Friday, December 05, 2008
Dog Days
Okay. I want to get off this ride, now.
It’s been about a week? It’s a blur. The day Annie died was one of the most surreal days of my life. My whole family squished into a small vet’s examination room to say goodbye to a dog who seemed to dispute to the end that it was even her time to go. Yet the reality was proven every time she stood up. Her poor heart started to pound, working far too hard for what little it could accomplish. She suffered.
Then the vet administered the drug. I can’t talk about this moment yet except to ask, you ever watched anything you were close to die? That moment is simultaneously horrible and fascinating.
The very next day I saw the third vet of the week, the city’s only Naturopathic vet. I’m not sure how I managed to get in to see her, actually. The triumph faded a little when she patted Charlie’s knee and said, “I agree with my colleagues. She should get the surgery.”
I was hoping she had a pill or a tincture. You know, natural-like and around the $50 range. But while I’ve been able to manage the symptoms with diet, supplements and reduced exercise, the truth was that after nine weeks Charlie’s leg was still iffy. So we had about half a week to come up with the impossible sum of $3,000 and somehow we managed it. I guess that’s what you do in marriage. Manage.
A post-TPLO-surgical dog is a sad dog indeed. Her hind end is shaved, exposed to all the world. She limps around on three legs. Linoleum is now a serious threat. And she must be helped down steps by the humiliation that is the butt-sling just so she can sort of squat-pee. Poor pup with her robo-leg. Which is kind of cool.
Now I'm told recovery should only take a breezy 16 weeks....
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