My George is still very sick. He has now gotten to the point where he will eat only small quantities of chicken nuggets and bologna (yes, fed to him by hand). Over the last week we have vacillated between thinking he's perking up, and thinking this is it and we need to take him to the vet and put him down. DH and I went so far as to discuss when to do this, should things deteriorate further. But we wanted to hold off on a decision until he went in for a recheck today.
The latest conclusion is that his extreme lack of appetite may be attributable in part to the meds he was put on to help retain his protein. On top of the kidney disease and adrenal tumor, of course. So he is going off that for now in the hope that he will get some appetite back, start to eat his special kidney disease formula dog food, and regain his lost weight and vitality. The surgical courses of action that might be performed on a young dog are too risky and invasive for him, so we're just going to treat him with medication/special food and see how he does. If this is successful, we might get another year out of him. If he continues to refuse most food, we probably will have to put him down, and very soon.
Through all of this, he still has remained the same sweet, loving dog, just a very tired one who sleeps much of the time. He still follows us around the house, jumps up on beds and couches, shrieks when he wants to come in, and hangs out in the kitchen during mealtimes to see if he gets anything (even though he then refuses pretty much everything offered). Between activities, he retreats to his bed or any soft nest and snoozes, curled up in a ball. Gretzky often spoons behind him with his chin on George's side. I'm not sure what he thinks about all this; he's certainly not saying.
Me, I've been an emotional roller-coaster wreck. One day I can barely hold it together because he's lethargic and refusing food, which makes us think he's starving to death, wants to die, and we need to end this before he suffers. The next day he seems more lively, snuzzles his grubby face all over my clean pants, eats a decent meal (if you can call 6 or 8 chicken nuggets a meal) and even plays a little outside, and I'm wondering what the heck I was thinking yesterday?
I've also jumped into my foxhole-prayer mode. Big time. It's sort of ironic that the one time I took the dogs to the annual Blessing of the Pets at church, George became desperately ill within weeks. Not that I don't recommend having one's pets blessed, nor am I accusing my church or the blessing process of causing his problems, of course - I just think the timing is almost humorous. Each dog was given a St. Francis medal for his collar. I couldn't figure out how to attach them (granted I can't even figure out how to attach their rabies tags!). I've been carrying the medals around with me since George got sick, almost as talismans.
So anyway. Prayers. I say them in the car, at my desk, in the shower. The other day, I lay on the bedroom floor next to a sleeping George, put my arms around his emaciated little body, and prayed. I expressed thanks for his life and all the love and joy and silliness he's brought us. I prayed that he would be healed and given more time here. And that if he couldn't be healed, that we would receive clear signs on what to do and when to do it, and that his death would be peaceful and without pain. And that we would accept his loss and be grateful for the short time we'd had him in our lives. And that once he left us, he would be taken to rejoin his lost brother Duncan at the Rainbow Bridge until it was time for us to come calling and take them with us to Heaven.
Since then I've been watching for signs either of healing, or of further decline. And obviously I'm not getting clear signals either way. But our vet still seems to think he can pull through this, so I'm still praying, and waiting for signs.
Anyway, if you're still there reading, thanks for your patience as I exhaustively document his progress or lack thereof. And please send good thoughts encouraging him to eat!
The latest conclusion is that his extreme lack of appetite may be attributable in part to the meds he was put on to help retain his protein. On top of the kidney disease and adrenal tumor, of course. So he is going off that for now in the hope that he will get some appetite back, start to eat his special kidney disease formula dog food, and regain his lost weight and vitality. The surgical courses of action that might be performed on a young dog are too risky and invasive for him, so we're just going to treat him with medication/special food and see how he does. If this is successful, we might get another year out of him. If he continues to refuse most food, we probably will have to put him down, and very soon.
Through all of this, he still has remained the same sweet, loving dog, just a very tired one who sleeps much of the time. He still follows us around the house, jumps up on beds and couches, shrieks when he wants to come in, and hangs out in the kitchen during mealtimes to see if he gets anything (even though he then refuses pretty much everything offered). Between activities, he retreats to his bed or any soft nest and snoozes, curled up in a ball. Gretzky often spoons behind him with his chin on George's side. I'm not sure what he thinks about all this; he's certainly not saying.
Me, I've been an emotional roller-coaster wreck. One day I can barely hold it together because he's lethargic and refusing food, which makes us think he's starving to death, wants to die, and we need to end this before he suffers. The next day he seems more lively, snuzzles his grubby face all over my clean pants, eats a decent meal (if you can call 6 or 8 chicken nuggets a meal) and even plays a little outside, and I'm wondering what the heck I was thinking yesterday?
I've also jumped into my foxhole-prayer mode. Big time. It's sort of ironic that the one time I took the dogs to the annual Blessing of the Pets at church, George became desperately ill within weeks. Not that I don't recommend having one's pets blessed, nor am I accusing my church or the blessing process of causing his problems, of course - I just think the timing is almost humorous. Each dog was given a St. Francis medal for his collar. I couldn't figure out how to attach them (granted I can't even figure out how to attach their rabies tags!). I've been carrying the medals around with me since George got sick, almost as talismans.
So anyway. Prayers. I say them in the car, at my desk, in the shower. The other day, I lay on the bedroom floor next to a sleeping George, put my arms around his emaciated little body, and prayed. I expressed thanks for his life and all the love and joy and silliness he's brought us. I prayed that he would be healed and given more time here. And that if he couldn't be healed, that we would receive clear signs on what to do and when to do it, and that his death would be peaceful and without pain. And that we would accept his loss and be grateful for the short time we'd had him in our lives. And that once he left us, he would be taken to rejoin his lost brother Duncan at the Rainbow Bridge until it was time for us to come calling and take them with us to Heaven.
Since then I've been watching for signs either of healing, or of further decline. And obviously I'm not getting clear signals either way. But our vet still seems to think he can pull through this, so I'm still praying, and waiting for signs.
Anyway, if you're still there reading, thanks for your patience as I exhaustively document his progress or lack thereof. And please send good thoughts encouraging him to eat!
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2 comments:
I know how you feel.
We had to put one of our dogs down when I was pregnant with the twins, about a week before Archie was diagnosed with leukemia. He was actually my dog as I had him before I ever met my husband, and he was a very good dog. I still get weepy about him being gone even now.
I was a hard decision to make (I made it; my husband left the final word up to me saying I had to be ok with it all or it wasn't going to happen). There was no one thing we could point to and say, well, it has to be this way. It was more like a collection of things picked up over a long period of time.
Anyway, it was hard and I hated it and I still think of it sometimes even now. He was a good dog and I think I'll always miss him at least a little bit.
Sending lots of positive thoughts and foxhole prayers your way...
Thanks, Anne - we're still in wait-and-see mode right now. I can't imagine how hard those weeks must have been for you with the combination of grief over your dog, a twin pregnancy, and Archie's diagnosis. My condolences on losing him, years after the fact.
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