I have a long haired miniature dachshund named Theodore. Twice a day, he has to take two different medicines for epilepsy. At first, we gave him medicine in peanut butter, which he loved. Peanut butter doesn't love him, though, and we eventually switched to canned pumpkin. All three dogs get a treat of pumpkin, only Theodore takes the pills like sprinkles. He never spits them out or licks around them. About his medicine, he's a trooper and I often wonder if he knows what the sprinkles are for.

One day I was sitting in bed with my laptop, my favorite writing space. All three dogs can snuggle on the bed--no crowding or shuffling for position is necessary. Theodore climbed over the keyboard and up onto my chest. He does this a lot, frequently pressing his chest into my nose and mouth to lovingly smother me.

I thought about pushing him away, but I noticed he was drooling. The seizure started then, with his wild-eyed stare and rigid little body. My laptop rolled onto its back in submission and slid onto the mattress. After a while, Theodore was able to move his eyes. I talked to him and petted him. The kids came and sat with us. Theodore threw up, like always. We managed to get to the garbage in time, which was a minor victory.

When my kids were little and one of the dogs had a really stinky gas episode, I told them we have to love everything about the ones we love. The wagging tail, the soft, silky ears, and the toxic farts. Everyone is a package deal.

Theodore's epilepsy gives us a daily ritual, a treat the dogs all love. It gives a tremendously assertive and demanding little guy a weakness--or his knowledge of his weakness causes him to overcompensate. None of those things makes his disease a good thing, but epilepsy is a part of who Theodore is.