Friday, August 13, 2010
Whew!
After a quick stab with a syringe and aspiration onto a slide, it turns out his lump was a fatty tumor. When we received the diagnosis, my husband gave me a self-satisfied smirk..."I told you so." I ignored him, picked up my little man and nearly wept with relief. He's only 6 so we had "the talk" that night. I think I saw some comprehension in his eyes when I told him that as a little dog the expectation is that he lives to be at least 26. And that is non-negotiable.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Little Doodle Dog
When I first saw him, he was sleeping quietly in a corner filled with cedar chips. I was being used as a jungle gym by one of his pen-mates, a miniature pinscher that I'm pretty sure was hopped up on liva-snaps and rawhide. I watched another couple pick up a yipping, strangely-colored miniature dachshund with a broken tail from the same pen. He was more lively than his sleeping litter mate. That's when I peeked over the edge of the pen and saw him. He was sleeping in a little round circle, nose to tail - the position that has come to be known as the "cinna-bun". He cracked one eye to see who would dare to disturb his slumber and, I would like to think for both of us, it was love at first sight.
He lifted his head and his cheek had been stuck into a "smile" of sorts. The owner told me to pick him up. I felt bad to wake him but I reluctantly picked him up. He was blinking back the sleep and trying to lick my face. I played with his little quarter sized feet, felt his little velvety floppy ears and pet his shiny black and tan fur as he fell back to sleep in my arms. Not less than 15 minutes later, I was in my car with "Baby" in a small plastic dog carrier, a bag of puppy food and a few toys. The whole way home I kept asking myself, "What the hell are you doing?! A dog? Are you ready to take care of a dog??"
"Baby" kept his generic name for three days until I came up with the right one: Indy. Indy was a really good puppy and much better at training than his new owner. I tried crate training but it didn't last. I didn't want to make him cry, so after 3 hours the first night he ended up curled up in a cinna-bun on my pillow. He slept through the night - and almost always has except for an unfortunate experience with Benedryl.
His puppyhood was quite an experience. He ate too much rawhide bone once and ended up in the hospital with a stomach blockage. It was heartbreaking to see him in a hospital cage with an IV drip and drugged up until the rawhide passed. Then he developed little blisters on his eyelids that I was told could make him blind. After a trip to the local university vet school and some eye drops, I found some pet insurance. He has allergies that my vet told me I could treat with Benedryl. He spent hours doing the Indy-500 around the house before collapsing in a heap the next morning and sleeping for about 36 hours. That's when my vet informed me that he has a strange reaction to it. He might as well have been dropping an eight ball and hitting a rave that night. Needless to say, he no longer gets Benedryl.
At his one year checkup everything was fine until the vet asked me how long he had a little bump on his side. She asked me if she could do some testing because it didn't look "right". It turned out to be a form of skin cancer. I was shocked. He was scheduled for surgery a short 4 days later. I brought him home with a result of "clean margins", a t-shirt on to keep him from licking and biting out his stitches and a large incision. Two more surgeries were held over the next couple of years to remove very small tumors. He was a trooper and we like to tell people that he won a knife fight when they invariably ask about the scars. Since these scares, we have been diligent (overly so maybe?) about checking out every little tiny thing that pops up on him. And yes, sometimes my emergency visits to the vet turn out to be nothing more than piece of dirt for example. Don't judge.
The past five years have been rather uneventful compare to his first one. He has endured two moves to new homes, the loss of a bigger older lab sister, the arrival of a little, noisier dachshund brother and the arrival of a bigger, younger lab/basset sister. He has had some teeth removed because his oral hygiene is sorely lacking. He is a bit spoiled and I'm not sure he knows that he's a dog. (I'm not about to tell him now.)
The travel that I sometimes have to do for work takes me away from my husband and fur-kids for weeks at a time. The return is just as sweet each time when they see me walk through the door though. This last return home I picked him up so that I could cuddle him and that's when I felt it - golf-ball sized lump behind his front leg. It doesn't seem to bother him and so I'm very hopeful that, as my husband claims, it is "nothing". We find out on Monday. In the meantime I have been curling up with my little cinna-bun and preparing him for another possible knife fight.
He lifted his head and his cheek had been stuck into a "smile" of sorts. The owner told me to pick him up. I felt bad to wake him but I reluctantly picked him up. He was blinking back the sleep and trying to lick my face. I played with his little quarter sized feet, felt his little velvety floppy ears and pet his shiny black and tan fur as he fell back to sleep in my arms. Not less than 15 minutes later, I was in my car with "Baby" in a small plastic dog carrier, a bag of puppy food and a few toys. The whole way home I kept asking myself, "What the hell are you doing?! A dog? Are you ready to take care of a dog??"
"Baby" kept his generic name for three days until I came up with the right one: Indy. Indy was a really good puppy and much better at training than his new owner. I tried crate training but it didn't last. I didn't want to make him cry, so after 3 hours the first night he ended up curled up in a cinna-bun on my pillow. He slept through the night - and almost always has except for an unfortunate experience with Benedryl.
His puppyhood was quite an experience. He ate too much rawhide bone once and ended up in the hospital with a stomach blockage. It was heartbreaking to see him in a hospital cage with an IV drip and drugged up until the rawhide passed. Then he developed little blisters on his eyelids that I was told could make him blind. After a trip to the local university vet school and some eye drops, I found some pet insurance. He has allergies that my vet told me I could treat with Benedryl. He spent hours doing the Indy-500 around the house before collapsing in a heap the next morning and sleeping for about 36 hours. That's when my vet informed me that he has a strange reaction to it. He might as well have been dropping an eight ball and hitting a rave that night. Needless to say, he no longer gets Benedryl.
At his one year checkup everything was fine until the vet asked me how long he had a little bump on his side. She asked me if she could do some testing because it didn't look "right". It turned out to be a form of skin cancer. I was shocked. He was scheduled for surgery a short 4 days later. I brought him home with a result of "clean margins", a t-shirt on to keep him from licking and biting out his stitches and a large incision. Two more surgeries were held over the next couple of years to remove very small tumors. He was a trooper and we like to tell people that he won a knife fight when they invariably ask about the scars. Since these scares, we have been diligent (overly so maybe?) about checking out every little tiny thing that pops up on him. And yes, sometimes my emergency visits to the vet turn out to be nothing more than piece of dirt for example. Don't judge.
The past five years have been rather uneventful compare to his first one. He has endured two moves to new homes, the loss of a bigger older lab sister, the arrival of a little, noisier dachshund brother and the arrival of a bigger, younger lab/basset sister. He has had some teeth removed because his oral hygiene is sorely lacking. He is a bit spoiled and I'm not sure he knows that he's a dog. (I'm not about to tell him now.)
The travel that I sometimes have to do for work takes me away from my husband and fur-kids for weeks at a time. The return is just as sweet each time when they see me walk through the door though. This last return home I picked him up so that I could cuddle him and that's when I felt it - golf-ball sized lump behind his front leg. It doesn't seem to bother him and so I'm very hopeful that, as my husband claims, it is "nothing". We find out on Monday. In the meantime I have been curling up with my little cinna-bun and preparing him for another possible knife fight.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)