Tag Archives: english bulldog

Three week update…

Posted on by

Sitting here after scarfing up entirely too much dinner, I remembered that I promised an update on how Winston is making out in his third week post-surgery. The short version: after three weeks and three days, you wouldn’t know that he just had his leg broken in two places and a respectable size chunk of steel jammed in there. He’s not limping, and has once again started pulling hard when we’re out on the leash. So far he’s tolerated his old puppy pen set up in the middle of the living room, but judging from the amount of snorting and general malcontentery, it’s only a matter of time before he puts his shoulder into it and drags the whole pen to whatever part of the room he wants to be in at any given time. I’m not sure exactly how we’re going to address that when the time comes.

As of right now, the way ahead looks alot like the past three weeks: Strict confinement for the next nine weeks at a minimum, no steps, no running, no playing, no time off leash, and three to four 15 minute walks every day to keep up as mush muscle mass as possible. He’s due back at the surgeon’s office at the end of the month for his six week checkup and x-rays, but unless something blows up between now and then, I’m expecting a good report. So far, everything has been good news, but because every cloud has a lead lining, I’m going to spend the rest of his natural life worrying myself sick that he’s going to blow out the other one or do something to undo what’s already been fixed.

Being a single father of two is damned hard work.

Sick list…

Posted on by

The fact that I like my dogs more that I like most people isn’t exactly a secret. Of course means I’m not going to trust their treatment to just any schlep who’s got just enough smarts to slide through vet school and hang out their own shingle. After meeting with the orthopedic surgeon this morning, the only part of me that regrets being anal retentive enough to want to see an expert is my wallet. I spent a little more than an hour getting a crash course of canine anatomy and physiology and peppering her with questions about the specific benefits and drawback of the “top three” options. After selecting the tibeal plateau leveling osteotomy (TPLO), which involves changing the structure of the joint, adding a steel plate, and a few screws, I spent another 45 minutes with the OR nurse picking her brain about after care and things to avoid once Winston gets home. I was actually impressed with being able to spend almost two hours talking to the people who are doing the surgery, though I suspect they were happy when I reached the end of my laundry list of questions.

I’m satisfied that this is the best way to proceed, or I was right up until the estimated bill was placed gently in front of me. For the record, if someone in a vet’s office comes at you with a three page itemized bill, you should go ahead and sit down before you start reading it. I offered to trade them a kidney or a lobe of my liver for the service, but they politely declined, which is unfortunate since I’m pretty certain that would be less painful than actually paying the bill. Any plans I had for a vacation, or doing anything that costs more that a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee, are suspended indefinitely.

I’m sitting here writing this with one eye on the clock. I know this hot shot doctor of mine was scheduled to do three surgeries this afternoon, but I don’t know what order she had them planned. Suffice to say every time the phone beeps, I jump halfway out of my chair. Yeah, you could saw I’m wound a little extra tight at the moment. With the ramp built from the deck to the yard and as much of the floor as possible covered with non-slip rugs, I’m down to the point of the day where all I can do is wait. No bets on how many of you can guess on how I feel about that.

More Joys of Bulldog Ownership

Posted on by

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…

Posted on by

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)

Posted on by

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.

One sick pup…

Posted on by

I’ve said it before, but this seems like the perfect opportunity to reiterate that I love both my dogs beyond any sense of reason or logic. That’s the only reason I can think of that would have had me at the emergency vet at 1:00 in the morning on a Sunday with a Bulldog that wouldn’t stop throwing up even when there were no cookies left to hurl. I’m not a fancy big city vet, but I do know that no well animal blows chunks nine times in three hours. I’m enough of a diagnostician to know that gums are supposed to be pink and not gray. And of course being paranoid as I am, that let to an early morning visit to the closest emergency vet clinic. I’ll say up front that I’m glad they were open and I didn’t have to wait until Monday to have him seen by someone.

The good news is that after a metric crapload of scans, samples, and IV meds, my boy seems to be holding his own and I should be able to bring him home tonight. The down side, of course, is that the estimated bill for treatment and an overnight stay is somewhere in the neighborhood of $1500. Seriously. $1500. If that’s what it costs to fix him up, fine, but in the back of my head I can’t quite shake the thought that I’ve just spent 3/4 the cost of a new bulldog… or put another way, as much as it would have cost to adopt ten dogs from the pound. You can’t exactly put a price on the love and loyalty of a good dog, but we’re definitely getting into the neighborhood where one might start having second thoughts.

So yeah, consider this official notice that Christmas is cancelled this year. Gift money has been sent directly to VCA Animal Hospital. I won’t feel nearly as bad about dropping the cash when he’s back here snoring in the living room, but at the moment it’s feeling like a kick in the gut. In case anyone is wondering, when the vet called with an update at 9:00 this morning, the diagnosis was “yeah, we think he ate something that disagreed with his system.” I’m glad it wasn’t the intestinal blockage I was worried about, but still that’s a damned pricy upset stomach. Better safe than sorry. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Dog’s life…

Posted on by

I’ve been a dog person basically forever. I had dogs as a kid, but they were mostly the outside chained to a box variety rather than the sleek, clean lay at your feet kind. One of the first things I did when I moved out on my own was get a dog… admittedly, a dog that would soon develop a brain tumor and go quite mad, so perhaps that’s not a great first foray into pet ownership. After that false start of my life as a dog owner, I had a long stretch of apartment living and a cat who was much more suited to the long hours I was working and commuting into the city every day. She never looked at you disapprovingly when you didn’t get home on time.

With the move to Memphis and a job that didn’t involve a ridiculously long commute and the overhanging threat of spur of the moment trips to whatever disaster ravaged part of the country was the hot topic of the week, the natural thing to do was get another dog. That’s where Winston came into the picture… because lets be honest, that’s a face you can’t say no to, right? If one dog is good, of course, then two dogs must be better. I had planning on bringing home a second dog after Christmas. Having a puppy amidst the chaos of the holiday and the accompanying 30 hours on the road didn’t seem like a great idea. That was before the flyer went up on the office wall. A local family had an “accidental” litter of labs, mama didn’t survive, they were being hand fed by the owners, and eating them out of house and home. If the pups weren’t taken by the end of the week, they’d be going to the shelter the following Monday. The Shelby County shelter isn’t one of the nice ones you hear about and since I like animals much more than I like people as a rule, I thought I’d just go have a look at the litter. Just a look. I don’t want a puppy until after Christmas after all. Of course I came out of the house with a 12 pound lab tucked in my coat. She was the only chocolate in the litter and stayed on my lap until we pulled into the garage. I wasn’t set up for a puppy, didn’t have the toys, gates, food – any of it – but that’s when Maggie made her arrival. A Lady Margaret to go along with Sir Winston.

That’s a long way of getting to my point, but it’s important to understand the context here. After another $250 vet bill yesterday, another round of ear drops, another follow up later in the month, sometimes I wonder why we put up with these animals that leave hair everywhere, occasionally poop in the floor, cost a small fortune in medical bills, and eat a holistic blend of all-natural, hypoallergenic food. I live here and pay the bills, but the place has mostly gone to the dogs. They might run me into the poorhouse, but these Memphis dogs are probably the best thing I’ll take away from my time here.