Let me tell you a little bit about Pooch. Herr Hubby rescued her from an animal shelter about one day before she was to be put down. Six months later, we started dating. Hence, he has known his dog six months longer than his wife. Pfffft, whatever. Anyways, Pooch is a model dog. She only barks when she has to (mostly at the mailman she cannot stand), is house-trained, does not jump, and is lovely and snuggly. Pooch was our model prior to having kids. She had been severly mistreated (one vet told us it looked like someone had taken a tire iron to her hips) and needed lots of love and trust. We threw in a lot of time for her and, over time, she became a wonderful member of our family. When Girlie Girl was born, Pooch protected her and was her biggest partner in crime. This is the lead up, folks, be patient. Pooch is now ten years old, has arthritis, grumpy days, and the personality of a donkey. We still love her, how can we not?
Last week she was playing with the neighbor's Jack Russell Terrier, Hyper Hund, when, BAM, she started yelping, keeping weight off of her left hind leg. Uh-oh. Pooch weighs 62 pounds. She's not an easy load to carry, especially when she feels she is desperate need of a carrying to be babied. I helped her in the house and looked at our vet's hours (here, vets have Sprechstunden, times available for walk-ins and appointments. The rest of the time, they are either doing operations on the days off or not listed, or do house calls.). Ours had already had her open time that morning and would not be available until the next afternoon. I decided to let it wait, after all, she could have pulled a muscle and needed rest.
When Pooch does not get up to circle around Wild Child's chair at the dinner table like a furrier, smaller version of Jaws, she's sick. No circling. Wild Child "accidentally" dropped something for Pooch to snark, only, no Pooch to do so. No, Pooch was in her massive bed made out of a massive basket, looking forlornly at the food, sighing at the injustice of it all. The next day was no better. Pooch even refused to get up and go outside, which meant more baby carrying. I took her to our local vet who felt the knee and said, "Yep. Torn ACL. Ripped clean through. You need to take her to the animal hospital and schedule a surgery." Ruh-roh, Raggy, this isn't good. With Wild Child in tow, we drove the twenty minutes to the animal hospital and was told to wait. This poor little beagle was shivering and shaking across the waiting room. Wild Child, sensitive child that she is, soothed the puppy, stroking its head, before saying, "Don't worry, I don't like shots either. They hurt so much. Unless you get it in the butt, then it hurts BBBBAADDD!"
We schedule the appointment for two days later and we leave. Thursday afternoon rolls around and Pooch is excited to be getting in the car for a car ride. "Where we going, mom, where we going? Huh?" When she sees where we are, her ears go back, she glares at me, and digs her butt in the ground, a hard feat to do when one of your legs can't even bend. Speaking in english and having a one-sided argument, we make our way to the door, leaving a trail of amused German people in our wake, smurking at the crazy woman with the gimpy dog.
In the pre-op room, the dog plays three-legged running from the vet, who just wants to hear her heartbeat. Bribery with a treat? Nope. Pooch turns her head away, sniffing in rage. "How dare you! I am not stupid. I am not some big, dumb dog. I have pride" Apparently bribery with two treats soothes the hurt feelings. Up on the table, I cuddle her while they get out the little shaver.
Here's a little story about why Pooch hates shaving machines. Pooch is a German Shepard/Chow mix and does not require shearing in the summer when it gets hot. German summers are mild compared to summers in Arkansas and Tennessee, where we had previously lived. However, Herr Hubby was convinced the first summer we were here that Pooch needed a shave to help deal with the heat. Once shaved, people though Pooch was on chemo and would soon be kicking the bucket. Pooch is a very smart dog and knew her embarrassment was to be blamed on that damned buzzing thing that took her fur away. When my in-laws have to shave their Great Schauzer (lots of long fur, bangs, dumb as a box of rocks but sweet as can be), our dog smirks and sits in the sun.
Back to the shaver. Pooch's eyes widen and she looks at me as if to say, "Um, not a good idea. I look stupid with this haircut." They shave a patch on her leg and insert an i.v. I snuggle her close as the meds go in to knock her out. The first few seconds, her body language said, "I love you, man. Peace." She was out cold a few seconds later. I'm not a sentimental person (anymore, well, kind of) but the sight of my poor Pooch flopping onto a gurney broke my heart. I picked her up two and a half hours later, her pupils pin-point dots. She licked the kids, licked me, and had a goofy "I am so stoned," look on her face.
That first night was very much like having a newborn in the house. We slept by her bed on a blow-up mattress, reacting to every noise, whimper, and movement. The past few days have been a blur of terrible sleep and piggy-backing our fur child. Now I look at her, snoozing in her bed, under the window with some rare sunshine coming in on her and I cannot help but think we got lucky this time.
Had she been older, would they have operated? Would she have survived? No creature is "yours" to keep. I like to think we have each other on a borrowed amount of time that we should enjoy. Pooch is my partner in crime, my go-to girl to vent to on the days when it seems no one else will understand me. Here's to you, Pooch, you crazy dog. Let's hope I get to borrow you a little bit longer.
