I'm not too happy at the moment. I can't get anything done at work. My house is a mess. My son is suddenly in the realm of potty training and I am getting fed up with all the accidents. My babysitter isn't calling me back. I lost one of my favorite earrings yesterday.
These annoyances all pale next to this: My older dog has something very wrong with him, and I am worried sick.
George is a cream standard poodle, age 8.75, literally the happiest, most affectionate dog I've ever had. He never stops wagging his tail, and has an unfailingly merry disposition. He nuzzles and burrows his face on you, loves to shake hands and give gentle kisses, and plays happily with humans and canines alike. He cries almost hysterically if he is separated from us but knows we're within earshot. He is not foofy by any means - we insist on a utilitarian 'do, which is good because he seems to find and walk through any plant on the property with burrs or sticky seeds. He has the softest coat of any poodle I've ever met.
He was my first puppy. We got him as newlyweds to both satisfy my genetic third-generation need for big-poodle-ownership, and provide a buddy for Duncan, DH's yellow Lab who came along with the marriage. He's definitely a big, though high-strung, personality and has kept all of us on our toes. Funny stories about his many adventures are part of family lore.
George has had a number of dramatic and expensive health issues in the last 4 years. He got bloat and needed emergency surgery (which entailed me dragging him and infant Melrose to the emergency vet in the dead of night, since I was home alone when this happened). Then he had this insidious though supposedly benign cancer in his mouth and jawbone, which meant removing part of his lower jaw. And a lot of money from our bank account. Then there were two or three new tumor scares, all on his mouth or ear, involving more biopsies and removals, and a lot more money, although they all ended up being small unrelated growths.
When we went on vacation in August, our dogsitter noted that our other dog (Gretzky, an energetic German shorthaired pointer) was stealing George's food and acting protective of both food bowls. I then started monitoring during feeding time and shooing off Gretz if he started invading George's bowl. George has always been a good, fast, clean-plate eater, but as the fall has gone on, he's seemed somewhat less interested in food but still eating most of it, with some coaxing.
A few weeks ago, I noticed that he had suddenly gotten really thin, so we started monitoring the food more intensively. Instead of demolishing his meal as he has most of his life, he's started getting all finicky with dog food, eating a few bites and turning up his nose. At the same time, he is wildly ravenous to the point of stealing people food right off the table, eating garbage, and scavenging in the trash can. We tried switching kibbles to see if that would regenerate his interest in dog food but then noticed he seemed to be having a hard time chewing it. Maybe his half-jaw was getting worn out, we thought. We switched him to soft food and fed him lots of table scraps as well, trying to get weight back on him.
As this has been going on, with some meals getting inhaled and others being ingested in small steps, he has been the same old happy puppy. No personality changes whatsoever. Meanwhile, I've been hovering anxiously, roiling in guilt because I haven't been a good dog mom lately. I haven't been diligent with the heartworm pills, or the (outrageously expensive) Frontline, and honestly, I should have noticed the weight loss sooner than I did.
This weekend his back legs seemed to stop working right. He doesn't seem to be in pain, no limping or crying or refusing to move, but he's not able to fully control his hind legs and is having trouble balancing on his four. This does not stop him from following me up and down stairs, running around the yard, begging in the kitchen, jumping onto the couch, or even humping Gretz, which is one of his favorite activities ever. He doesn't seem the least bit upset by his skidding legs or frequent stumbles, although he does seem a little confused that things aren't working as usual. And the tail is still going, and the face is still smiling, and the snout is still finding illicit goodies to snarf down.
I wanted to get him right into the vet this week, but DH is traveling and he was concerned that if I brought him in and the news was not good, he didn't want me to be here alone to cope with it. Melrose is off school on Thursday so I'll take her and both dogs to the vet first thing (both dogs need shots anyway).
I'm hoping and praying this is some temporary thing, like a sports injury. Or yet another bout of Lyme disease, which he's had before. Maybe he wrenched his back or broke a bone while wrestling and rolling around in the yard. At the same time, I'm thinking about strokes, or spinal damage, or some invisible cancer invading his lower half. I'm envisioning those people with partially paralyzed dogs who build little carts for the non-functional end of their pet's body.
With all these illnesses, we've had to ask the question of how far we'd go to save him. I've seen people spending thousands to put their dogs through chemo and physical therapy and all kinds of human-like interventions. While I couldn't set a dollar limit on our investment, I know there would be some breaking point where we decide just to let him live out what's left of his time with us, keep him comfortable, and let him go when the time comes. I'm wondering if that's what's going to happen now.
For any of my dogs, I hope that like our beloved Duncan, they and not we will decide when their time is up. But with an irrepressible personality like George's, his twinkling joie de vivre even right now when he is skinny, eating erratically, and falling over himself, we might have to be the ones to make the call, to decide when and how he leaves us. And I don't want to have to make that decision. It was hard enough to admit just in the last few days that something was clearly wrong enough to get him in to the vet. I've been resisting, not only because of being alone, and the sure-to-be hefty bills for tests and procedures, but being afraid of knowing what is happening. Because what is happening may be really bad, and there may be no way out of the bad.
The subject of my worry is now enjoying an illicit grooming session on the sofa next to me, almost intertwined with his "brother." Tomorrow I'll be out stalking both of them as they take care of business, because it seems I need to obtain some "samples," if you catch my drift. If you're still reading, please think of us with fingers crossed at 9AM Thursday morning. The comedy of obtaining samples aside, I'm trying to hold it together until then.
These annoyances all pale next to this: My older dog has something very wrong with him, and I am worried sick.
George is a cream standard poodle, age 8.75, literally the happiest, most affectionate dog I've ever had. He never stops wagging his tail, and has an unfailingly merry disposition. He nuzzles and burrows his face on you, loves to shake hands and give gentle kisses, and plays happily with humans and canines alike. He cries almost hysterically if he is separated from us but knows we're within earshot. He is not foofy by any means - we insist on a utilitarian 'do, which is good because he seems to find and walk through any plant on the property with burrs or sticky seeds. He has the softest coat of any poodle I've ever met.
He was my first puppy. We got him as newlyweds to both satisfy my genetic third-generation need for big-poodle-ownership, and provide a buddy for Duncan, DH's yellow Lab who came along with the marriage. He's definitely a big, though high-strung, personality and has kept all of us on our toes. Funny stories about his many adventures are part of family lore.
George has had a number of dramatic and expensive health issues in the last 4 years. He got bloat and needed emergency surgery (which entailed me dragging him and infant Melrose to the emergency vet in the dead of night, since I was home alone when this happened). Then he had this insidious though supposedly benign cancer in his mouth and jawbone, which meant removing part of his lower jaw. And a lot of money from our bank account. Then there were two or three new tumor scares, all on his mouth or ear, involving more biopsies and removals, and a lot more money, although they all ended up being small unrelated growths.
When we went on vacation in August, our dogsitter noted that our other dog (Gretzky, an energetic German shorthaired pointer) was stealing George's food and acting protective of both food bowls. I then started monitoring during feeding time and shooing off Gretz if he started invading George's bowl. George has always been a good, fast, clean-plate eater, but as the fall has gone on, he's seemed somewhat less interested in food but still eating most of it, with some coaxing.
A few weeks ago, I noticed that he had suddenly gotten really thin, so we started monitoring the food more intensively. Instead of demolishing his meal as he has most of his life, he's started getting all finicky with dog food, eating a few bites and turning up his nose. At the same time, he is wildly ravenous to the point of stealing people food right off the table, eating garbage, and scavenging in the trash can. We tried switching kibbles to see if that would regenerate his interest in dog food but then noticed he seemed to be having a hard time chewing it. Maybe his half-jaw was getting worn out, we thought. We switched him to soft food and fed him lots of table scraps as well, trying to get weight back on him.
As this has been going on, with some meals getting inhaled and others being ingested in small steps, he has been the same old happy puppy. No personality changes whatsoever. Meanwhile, I've been hovering anxiously, roiling in guilt because I haven't been a good dog mom lately. I haven't been diligent with the heartworm pills, or the (outrageously expensive) Frontline, and honestly, I should have noticed the weight loss sooner than I did.
This weekend his back legs seemed to stop working right. He doesn't seem to be in pain, no limping or crying or refusing to move, but he's not able to fully control his hind legs and is having trouble balancing on his four. This does not stop him from following me up and down stairs, running around the yard, begging in the kitchen, jumping onto the couch, or even humping Gretz, which is one of his favorite activities ever. He doesn't seem the least bit upset by his skidding legs or frequent stumbles, although he does seem a little confused that things aren't working as usual. And the tail is still going, and the face is still smiling, and the snout is still finding illicit goodies to snarf down.
I wanted to get him right into the vet this week, but DH is traveling and he was concerned that if I brought him in and the news was not good, he didn't want me to be here alone to cope with it. Melrose is off school on Thursday so I'll take her and both dogs to the vet first thing (both dogs need shots anyway).
I'm hoping and praying this is some temporary thing, like a sports injury. Or yet another bout of Lyme disease, which he's had before. Maybe he wrenched his back or broke a bone while wrestling and rolling around in the yard. At the same time, I'm thinking about strokes, or spinal damage, or some invisible cancer invading his lower half. I'm envisioning those people with partially paralyzed dogs who build little carts for the non-functional end of their pet's body.
With all these illnesses, we've had to ask the question of how far we'd go to save him. I've seen people spending thousands to put their dogs through chemo and physical therapy and all kinds of human-like interventions. While I couldn't set a dollar limit on our investment, I know there would be some breaking point where we decide just to let him live out what's left of his time with us, keep him comfortable, and let him go when the time comes. I'm wondering if that's what's going to happen now.
For any of my dogs, I hope that like our beloved Duncan, they and not we will decide when their time is up. But with an irrepressible personality like George's, his twinkling joie de vivre even right now when he is skinny, eating erratically, and falling over himself, we might have to be the ones to make the call, to decide when and how he leaves us. And I don't want to have to make that decision. It was hard enough to admit just in the last few days that something was clearly wrong enough to get him in to the vet. I've been resisting, not only because of being alone, and the sure-to-be hefty bills for tests and procedures, but being afraid of knowing what is happening. Because what is happening may be really bad, and there may be no way out of the bad.
The subject of my worry is now enjoying an illicit grooming session on the sofa next to me, almost intertwined with his "brother." Tomorrow I'll be out stalking both of them as they take care of business, because it seems I need to obtain some "samples," if you catch my drift. If you're still reading, please think of us with fingers crossed at 9AM Thursday morning. The comedy of obtaining samples aside, I'm trying to hold it together until then.
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