue of his or bite it off when his jaws involuntarily clamped shut. Tears are welling up as I think about it.
We got back from the vets about 6:30 a.m. not any the wiser as to why he was having seizures, but reassured that he was under the supervision of the vet.
We took our distressed Ally for a walk, ate some food, took a shower to rid ourselves of the mornings trauma (as much as possible) then crawled back in bed for a few hours sleep.
Our neighbor stopped by this afternoon to tell me the vets think Picasso has brain tumor. His seizures have continued and he seems to be in a coma. She was so upset. I felt terrible, what can you do or say in such a situation. For all DH and I complain about their not treating Picasso the way we think they should she really does love that dog. She cried as she said, "Three weeks, three more weeks and I would have been able to move into the new apartment with him. He would have had the home he deserves for the end of his life." See she really did not like leaving him in his cave all the time. Just when she had to make a difficult choice Picasso didn't come out on top at first. She was trying to remedy it by building her own apartment where Picasso would be able to live. Unfortunately, it looks like it's just a little too late.

I'm going to go with her tonight to the vets to see Picasso. If I were in her situation I would be thankful for some moral support, to have a friend there who cares about the dog and understands. Keep Picasso in your thoughts. At least he seems to not be in pain and right now, that seems to be all we can hope for.