I’ve mentioned several times that my lovely, spastic, hyper-ass, smart, goofy dog that we rescued, has had a severe case of the scratch-all-day-and-night syndrome since about two seconds after we brought her home.

We tried everything.

We bathed her in all sorts of fancy sounding doggie baths.

Vidal Sasson, move your shiny ass over, because my dog now has better hair than you ever dreamed of.

But she still scratches all night.

We’ve been to the vet numerous times.

We’ve changed her food.

She’s gone from straight carnivore-no corn in her food, to straight vegetarian-no meat products in her food. I’ve read more dog food labels in the last three months than I have for myself in the last year.

I’m afraid I’m going to start looking for meat by products by mistake in my own food, and forget it’s people food, not pooch food.

Even the kind soul who took her in when she made her little escape two weeks ago said she was itchy and they bathed her in organic oatmeal bath? Really?

I can barely get a freaking pedicure and my dog is getting rub downs by the day.

As a last resort, in a last effort for me not to show up at work with blood shot eyes because I was up all night with a dog itching, I drug her scratchy self to the vet on Friday.

I was desperate.

The idea of steriods didn’t sound too good.

What would I tell the kids.

What kind of example is this?

What would Roger Clemens say?

I threw all that logic out the window and begged for drugs.

We had a different doctor, and she spent a laborious half hour going over Harley’s entire chart.

Yes, we’ve changed her diet. Yes, we’ve bathed her but not too much. Yes we’ve picked up all the rawhides, even taken away the dry bull penis.

Can you shoot her up now. Please?

Just when I was sure that she was going to say no, Harley, right on cue, started to scratch.

I told you she was smart.

The vet caved.

She was going to start with injections but decided on the pill version so we can watch her dose.

I brought her home, and gave her a strict lecture on steriods, told her to let me know if her boobs got too big or she felt doggy rage, and I gave her the juice.

I tried to notice Friday night, she seemed to be scratching less, was I imagining it?

Saturday she was supposed to get two doses.

Just before bed time, I doped up my dog. I told her she would never be an MLB mascot and apologized, said we’d both be fine, down the hatch they went.

Sunday morning, I woke up.

I looked at the clock and it was nearly 10 am.

I nearly flew out of the bed.

Holy sh*t, I’ve killed my dog.

She’s NEVER, EVER slept that late.

I was afraid to look in her crate, which was covered with a blanket since it’s so cold.

Really. 10 am? Not a scratch?

I was sure I had overdosed my dog on steriods or caused some permanent brain damange.

I yanked back the covers, and there she was, smiling, laying stretched out.

And not scratching a bit.

It’ a sheer miracle.

I know there are some of you who are worried about her quality of life. I get that. But trust me, she had no quality of life when she was up all night scratching every inch of her body for hours on end. Also, the ultimate goal is to find the lowest dose possible to keep her comfortable.

In the meantime, I talk to her every morning about not taking drugs from strangers, and that if she starts to feel weird, she should let me know.

She promptly peed on the bedroom floor.

Apparently that’s a side effect (for real.)

At this point, I’ll take the pee.

Three tablespoons of pee beats 10 hours of no sleep.

The things we do for our dogs.

Now that we’ve got her dermatology issues resolved, I’m expecting her to request a boob job, any day.

If you enjoyed this post, get the e-mail version, follow my Working Mom series, or become an Examiner yourself!