On Friday this newly-skunked girl woke me up at 2am. It took me a while to hear her whining near our bedroom door to get out, because Mike had his noise machine on, which he doesn’t usually. When I let her into the hallway, she paused by the door of her toddler-nemesis. I prodded her, annoyed: “Lets go Rosie.” Then I heard what sounded like a barking seal.
Indeed, her toddler-nemesis was in the middle of a completely random croup attack. I opened the door and heard her gasping for air, telltale sounds of stridor emanating from her tiny chest.
An hour of cold night air and hasty steroid administration got her back to her giggly self , but I wonder what would have happened if Rosie hadn’t gotten me out of bed.
They talk about soul dogs and heart dogs, but I’m not sure Rosie is even a dog. She will ignore all my yelling until she senses I’m just on the edge, and then she will run to me and put her muzzle on my shoulder. In my daydreams she’s the reincarnate of a world war II nurse, doling out psychological first aid in chaos. This time though, she really outdid herself.
Dr. Ruth's Daughter 
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