It was hard, but we did it anyways

It’s swoon-weather out there, 50’s, sunny. Some folks are jogging in shorts. Everyone seems happier, even with the black-grass-snow crust on the sidewalks.

I took two of the girls out today for a long walk, George and Tiny Dog. They get muddy pretty fast, low to the ground with the melting snow. G does not care; Tiny Dog dances for me to pick her up. But today she trotted, fast, alongside, little feet clicking to the beat of the songs on my headphones. It was so nice out, we kept going and going, then got cookies and a bowl of water at the fancy dog store, Bad Dog Frida. Where, of course, there was much jubilation by the staff at the pups' cuteness.

Atticus was at daycare and Wren at the clinic. It was very hard to leave Wrennie—those old soul brown eyes looking at me from the cage. She needed three skin masses removed, and I do not work Wednesdays, so it is best if I am not in the building when my dogs have surgery. I am the worst worrier. I can rationalize and sort out my fears, and then it all gets smothered by my heart taking over—SAD LITTLE DOG, what will we EVER do?

So I went home. 

Always photogenic. When she first got the sweater from Nana.

I picked her up after lunch, all done, just like that. Thank you, Dr. H and all our fab CVTs! Wren is now in a dashing navy sweater with striped white trim. She needed coverage for her stiches on her side. It’s these sutures, though, that had her vexed when home. She got stuck on the dog bed, unable to navigate the wood floor because as she stepped down, her skin must have hitched, startling her. She sat there, forlorn. I picked her up and she was prone to panic, to run and scramble away. The meds have made her paranoid.

I took a nap with the little bean, trying to sit still, fighting the urge to read email and the web on my tablet, the compulsion to fill my minutes with electronic flutter very strong. But I forced myself to just sit with her, as she sat with me, after I had surgery and then chemo 5 ½ years ago. Her comfort, then, to me was immeasurable, and I hoped I could return a little to her today.

When she woke, every little move on her or my part made her whine-grunt so I got her some more pain meds. She came downstairs on her own and now is asleep, like usual, next to me on the couch, though, drugged. Small squeaks sometimes still slip out of her snout, but she looks more comfortable than before.

I put off her surgery for two months, but like my coworkers said, it will be good when it is done. In fact, I was so glad when one of the techs, Michelle, called and said: Wren would like to go home now, please. Ok! Hooray, my heart thrummed. Off to get my delightful spotted chihua-mix, ready to tuck her into her favorite down duvet.

Pup not

Only two more weeks, y’all, 'til alternate side winter parking ends. This = spring. It’s happening.

And this was supposed to be what filled my weekend:

Wren is a hater. Tiny Dog is looking at me, hoping I will rescue her.

We started calling the little dude Bubba. The chihuas hated him, which was expected, prima donna mamas. But weirdly, as day two rolled in, Atticus got more spooked and spooky, making sounds like a wookie and jumping away from the pup like he’d seen a spider. It looked like it could escalate to worse.

So he went back to the clinic after 48 hours, after one of us slept on the couch each night. On my night, I held a Nylabone in my fist, so he could eat that instead of my hair. The crate was out of the question: utter bone-rattling despair.

He went home with one of our clinic techs for the rest of the weekend, good woman, and the charm fest began. He is quite dapper.

I have not lived with a puppy for 20 years and now I remember why. In 48 hours he urinated on two dog beds, eight rugs, and no one got any sleep. Tiny Dog was wiped.

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:

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)

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?