Wednesday, February 25, 2015

What one puppy

The last few days I have found myself in a mood-ditch, hunkered down in a blanket, listening to music on headphones, dogs on my lap, me thinking: winter-is-interminable-go-away-grumble-cough.


Then a 7 week old, 8 pound, pit puppy came in yesterday to the clinic, very sick, but still managing a brief tail wag. He wasn’t eating, he wasn’t pooping. His brother threw up a rope toy. Yikes. And yes, likely foreign body. The owner started to weep—the surgery cost was beyond what she could afford—she had the 7 other puppies at home and a furnace that died the day before.

All of us were devastated at the thought of euthanasia.

Then after a brief moment my wonderful boss offered to have her sign the dog over to the clinic and do the tricky surgery. He was very depressed—it was a big risk to go ahead with an abdominal explore. The owner signed him over and the little dude went to surgery at 3 pm. By 5 pm he was done: 16 inches of rope toy! Five incisions: one to the stomach, four to the small intestines to safely remove the rope. The intestines were curled back and forth on themselves like a birthday ribbon, and in more than one area, his intestines were telescoped over themselves, called intussusception. All of this would have been fatal, probably that day or night.

It will be touch and go for the next few days, to see if his gut recovers. Pain meds, IV fluids, antibiotics.

I don’t have a picture of him, but imagine black and white, chubby square face. Sweet.

May he do well. And he will need a permanent home—let me know…

Let's hope not! (this is George in summer gear)

Sunday, February 8, 2015

I give up

Isn’t there always a moment, when sick just too darn long, when you just give up, just give in to it all, instead of fighting it?

Today, this was it. I am done. Go ahead, cough, keep me awake, make my chest and abdominal muscles sore. Make me almost black out from a long, deep cough. Make me stay on the couch and just hack hack hack. The kangaroo in my chest is kicking me from the inside, trying to get out. Oh, viral bronchitis, you win.

The dogs don’t care. They barely look up as I cough. Tiny Dog sleeps on my chest, Wren under my arm, George at my feet. When I get up to move from loveseat to couch to stretch out, one by one follows me there. I am not sure what they gain, but it makes me feel better to have them there.

Wren often tries to get as close as possible, which means almost squeezing Tiny Dog out. 

Here is Tiny Dog in my bathrobe, Wren on my chest.

Wren's view from the loveseat. Doodle again bored.
They regard our time together no different, I believe, than when I am well. Cough time = couch time, and all is well. 

And: remember summer?