I don’t see any real in depth blog posts happening in the near future. I spent most of tonight dragging out old baby gates and trying to “slip-proof” as much of the kitchen as I could manage. I’m working on the assumption that Winston will go to surgery tomorrow afternoon after our morning consultation. Sure I’ll have all afternoon and evening tomorrow to do that, but I think I’m just trying to say busy. I hate the thought of my my boy needing to more than likely go under the knife, but that’s the tomorrow I’m trying to mentally prepare for… Plus, there’s a new iOS downloading on my iPad at the moment and I’m going to need to stop trying to write and go check that out in a minute.
Category Archives: Dogs
Of dogs and frogs…
With Winston limping around in the ranks of the walking wounded, yesterday was about as low key a Sunday as you can get. Given the ridiculous amount of joint medication, arthritis medication, steroids, and pain meds coursing through his 70 pound system, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he seems to be making out much better than I expected. His left, rear ACL is definitely blown, though so now it’s a matter of making some hard decisions about what standard of care makes sense for a slightly overweight, middle aged bulldog. I’m going to schedule a consultation with the local orthopedic vet to get a better read on what my options are at this point. Knowing that he’s a surgeon, I’m well aware that when your primary tool is a hammer, every problem begins to look like a nail. I’ve done more reading about animal physiology in the last three days than I have in the last 30 years. Let’s just say that the camps are pretty evenly split on what is a “reasonable” course of treatment. I’m struggling to find the fine line between “heroic” and “fiduciarily irresponsible.”
While we’re on the topic of pets, if there’s anyone out there thinking about becoming the proud owner of tree frogs, you should think long and hard about that decision. I’m pet sitting a pair of the little buggers this week and let’s just say that for something about the size of a matchbox car that live in an aquarium, they’re an inordinate amount of work. To be fair, I have to admit, the real issue isn’t the frogs. They’re actually pretty fun to watch as long as you don’t mind laying out a nightly cricket buffet. Dialing in the automatic mister on the other hand has left me puzzled, perplexed, and occasionally saturated when I open the eclosure door at precisely the wrong moment. Even at the lowest settings, the damned thing seems to blow though a gallon of water every few hours… Which doesn’t sound like much until you remember that the tank isn’t very big and there’s nowhere for the water to go once it’s been sprayed. I now own a turkey baster for the first time in my life… Although after sucking up several gallons of frog water, I don’t think this one is destined to live in the drawer with my other kitchen gadgets.
For the record, the baster method of water removal isn’t particularly efficient, I think with a little know how and the right length of plastic tubing, I might be able to rig a siphon to at least get the job done a little faster. Or I can just give in and pick up a spray bottle if I want to go all low tech about it. Come on, tell me that doesn’t sound like an entertaining Monday night.
More Joys of Bulldog Ownership
Well, I hope to be leaving the vet soon with a bag full of anti-inflammatory and pain meds, a few steroids, and a referral to a veterinary orthopedic surgeon over at the University of Delaware. Currently $500 worth of diagnosis seems to indicate that Winston has a torn ACL and pretty much has to have surgery to correct it.
Honest to God the only thing keeping me from launching into an incredibly violent stream of curses is that rather fetching blonde receptionist sitting on the other side of the room. I’d really just like to find a nice solid surface and bash my head against it repeatedly at this point.
Any feedback from you dog people out there who have done the ACL surgery is very, very welcome.
Gotta new game…
Aside from his tendency to rack up monumental vet bills, Winston is pretty much the most awesome, laid back dog ever. By that I mean he’s mostly happy just laying around and keeping an eye on things. I’m lucky that my lab seems to have taken on that personality trait as well. The current issue with Winston isn’t medical (surprisingly) – It’s that for the last two weeks he’s learned to enjoy a new morning game.
As close as I can tell, the rules of the game are simple. In the morning, as close to the time I need to leave for work as possible, Winston will run to the far end of the yard and lay down against the fence. No amount of calling, coaxing, scolding, or attempted bribery will convince him to move from his spot. The game only continues when I schlep off the deck, around the house, and 75 yards across the wet lawn and give him a gentle nudge. This is the point where the game gets fun, because that’s when Winston decides he’s going to growl at, chase, and attempt to chew on my shoes – all while I try not to either trip myself or kick him in the face. The game ends when we get back to the deck when he stands at the door waiting to go inside to get a drink. After the drink he’s ready to settled in for the day with his Kong.
It’s possible that this activity is more fun for him than it is for me. It’s a strange thing living with dogs. It’s a good thing they’re incredibly endearing to some part of our big human brain, otherwise no one would put up with the fuzzy little hoodlums living in their home.
Pack Leader (Part 2)
When it comes to leadership, the first lesson is almost always that your most important job is taking care of people. The same is true when you’re the pack leader. Unfortunately, I didn’t bother going to school to become a veterinarian, so that means for anything other than minor issues, I’m stuck relying on the expertise of others about how best to provide medical care. Now with most dogs, as long as they’re getting quality food, regular baths, and the requisite amount of attention, they’re mostly good until the end of their days. Unfortunately, half of my pack consists of an English Bulldog which guarantees that the vet and I are going to become very close.
Lovable as they are, the bulldog is a walking medical disaster. Eyes, nose, joints, food and skin allergies, and a plethora of other genetic issues plague the breed from beginning to end. I knew that going into the experience as a bulldog owner. I almost feel sorry for the people who see a bulldog pup in the window and take him home without knowing what they’re in for. Winston is a fairly healthy bulldog and in four years his medical bills have run somewhere around $5,000. 
Trust me when I say that bulldogs are not for the faint of heart. The little buggers will bleed you dry. But they’re cute in their own pug-nosed drool covered sort of way… and hopelessly loyal… and stubborn as the day is long. That’s their charm. And why we tolerate the madding expense of keeping them around.
Pack leader…
I am the pack leader. I set the rules, provide the food, and make sure we are sheltered from the weather every night. When they get snippy with each other, I restore order and tranquility. So riddle me this, if I’m the pack leader, what makes it ok to poke me in the forehead with your cold wet nose? I know I’m definitely not the one who decided it was ok to wake up and hit the ground running at 6AM on a Saturday morning… but still, here I sit thirty minuets later clicking away at the keyboard while the rest of my pack has curled up on their beds and gone back to sleep. Anyone who ever said that leadership was glamorous clearly never had a dog.
It’s a good think I like mornings… and an even better thing that I like standing on the porch with a cup of coffee steaming in my hand watching the night give way to morning, listening to the horses across the road waking up, and enjoying an hour or two of peace before the rest of the world catches up with me. Maybe the dogs did me a favor this morning after all.
Like caged animals…
In Memphis, the occasional leaving of the dogs at the kennel was pretty much unavoidable. Surprisingly, friends and neighbors are a little hesitant to take on two 70 pound dogs at a time. Since I made it back home I haven’t really had any reason to travel. When it has cropped up, I was going places where I could take them with. No problem there. I know I could theoretically take them up to the farm and they’d be more than welcome, but a three hour round trip drive in the wrong direction seems kinda dumb when I’m only going to be gone for 18 hours and the round trip travel time (assuming I go only in the correct direction) is less than three hours to begin with. Yeah, I think I confused myself with that math, too. The point is, turning a 3 hour drive into a 6 hour drive isn’t going to happen.
Anyway, tomorrow morning the kids are off for a 24-hour stay at one of the fabulous local kennels in Cecil County… and as usual, I’m guilt ridden at leaving them somewhere new. I don’t have much of a soft spot when it comes to people, but these dogs are a different story. If it weren’t for local health codes and army regulations, I’d pretty much keep them with me 24/7.
Even though I’m sure to be racked with guilt, I think I’ll still manage to enjoy some quality time in the land of Boardwalk Empire. I’m sure the my heathens will be in good hands while I’m gone… because if they aren’t, whoever’s responsible for the deficiency will find themselves without hands at all. That might be an exaggeration, but there’s a pretty good chance they could expect to receive a tire iron to the face if some ill fate befell the pups while I’m gone. Just thought I’d throw that out there.
Traveling light…
It usually takes every bit of room in a crewmax pickup truck to move me and the dogs just about anywhere. In the intrest of having places to be and still not exact idea when the truck might have its airbags installed, we’re going to give it the good old college try in something a little smaller. The Chevy Impala is a fine car, I’m sure, but even with its respectable trunk I’m not sure it was designed with me in mind. I’ve been working on it most of the evening and think I finally have it down to what I’d consider the barest of essentials: A backpack of electronic “stuff”, a rolling garment bag, a medium tote of “dog stuff”, two large dogs, and me. Neither of my oversized crates will fit in the aforementioned trunk, so we’re going to see how the trip goes sans crates. Hopefully they will be at least marginally well behaved and don’t destroy anything while were there. If something goes badly wrong with this plan it’s possible that all three of us may be banned for life from the house where I grew up. I’m cautiously optimistic because they haven’t really destroyed anything in years now… but I’m equal parts horrified that they’ll see the new territory as a good excuse to, I don’t know, shred an entire living room set.
I’ve thrown over every bit of extraneous bit of clothing, equipment, and random odd and end that I can think of, but the dogs… the dogs are the wildcard in all of this. If there’s any mercy in the universe, they won’t make me regret gushing about how well mannered they are. Otherwise, I’ll be paying for this short trip for a very long time. For the record, I never intend to travel anywhere within driving distance without the truck again. Trying to economize on volume is just too nerve-wracking.
Dog days…
After a ridiculous amount of time in and out of the vet’s office, tests, retests, and the some more tests, the results are somewhat less conclusive than I would have hoped. The bottom line is this: Despite higher than normal protein levels in her urine, there doesn’t appear to be anything physically wrong with Maggie. She’s behaving normally and has no ill effects in terms of kidney, liver, or heart function. The phrase the vet used this morning was that it seemed likely that Maggie just has “an unusually high baseline on these tests.” I’m pretty sure that’s veterinary medicine’s way of saying the numbers aren’t right, but we have no idea why, but I let the nice vet off the hook without asking too many questions. As long as my pup is in good health and not from something causing long term damage, I’m content to leave well enough alone.
For now, I’m going to do some tinkering what her food and retry all these tests in six months to see if anything has changed. It’s not exactly the clean bill of health I usually look for from the vet, but at this point, but it seems like as good a negotiated settlement as I’m likely to get this time around. I’m mostly just pleased that we were able to rule out most of the worst case scenarios. Even so, this last week has been a bothersome reminder that I’m the single parent to two middle-aged children now. Neither one of them are pups anymore, regardless of how I still think of them in my own head. I’m not sure I like that at all.
Guilt…
I’ve been feeling guilty lately. Because I’ve never really trusted them not to either pee all over everything or shred every rug in the house, Winston and Maggie have slept in their kennels at night since they were puppies. They seemed find with it and since dogs sleep about two-thirds of the day anyway, I sort of figured it was no harm/no foul. It was leaving work late the last two days that got me thinking, though… On a typical weekday, when I leave on time and get home on time, they’re in their crates about 17 hours a day. That leaves seven hours for wandering around, sniffing, pooping, barking, and doing dog stuff. When I leave early or get home late, of course, that number decreases dramatically. And that’s when the guilt started.
Intellectually, I’m convinced that both of them are perfectly happy snoozing in their crates as they are on the living room floor. Emotionally, though, I felt a compulsion to give them a shot at having the run of the house at night. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable enough to let them wander all day while I’m gone, but surely if I’m there at night there’s a limit to how much trouble they can get themselves into without waking me up, right?
Well, it’s so far so good. Last night was the first step in this grand experiment. When I went to bed, Maggie sprawled out taking up more space than seems possible for an 80 pound Labrador. I’m not sure how big a fan of that I am yet, but it seems that the precedent is already set. Winston, I’m fairly certain, slept in the basement until around 3AM, when he came upstairs wanting an early morning belly rub. I’m not sure I’m going to be a fan of that, either. Other than those relatively minor issues, the test run went well. Nothing got destroyed. Nothing (obvious) got peed on. And they both seemed perfectly happy to lay around the bedroom until I got ready to take them out this morning.
Like I said, I know it’s nothing but my own guilt at getting home late that’s driving this, but I secretly hope they’ll prove trustworthy enough to justify this new degree of freedom.
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