When we took Mimi to the emergency hospital, her seizure would not stop. I hold her like a baby. She would tighten, start to quiver, and then begin to convulse. This pattern repeated several times, so a grabbed her and whispered encouragement into her ear as I caressed her back and neck. I gently spoke in her ear, "Mimi, I love you. We will take care of you. This will stop. You are my best girl."
It may be my imagination, but she seems to relax a little through the seizures when I speak softly and hold her this way. Mike took her into the hospital, where they aided in putting her unconscious for awhile, hopefully breaking the pattern of seizures. Just a few hours later, Mimi was back home.
She walked up to the chair in which I sat in the family room. It is a gigantic beige recliner. I moved my pink purse out of the way, and in a flash she jumped on top of me. She placed her head by mine, as I was reclined and leaning cross-way on the chair. Once little Mimi had her face by mine, she straddled her front paws across my shoulder and lay her belly flat on mine.
I circled my arms around the little dog, careful not to squeeze too tight. Again, I whispered in her ear, "I love you, I love you." Once I called her Lisa, my daughter's name, which happens frequently.
The vets have told us that when Mimi has her seizures, it does not matter if we hold her because she doesn't have any idea of the outside world. I disagree. When Mimi seizes and I cradle her, she and I are connected. Mimi both feels love and is loving in return. She feels like the embodiment of all my lost relatives, my connection with my past and my future. Just as when my children were infants, I received so much joy in holding and nurturing them. I have the same nurturing instincts for Mimi.
Mimi is my rescue Boston Terrier, in our lives for just one year so far. Yet, I cannot describe the love I feel for that little girl. Even with her seizures, and concomitant expense, she is perfect. My love for Mimi is a perfect love, and I am not even a perfectionist.