It was the night between Wednesday and Thursday when I had to haul my dog to the emergency vet in Malaga city centre. To this day, I’m still a little baffled by what happened. I woke up in the middle of the night because Mariano woke me up in horrible pain. My first thought was that it had to be something he ate. It just felt stomach-related somehow. I had that instinct even though there was no concrete evidence.
At the emergency vet, I explained that he had salmon skin for dinner. The vet’s initial thought was to check for pancreatitis. I was confused. How could pancreatitis cause this level of extreme pain? But we ran all the tests anyway. Everything came back negative. Blood work, scans — nothing. No problem anywhere to be seen in this teeny tiny body.
Because everything looked normal, they even performed an emergency ultrasound — a rapid internal scan used to check for serious things like internal bleeding, fluid in the abdomen, organ damage, or anything that might require immediate surgery. It was basically a quick “is something dangerously wrong inside?” check. That also showed absolutely nothing.
After that, they told me to go home and in the morning go to my own personal vet because they couldn’t do anything more. It felt like we had just burned through a pile of money in the middle of the night for tests that explained nothing. On top of that, the clinic didn’t really address my dog’s pain levels in any meaningful way. The result? A €300 bill and no real answers. Just a little pain medication and instructions to leave.
So we trekked back home and, at 10 a.m., we went to our own vet. It’s a funny little place — the interior design is basically nonexistent. It looks exactly like it probably did in the 80s or 90s. But the care is top-notch. The vet speaks excellent English, which makes my life easier because I really don’t want to discuss pancreatitis in Spanish unless absolutely necessary.
The emergency clinic had already emailed all the test results, so when I arrived, she immediately asked, “How is Mariano doing?”
That moment really stayed with me. He doesn’t even live full-time here, and yet she remembered him. She knew his name, she knew who he was, and she was already emotionally invested before I even opened my mouth. That gave me such a fuzzy, warm feeling. I didn’t need to explain everything from the beginning. She was already there with us.
And she was just as confused as everyone else. She examined him and found nothing. Absolutely nothing. And yet there was pain.
It was strangely funny in a way, because that has been my own life experience too — medical professionals looking at symptoms and saying, “Yes, something is wrong… but we cannot find the cause.” Why do dogs mirror their owners like that?
Anyway, she considered back pain, because my dog has nerve damage in his back. But no — this wasn’t back pain. We took extensive X-rays. Nothing. Maybe something? Maybe not? No clear answers.
At that point, he was so unwell that she placed an IV catheter in his tiny paw and kept him on intravenous fluids. He was in so much pain that she also gave him strong painkillers to make him comfortable while they monitored him. I had to leave him there, which felt awful. She told me to go home and promised she would call in four hours to tell me how he was doing.
And she did call. Her voice was calm and reassuring. Mariano was much better, she said. If I wanted, I could come and pick him up.
When I returned, he was feeling better. The catheter was still on his paw, and we were sent home again — still without knowing exactly what had happened. Just instructions to monitor him and hope he would eat.
He didn’t.
The only thing he wanted was to be next to me. If I even walked to the kitchen, he started crying immediately. My entire day was spent with him glued to my side, offering treats, offering cheese, trying everything. Nothing.
The next day he still wouldn’t eat or drink, so I hauled him back to the vet again.
By this point, I had a theory.
His diet that Wednesday had been very unusual. For breakfast, I didn’t have enough meat for him, and he absolutely refuses to eat kibbles in the morning, so I made him scrambled eggs — lots of fat right there. During the day, he kept demanding cheese snacks from my sandwiches, adding even more fat. And then for dinner, I made pasta with salmon, and he got the salmon skin plus little bits of salmon from my plate. That is a huge fat load for a four-kilo tiny warrior dog.
So I suggested that maybe this was some kind of gallbladder attack or intestinal issue — something causing internal pressure, stretching, and pain.
My vet said that was actually a very good theory and it made sense.
Since Mariano hadn’t eaten or drunk anything, she said there was nothing to worry about, but she wanted to keep him for five hours under observation. He was put on IV fluids again, and having the IV catheter already in his paw was a huge advantage at this point.
I went home, worked for five hours, and returned at 4 p.m.
When I arrived to pick him up, there he was — happy, energetic, clearly hungry, greeting me like nothing had ever happened. That was the happiest ending this story could have had. No more pain. No symptoms. Perfectly normal.
The vet was confident the weekend would be smooth sailing. She removed the catheter, we wished each other the best of weekends, and then we headed home.
The final conclusion?
We don’t know for sure… but most likely it was caused by excessive fat in his diet.
And now I know how dangerous human food can be for dogs. I have to be extremely careful about what I give him and make sure he never gets overloaded with fatty food again.
Right now, he is with my ex-boyfriend, because honestly the emotional damage from this whole episode was too much. I’ve needed extra sleep to recover, and that doesn’t really work with a fully healed dog bursting with energy.
So he is currently running among olive trees in the Spanish countryside while I recover — and reminding myself:
Never give him salmon skin again.
Because danger.
