I got these off of pinterest, so I can't give proper thanks. I mean no harm and only have three readers, so please do not get all crazed and sue me.
Good Ol' Freckles Warrior Princess was acting more bizarre than usual last week, so I finally took her to the vet. Thankfully (kind of a weird thing to say), Freckles presented as confused, lost and not quite on the planet when the vet took a gander. (You know how it is--your dog has a problem and you take it to the vet and when you get there, the dog doesn't have the problem? I was so glad this wasn't the case this time.)
The vet and the vet tech did a lot of frowning and looking and frowning and looking. Freckles did a lot of blank staring; in fact, at one point she was facing a wall and didn't know it. I explained the "milk dud unsuspecting poop thing" and pointed out how her butt looked awful (hey, your butt wouldn't look good if you were shooting out poop duds and didn't know it). I added that some days were really good and other days it was like no one was "home." I recalled how she got "stuck" in the closet a few weeks back and didn't know how to get out, how she barks at length for no known reason, how she has become ridiculously demanding at times. I ensured I included information on how "sharp" she was on many a day: perky, alert, acting like the puppy of old.
After listening to me and taking much time to examine Freckles, the vet looked at me and said,
"How much do you want me to do?"
I understood the question fully. I answered without hesitation, "I don't."
The vet understood my answer. This helped her with the decision-making process of how to help Freckles without putting her through all sorts of ridiculous, expensive, unnecessary testing. It wasn't "time" yet but the time was quickly approaching. The "doggy dementia" was a given and the milk dud poops were deemed part of the aging process.
For some reason, I spoke about how Freckles and I had made a deal--I had spent thousands of dollars to keep her alive many years ago and I wouldn't be doing that again, despite my undying devotion to her. The vet nodded as if she understood and didn't seem to judge my bizarre babbling.
After I described (in detail--you know how I am) the things of which I was most concerned (her pacing, restlessness, looking lost and somehow uncomfortable), the vet decided to treat either anxiety or pain. I didn't want to try medication for doggy dementia--that seemed rather over-the-top and probably very expensive (dogs take the same meds as people for dementia and I've seen the price tag of those meds--forget it!). The vet and I talked about how when people get dementia, they often pace and shuffle about, almost always in constant motion. On other days, they don't do that. If the pacing was from the doggy dementia, an anti-anxiety med might be of help. If the pacing and restlessness was from pain, that was a whole different story. The vet gave me the choice of which she should treat: pain or anxiety. After listening to my choices (Xanax or some morphine-like pain stuff to rub on the dog's gums), I went with pain, as Freckles seemed so uncomfortable during the past 24 hours and I'd much rather know my dog was not in pain than anything else.To be honest, cost was a factor in my decision: I thought pain meds would be cheaper than Xanax. Remember that I said that.
The vet did some "rear end maintenance" (I kid you not, that is what the bill itemization states), shaving her butt right down to the skin. She left the room to make a concoction of pain medication, leaving me and Freckles to discuss things like world politics, the state of contagious diseases, the meaning of Cutler's seven year contract. The vet tech returned and handed me the 1/4 filled little bottle of liquid medication. She explained how it is absorbed through the gums--all I had to do was aim for Freckles' cheeks, not force it down her throat. She waved a little syringe thing in front of me and showed me what to do. "She can take it up to three times a day, but if she's too stoned, you can cut back. You can use it as she needs."
So much for picking the cheap route.
Her "rear end maintenance" cost $19.00. I thought that was a steal of a deal, considering how bad her butt looked.
The trip to the vet was a miracle cure. I never did use the medication--it's sitting in the bottle, on the counter, waiting for a "bad" day. That damn dog has been perfect since going to the vet--she's been perky and grounded and not restless at all. I took her back to the vet yesterday so they could clean her up (read: shave off some of that disgusting gunk) and the vet tech was astounded. "I can't believe that's Freckles! She's so different than she was the other day. If I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't believe it."
And so, we shall now ride the Canine Roller coaster, with both dogs in the front car. We'll keep an eye out for milk dud poops and for signs that there might be pain. Heck, I can give Lucy the pain meds if Freckles doesn't need them. Perhaps I need the pain meds and can rub it on my gums. (That stuff is stronger than Morphine--imagine the fun I could have). We'll spoil them even more rotten than we already do and we'll enjoy the ride as much as we can. They'll eat waffles (thanks, grandma!) and golden arches hamburgers and ride in the car and eat ice cream and sleep on the couch whenever they want. Freckles can drop all the marbles she wants and needs to and she can smell as bad as she does and it will be all good.
Um, the only thing they need to do is let us sleep. The wife is so sleep deprived that she no longer knows if she is coming or going. Those dogs keep her up all night.
When the day comes, we'll get off the roller coaster. I won't ride one minute longer than I have to because I won't put the dogs through that. After all, they have given me so much more than I can ever give them.
This won't be the last you hear of these dogs, as I'm sure there will be many a tale--or, should I say tail?--to tell. Here's to pain meds and ice cream! Just watch where you step if you visit our home.
No comments:
Post a Comment