I do not like the day after The Great Feast. It is loud even when it is quiet.
Yesterday, the air was sharp with chaos. The house next door—Paw’s house—was full of giants. Paw’s house is a strange place. It smells like old carpet and something dusty and sweet. Big Daddy calls it “Grand Central Station” when the whole tribe comes over, but I call it The Great Invasion.
My job, as the Resurrected Roamer’s scouting partner, is to constantly monitor the perimeter, but yesterday, the perimeter was everywhere. The scent of Aunt Kait’s perfume and Crazy Daisy’s nervous energy mixed with the glorious, overwhelming smell of roasted pig and strange, sweet potato stuff that Big Daddy never lets me taste.
We had so many visitors! My ears hurt from the high-pitched screams of the littlest giants, and my paws hurt from dodging the big giants’ stomping feet. And the animals! We had a full-scale tactical operation just to claim a square foot of safety.
There was Molly, who is mostly fluff and thinks she's a queen, Lucy, the Pocket Yapper (I will never understand how Big Daddy’s voice can be so loud when calling her, "POCKET YAPPER!"), and Harley the Austrian Shepherd, a blur of black and white who never stops herding invisible sheep. And the air tyrant, Bee Gee the parakeet (a she), who often doesn't stay in her cage. She prefers to fly around the giants' heads or, worst of all, squawk her judgments directly from Big Daddy's shoulder.
The most important part of The Great Invasion was keeping Big Daddy safe. I watched him. He was performing. His face had the tight, stretched skin of a forced smile, and even though everyone else complained the old house was drafty, Big Daddy’s neck was wet. He had the hot-sweat-in-a-cold-room problem. He would talk and laugh for a minute, then suddenly go very still, like a statue that was about to fall over. I knew he wasn’t really there. His mission was simple: survive the day and reach The Day After.
The moment he finally sat on the big couch yesterday, it was a race. I was faster than Molly, and I got the prime spot: chest-to-chest, head under his beard. Pocket Yapper got his left foot. Harley just leaned against his hip, pushing the air out of him like a squeaky toy. We all fought, not for a treat, but for the rare chance to absorb his warmth while he was still (mostly) conscious.
Yesterday, we helped Paw. Paw is very old and very loud. When you talk to him, he says, “HUH?” so loudly it makes my ears vibrate. He lies in the bed all day, and everyone takes turns lifting the blankets, checking on him, and helping him eat the Great Feast. It's a lot of work, and Big Daddy did his part, sweating and swaying the whole time.
Today. Today is The Crash.
The house is cold and silent. The air is heavy, thick with the physical cost of The Great Invasion. The forced smile is gone. Big Daddy’s face is loose and gray, his eyes are heavy, and his body shakes. It’s a quiet tremble, like a trapped motor running too fast. He looks like a freshly washed towel—squeezed dry and limp. This is what he calls a “Dysautonomia Day,” but I call it a Code Red Flare.
Momma Nurse is quiet too. She knows the drill. She moves slowly, making only soft noises. She keeps the light dim.
Big Daddy is a ghost. He moves from the bed to the floor, and back to the bed. He tries to make it to the living room, but he stands in the hallway for three long dog-minutes, deciding if his legs will carry the weight of his head.
Then, there is The White Chair.
The White Chair is in the small, tile-floored room. It has a bowl on top of it, and it smells strange. On a Code Red day, Big Daddy makes many secret trips to this room. He calls it "The Bowl Inspection."
Sometimes, he just sits on The White Chair with the bowl, leaning forward as if his head is too heavy for his neck. I sit on the small rug and guard the door.
Sometimes, he misses The White Chair entirely and just sits on the floor beside it, leaning against the cold wall tiles. I lie on the floor next to him, nose-to-toe. The cool tile seems to pull the bad heat out of him. I can feel the shiver of his body next to mine, the heavy, shallow breaths, the complete exhaustion.
My job today is not scouting or barking. It is stillness. It is silence. It is providing the full weight of my 15.5-pound body directly onto his chest or hip, trying to slow the tremor.
He doesn't ask me to move. He doesn't move me. When he finally tries to stand up, it’s a slow, agonizing process. He plants his hands on the floor and pushes up, and I instantly spring to my feet, ready to intercept him if he falls. He sways, takes a slow step, and makes it out.
The Great Crash is the tax we pay for the Great Adventure. Yesterday was forced bravery and happy deception. Today is raw survival.
He finally lies down on the living room floor—the middle of the floor, right on the scratchy Paw rug. He closes his eyes and pulls me onto his chest, covering my back with his arm. The shivering stops.
The world can wait. The Great Map can wait. Today, the adventure is simply breathing, and Big Daddy and I are doing it together.
Watch our adventures: 🎥 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@DeweyBigDaddysAdventures ✍️ Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/Robertgheard
https://x.com/resroam170413
Join The Roamers journey: 📸 Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/resroam/ 🎥 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@resurrectedroamer Support the Roamer and get great gear! 🛒 Store: https://www.resurrectedroamer.com/ & https://www.raisedupinhim.com/
https://x.com/resroam170413
#DeweyAndBigDaddy #Dysautonomia #ServiceDog #Chihuahua #OrthostaticIntolerance #DogVlog #FunnyDog #Spoonie #Tennessee #Storytime #DeepPressureTherapy #ChronicIllness
#ResurrectedRoamer #TravelPhotography #OutdoorGear #GearReview #FaithAndTravel #SpoonieTravel #DysautonomiaWarrior #NatureLovers #ChristianBlogger #OvercomingAdversity #ExploreMore
