The all-too-brief periods of sleep that bracketed my Sunday were both interrupted for trips to urgent care. On Sunday morning, Husband woke me to tell me that Minor had a rash on his face, and I had the choice of hustling to take him to the 9:00 a.m. sick call at the pediatrician, or walking the dog with Aitch in tow. I chose the doctor. When we got there I was pleased to learn that “our” nurse practitioner was working. What with her vacations, our work schedules, and the fact that we avail ourselves of pediatric services on a quasi-emergency basis, she’s only seen Minor on perhaps three occasions since he arrived, and I thought it would be nice to have some continuity. Unfortunately, it was Nurse Practitioner WhoAreYouAgain? who walked through the door, someone I had never seen before. She was very nice and speedily diagnosed impetigo and prescribed antibiotics, but I didn’t bother asking her any questions about Minor’s development or tubes because she’d never even met him before. I made a mental note to schedule his two-year exam well in advance with “our” nurse practitioner.

On Sunday night (technically, Monday morning) I was awakened by Dog running around the house. He had broken out in hives earlier but had responded to Benadryl, and his hives didn’t look any worse than before, but he couldn’t sleep. By this time I couldn’t, either, so I went up to the office to do some work. Around five, Dog bounded up the stairs; this time, he was covered in hives from the neck down. He wouldn’t take any more Benadryl, and although he didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger of an anaphylactic reaction, he seemed so uncomfortable that I thought that driving him to Portsmouth to the emergency clinic would be the right thing to do, rather than waiting for our local vet to open.

So we drove north in swirling snow. The back was loaded up with the kids’ bikes, so I let him sit in the front seat with me, a dangerous practice I don’t at all condone, but I felt better being able to turn on the light periodically to gauge his condition. The clinic admitted us, evaluated him, and gave him shots of Benadryl and steroids, which seemed to make him more comfortable. We were back home by eight.

Later that evening I noticed a phone message from Dog’s regular veterinarian, left about mid-morning. “The emergency clinic faxed over Dog’s records,” the vet said, “and we wanted to see how he was feeling.”

I was floored. In all the times the kids or I have gone to the ER or emergent care, OUR regular doctors have never called to see how we’re doing afterwards.

I suppose I should be grateful that the humans in this family have health insurance, but mostly I just feel envious that, while we get adequate medical treatment, only Dog really gets medical care.