Call the Vet Now, Not Tomorrow

Our dog Bruno, a big soft lurcher, had been a bit off — quieter than usual, uninterested in dinner. Nothing alarming. We'd booked him in for the next morning, a sensible, unhurried appointment for a probably-nothing. He was lying in his basket, subdued but settled, and we were watching television, and everything was calm.

And then the certainty arrived, and it arrived calm, which is what I've since learned to fear. Not panic. A flat, clear, unarguable knowing, dropped fully formed into my head as I sat on the sofa: he has to go now. Tonight. Not tomorrow. Now.

I have no medical training. I had no reason to override a vet's own next-morning appointment. Bruno was resting quietly; every visible sign said tomorrow was fine. But the certainty had the specific texture I've read other people describe on this site and never understood until it happened to me — a message that doesn't feel like your own thought, that arrives with the authority of instruction. Go now.

I phoned the emergency vet, feeling like a fussing idiot, apologising before I'd finished my sentence, describing symptoms that sounded like nothing out loud. The vet on the line was kind and non-committal — could be nothing, could bring him in to be safe if we wanted the reassurance. I wanted, apparently, more than reassurance. I bundled a bemused Bruno into the car at ten at night.