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| Lost Max 4 months ago today. Miss him. |
Showing posts with label The Dog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Dog. Show all posts
04 March 2011
04 February 2011
Losing Your Dog
It is now exactly three calendar months since we lost our dog, Max, to cancer.
Losing your dog is an awful thing. I knew it would be difficult but it is as much like grief as losing your best friend would be, which of course is exactly what it is. The thing about dogs is that they are social animals with individual personalities and mannerisms. You do not have a dog. You have a relationship with an intelligent, rational being. It is a mutual relationship in which he depends on you for his needs and is very eager to play his part in your life, giving you all that he perceives you need from him. When that relationship ends, it leaves a hole in your life. An enormous hole.
You could say I have a dog-shaped hole in my life but that doesn't really describe it. I have a Max-shaped hole in my life. It is a very specifically shaped hole precisely because of his particular personality. No two dogs are alike and, at the moment, no other dog could fill it. I will probably get another dog some time but it will be a new and different relationship with a new and different dog.
We miss him almost every day, some days deeply. I have been amazed just how integral a part of our lives he became in the five short years he was with us. So much that we did involved him, and our plans always had to consider his needs. He was worth every sacrifice we made because of him.
Losing him has been surprisingly demotivating. I have written hardly anything since he went. At the end of hard days at work, however disgruntled I felt, without fail, Max would cheer me up immediately when I arrived home. I am so grateful for the time we had with him.
I know the grief will pass. Already, we think of the happy times we shared with him and not just the sadness of his ending. We are thankful that he was happy and fulfilled almost to the end of his life and, awful as having to end it was, relieved that we did not hang on to him when it was clear that he needed to go and that keeping him would only have made him suffer.
I just wish we could have him back...
Losing your dog is an awful thing. I knew it would be difficult but it is as much like grief as losing your best friend would be, which of course is exactly what it is. The thing about dogs is that they are social animals with individual personalities and mannerisms. You do not have a dog. You have a relationship with an intelligent, rational being. It is a mutual relationship in which he depends on you for his needs and is very eager to play his part in your life, giving you all that he perceives you need from him. When that relationship ends, it leaves a hole in your life. An enormous hole.
You could say I have a dog-shaped hole in my life but that doesn't really describe it. I have a Max-shaped hole in my life. It is a very specifically shaped hole precisely because of his particular personality. No two dogs are alike and, at the moment, no other dog could fill it. I will probably get another dog some time but it will be a new and different relationship with a new and different dog.
We miss him almost every day, some days deeply. I have been amazed just how integral a part of our lives he became in the five short years he was with us. So much that we did involved him, and our plans always had to consider his needs. He was worth every sacrifice we made because of him.
Losing him has been surprisingly demotivating. I have written hardly anything since he went. At the end of hard days at work, however disgruntled I felt, without fail, Max would cheer me up immediately when I arrived home. I am so grateful for the time we had with him.
I know the grief will pass. Already, we think of the happy times we shared with him and not just the sadness of his ending. We are thankful that he was happy and fulfilled almost to the end of his life and, awful as having to end it was, relieved that we did not hang on to him when it was clear that he needed to go and that keeping him would only have made him suffer.
I just wish we could have him back...
06 November 2010
Obituary: Maximus Rex, ?/?/2003 - 4/11/2010
When he came to us from the rescue home, we were soon impressed by his intelligence, his very individual personality and his lively nature. In his short time with us, he had some serious health problems, having needed major surgery to correct cruciate ligament failure in both knees. True to form, he bounced back from both procedures and got on with being the vital, vigorous, fun-loving dog that he was.
In October last year he started limping again and having the plate removed from his knee appeared to resolve the problem for only a short time. In January this year he was diagnosed with cancer in his left tibia; we were told he had about six weeks of life left. Even with this problem, he lived life at full speed as long as he could and proved everyone wrong by living until 4 November.
We remember his playfulness, his love of swimming, running and digging, his extensive understanding of English, his fixation on food and the exceptionally ripe smells that often resulted from eating it, his rolling in the back seat of the car, his ears flapping in the wind, his determination to bring home the longest or fattest sticks he could carry, his amazing memory for where he had left his tennis ball, warm cuddles and the smell of his smooth, shiny fur, his unfettered joy on the beach, his serious attention to guard-dog duty, his frustration with crows taunting him from just out of reach, his greeting at the door, his large presence in our home, his snoring by the fire, his affectionate nuzzling, and much, much more...
Apart from when nearing the end of his life, he was happy and up for anything that sounded like fun. However, the disease finally got the better of him and it was clear to us that he was struggling and that we could do no more to restore and maintain his quality of life. It was time to let him go before his suffering became too much. His end was quiet and peaceful on his own bed in his own home.
He enriched our lives more than we had believed possible; we are the poorer for his passing, and our hearts are broken. We did everything we could to ensure he had a good and happy life. We are sad that it could not have been a long one, and miss him greatly. We are proud to have known him and shared our lives with him.
31 August 2010
Another Perfect Bank Holiday
I woke up this morning feeling flat. Why I woke up in that mood I don't really know. I had had a dream that was clearly stress-related but cannot remember what it was about. It may be something to do with anxiety about my dog's terminal illness and the decision I will soon have to make. It may just be that I hadn't slept well for the last two nights, having been away from home for the first of them or recovering from DIY in a cramped loft-space prior to the second. It may be the result of an extended episode of boredom with work. Whatever the cause of it, I just woke up feeling that I could not be bothered. With anything. Ever again.
Of course, I had to be bothered. It was my turn to get up and walk the dog. The slight improvement in his condition almost made dragging myself out of bed, taking him out and picking up his poo feel worthwhile but any such benefit was countered by the miserably cold and grey August weather. Back at home, I managed to make mugs of tea for my beloved and me, and then immersed myself in one of Jeremy Clarkson's books for an hour or so. I even managed to find amusement in some of it. Then my beloved needed her breakfast, and the dog needed another wee.
Despite wanting to spend the day curled in a ball under my duvet, I managed to transport a car-full of garden waste to the local tip, to clean the inside of the car so that it no longer looked like a builder's pick-up truck, take the dog out for his favourite pass-time of swimming in the river, and replace the CRT monitor on my desktop computer with a space-saving LCD device. The sun also shone for an hour or so this afternoon, and I was able to give Mr Clarkson a little more attention whilst exposing my hypothalamus to mood-enhancing rays.
I realised whilst driving home this evening with our Chinese take-away that I still felt pretty crappy - interesting how toilet analogies inform the description of low moods - a bit like after a migraine. The dog wasn't feeling too good either, having overdone it on the river bank, and needed extra medication. He, at least, is more settled now.
Actually, my mood must have improved or I would not have felt like writing this. Perhaps I find some perverse pleasure in being able to inflict my misery on the entire Internet - or at least on the one or two people who persist in reading my blogs. Had I tried to write this earlier in the day I would not have had the will to fini
Of course, I had to be bothered. It was my turn to get up and walk the dog. The slight improvement in his condition almost made dragging myself out of bed, taking him out and picking up his poo feel worthwhile but any such benefit was countered by the miserably cold and grey August weather. Back at home, I managed to make mugs of tea for my beloved and me, and then immersed myself in one of Jeremy Clarkson's books for an hour or so. I even managed to find amusement in some of it. Then my beloved needed her breakfast, and the dog needed another wee.
Despite wanting to spend the day curled in a ball under my duvet, I managed to transport a car-full of garden waste to the local tip, to clean the inside of the car so that it no longer looked like a builder's pick-up truck, take the dog out for his favourite pass-time of swimming in the river, and replace the CRT monitor on my desktop computer with a space-saving LCD device. The sun also shone for an hour or so this afternoon, and I was able to give Mr Clarkson a little more attention whilst exposing my hypothalamus to mood-enhancing rays.
I realised whilst driving home this evening with our Chinese take-away that I still felt pretty crappy - interesting how toilet analogies inform the description of low moods - a bit like after a migraine. The dog wasn't feeling too good either, having overdone it on the river bank, and needed extra medication. He, at least, is more settled now.
Actually, my mood must have improved or I would not have felt like writing this. Perhaps I find some perverse pleasure in being able to inflict my misery on the entire Internet - or at least on the one or two people who persist in reading my blogs. Had I tried to write this earlier in the day I would not have had the will to fini
10 August 2010
On Building a Patio
Our garden, when we bought our house, had a brick- and stone-built barbecue in it. After four years, I realised that it was listing increasingly to starboard. The corner of the garden is higher than the surrounding ground, so my suspicion was that the garden was subsiding.
Since my beloved and I are not ardent barbecuers, I suggested that I knock down the structure, and then investigate and rectify the problem. I suspected I would have to dig down to the surrounding level and build a retaining wall, then back-fill the wall and lay out a new flower bed. A fairly straightforward task.
'Oh,' said my beloved, 'if you are getting rid of the barbecue we could have a summer house there.' It is truly wondrous how so simple a statement can can have such far-reaching consequences...
A summer house, of course, is a structure. A structure needs something to stand on. Something large enough and, since we would not want to replace a lopsided barbecue with a lopsided summer house, something level. So now I had to build a patio. I still had to build the retaining wall as above but also
The next set of problems were beyond my control. I got the retaining wall built but had to stop short of expiring because of the heat. I also struggled with the mortar mix. How on earth do people build houses with that stuff? The following weekend, too much rain proved to be an obstacle (weather is a great problem for outdoor work). Having a social life is also a distraction, as is going on holiday for two weeks, and family birthday celebrations 200 miles away.
Anyway, I eventually got back to the job and finished the re-sited wall of the flower bed, creating along the way a nice pile of topsoil for the dog to dig in (at least, he thought it was for him) and which, at some time, I would have to redistribute around the garden or transport to the tip. In the process, I mastered the mortar mix and managed to build the boundary walls, despite the dog's best efforts. I even grew to understand why some people kick their pets, although I love mine too much to resort to such extremes. The spade in my hand did not seem to discourage his interfering ways...
Now, having demolished a barbecue built largely of bricks, and having dug almost as many from the ground, I had a huge pile from which to make hardcore. This entailed putting each brick in turn on a large stone (also dug from the ground) and pulverising it with a 1.8 kg lump hammer. I am amazed how hard bricks are (in the USA, such rock-breaking amounts to hard labour in penal servitude). I made good progress with that at first, then discovered that it gave me Tennis Elbow in my right arm. Further progress proved painful. I needed an alternative way to get the job moving again.
For a while, I toyed with the idea of buying some hardcore but, having looked it up on the Internet, it proved to be largely unavailable in the form that I wanted or that my beloved would tolerate... There was no option but to continue doing it myself by hand. Fortunately, I discovered a two-handed technique that enabled me to avoid the pain.
Work continued, and the pile of bricks grew smaller. Looking at the dwindling pile and the area yet to be filled in, I began to wonder if there would be enough bricks or if I would have to begin prospecting in another part of the garden to see if there was another as yet untapped seam. However, another day's hard labour - a whole day breaking bricks; one whole day; that's a working day doing nothing but smash brick after brick after brick - proved the stockpile to be adequate. I still had a pile of bricks and other rubble to take to the tip. Oh joy! I also now had Golf Elbow in my left arm.
With hardcore laid down, and gravel thrown in to fill the small spaces, the next day's work entailed filling up the area with sand and covering it with slabs. Off to B&Q I went to procure the necessary supplies. It transpired that, because I live on the wrong side of a bridge with a 5 tonne axle weight limit, and could not guarantee that the delivery vehicle could get within 10 metres of our house at all times, the thirty 400mm square slabs I needed could not be delivered. I would have to transport them myself. So, pro tem, I settled for the sand. Fifteen bags I bought, in accordance with the advice the B&Q man gave me. Loaded them in the car myself, I did. Drove home very gingerly, avoiding potholes and bumps so as to preserve my car's suspension.
At home, I took the sensible approach of unloading the sand bags as I needed them. That meant that the seven I apparently did not need were still in the car for taking back to B&Q once I had levelled off the area. Back they went, and I unloaded them from the car onto the B&Q trolley I needed to get them to the returns desk.
I then bought my slabs and loaded them into the car. One at a time. I drove even more carefully this time, amazed at how low the car sat on its suspension. Since I was sure I would need all the slabs, the next job was to get them all, one at a time, out of the car into the garden. I cleared the route, in good manual handling practice, only to find that, on my very first trip, the dog had assumed that the clearing had been for his benefit; he was lying in my path. In fairness to him, he was willing to move on being so instructed, and it only took him two or three tellings-off to cotton on...
I next had to master another black art: cutting slabs. Now, hiring an angle grinder may have made the job easier but I am a tight-wad and, in any case, like a challenge. Not only that, I had already been given an excellent DIY book one Christmas that contained all the enchantments necessary for cutting concrete slabs to size, and had all the requisite magic wands (lump hammer and bolster chisel) in my armoury. I also had two-and-a-half slabs spare for training purposes. With unbounded confidence, I set to and destroyed only four slabs (cf. two-and-a-half) in the process. I ran out of steam before covering the whole area, but at least I got enough slabs down to give an impression of what the the finished patio would look like. I also decided that cutting slabs by magic was never going to be an accomplished skill of mine, and that I'd better find the right tool for the job rather than destroy the world's entire supply of slabs single-handedly.
After the weekend's heavy lifting, I spent the following day at work aching at my desk, struggling to lift even my mug of tea. Admittedly, it is a very large mug. Ordinarily, it would not be a problem but manual labour, for which I was not designed, had taken its toll. I used my lunch break to investigate the cost of hiring an angle grinder or block cutter. Since I couldn't do any slab cutting until such an implement had been acquired, I used the next couple of evenings to begin the relocation of left-over bricks and rubble to the local tip.
Better inspiration followed. I asked a colleague at work if he had an angle grinder and, if so, would he mind if I borrowed it? Of all the people at work, he was my most likely source of a free loan. Jackpot! He had one and was willing to let me borrow it, especially after I explained that I was always reluctant to lend my tools to others for the simple reason that they usually come back broken. I had to buy some cutting discs but, hey, that was a small price to pay.
I got all my slabs cut, and the garden filled with white concrete dust, not to mention the back porch and stairs, my shoes and my socks, in one evening's work. Magic! I even managed to use the ones I had damaged earlier to good effect. Setting the slabs out demonstrated that the sand bed was not as level as I had believed. Further work was necessary to remedy that, and I wondered if I should have kept a few of those bags of sand instead of taking them back to B&Q. I had half a bag left, and reckoned I would need one more.
My beloved made her contribution to the work by riddling and bagging the pile of topsoil excavated from the raised bed and patio area. I found a neighbour whose rockery needed topping out and managed to off-load a fair amount of the soil on her; not literally, of course, that would be cruel.
The project approached its final stages. I bought another bag of sand on the way home from work on Friday. I had a weekend to finish the job. All I had to do was level off the slabs and grout them with mortar. That's all. That, and walk the dog, give a statement to the police (see here for the reason why), receive a huge delivery of logs and move them by hand into the log store, walk the dog again, and eat some lunch. Anyway, I eventually got to levelling the slabs and worked my way around the outside of the patio. I fixed those at the front and back to the supporting bricks with mortar plus a special ingredient that made the mix much more pliable and easy to work with: washing-up liquid! Brilliant! Saturday came to an end and all I had to do on Sunday was level all the slabs in the middle.
Well, actually, I had to go to church, eat my lunch, walk the dog and then set to work on the slabs. All with a badly bruised toe on my left foot, since I had stubbed it on the solid wooden foot of my beloved's grandma's balloon-backed chair on Saturday night. I'm not complaining. I still had one limb in full working order. Working on the slabs was actually a bit of a relief because it meant spending a good part of the day on my knees instead of my feet. I managed to run out of sand with only four slabs to go, two hours after B&Q had closed.
Finally, on Monday evening, after struggling out of B&Q on that badly-bruised toe with a large bag of sand (how many did I take back and why?), I got the slabs all level enough, swept dry mortar into the spaces between, and sprinkled water all over to dampen the mortar. My heart sank a little later that night, when it looked like I would need to go over the grouting again, the mortar having settled when wet.
On checking the patio in the morning, I was elated to find that all was well. I had finished! I had built a patio! It took a long time and sweat and pain but I did it. On top of that, I have learnt a load of new skills which I hope never to use again.
And there you have it. Well, not quite. The rest of the garden has to be put right but at least the patio is finished. We thought about having a barbecue to celebrate but realised that we no longer had the means...
Since my beloved and I are not ardent barbecuers, I suggested that I knock down the structure, and then investigate and rectify the problem. I suspected I would have to dig down to the surrounding level and build a retaining wall, then back-fill the wall and lay out a new flower bed. A fairly straightforward task.
'Oh,' said my beloved, 'if you are getting rid of the barbecue we could have a summer house there.' It is truly wondrous how so simple a statement can can have such far-reaching consequences...
A summer house, of course, is a structure. A structure needs something to stand on. Something large enough and, since we would not want to replace a lopsided barbecue with a lopsided summer house, something level. So now I had to build a patio. I still had to build the retaining wall as above but also
- make the area for the patio wide enough by knocking down a stone wall around a raised flower bed and deep enough by lifting some of the gravel-covered crazy paving,
- dig the bed back and rebuild the wall,
- build boundary walls (a couple of courses of brick), since the ground is not level, to define the front and back levels of the patio,
- provide drainage for the area,
- fill the area with hardcore,
- top it out with sand, and
- lay slabs.
The next set of problems were beyond my control. I got the retaining wall built but had to stop short of expiring because of the heat. I also struggled with the mortar mix. How on earth do people build houses with that stuff? The following weekend, too much rain proved to be an obstacle (weather is a great problem for outdoor work). Having a social life is also a distraction, as is going on holiday for two weeks, and family birthday celebrations 200 miles away.
Anyway, I eventually got back to the job and finished the re-sited wall of the flower bed, creating along the way a nice pile of topsoil for the dog to dig in (at least, he thought it was for him) and which, at some time, I would have to redistribute around the garden or transport to the tip. In the process, I mastered the mortar mix and managed to build the boundary walls, despite the dog's best efforts. I even grew to understand why some people kick their pets, although I love mine too much to resort to such extremes. The spade in my hand did not seem to discourage his interfering ways...
Now, having demolished a barbecue built largely of bricks, and having dug almost as many from the ground, I had a huge pile from which to make hardcore. This entailed putting each brick in turn on a large stone (also dug from the ground) and pulverising it with a 1.8 kg lump hammer. I am amazed how hard bricks are (in the USA, such rock-breaking amounts to hard labour in penal servitude). I made good progress with that at first, then discovered that it gave me Tennis Elbow in my right arm. Further progress proved painful. I needed an alternative way to get the job moving again.
For a while, I toyed with the idea of buying some hardcore but, having looked it up on the Internet, it proved to be largely unavailable in the form that I wanted or that my beloved would tolerate... There was no option but to continue doing it myself by hand. Fortunately, I discovered a two-handed technique that enabled me to avoid the pain.
Work continued, and the pile of bricks grew smaller. Looking at the dwindling pile and the area yet to be filled in, I began to wonder if there would be enough bricks or if I would have to begin prospecting in another part of the garden to see if there was another as yet untapped seam. However, another day's hard labour - a whole day breaking bricks; one whole day; that's a working day doing nothing but smash brick after brick after brick - proved the stockpile to be adequate. I still had a pile of bricks and other rubble to take to the tip. Oh joy! I also now had Golf Elbow in my left arm.
With hardcore laid down, and gravel thrown in to fill the small spaces, the next day's work entailed filling up the area with sand and covering it with slabs. Off to B&Q I went to procure the necessary supplies. It transpired that, because I live on the wrong side of a bridge with a 5 tonne axle weight limit, and could not guarantee that the delivery vehicle could get within 10 metres of our house at all times, the thirty 400mm square slabs I needed could not be delivered. I would have to transport them myself. So, pro tem, I settled for the sand. Fifteen bags I bought, in accordance with the advice the B&Q man gave me. Loaded them in the car myself, I did. Drove home very gingerly, avoiding potholes and bumps so as to preserve my car's suspension.
At home, I took the sensible approach of unloading the sand bags as I needed them. That meant that the seven I apparently did not need were still in the car for taking back to B&Q once I had levelled off the area. Back they went, and I unloaded them from the car onto the B&Q trolley I needed to get them to the returns desk.
I then bought my slabs and loaded them into the car. One at a time. I drove even more carefully this time, amazed at how low the car sat on its suspension. Since I was sure I would need all the slabs, the next job was to get them all, one at a time, out of the car into the garden. I cleared the route, in good manual handling practice, only to find that, on my very first trip, the dog had assumed that the clearing had been for his benefit; he was lying in my path. In fairness to him, he was willing to move on being so instructed, and it only took him two or three tellings-off to cotton on...
I next had to master another black art: cutting slabs. Now, hiring an angle grinder may have made the job easier but I am a tight-wad and, in any case, like a challenge. Not only that, I had already been given an excellent DIY book one Christmas that contained all the enchantments necessary for cutting concrete slabs to size, and had all the requisite magic wands (lump hammer and bolster chisel) in my armoury. I also had two-and-a-half slabs spare for training purposes. With unbounded confidence, I set to and destroyed only four slabs (cf. two-and-a-half) in the process. I ran out of steam before covering the whole area, but at least I got enough slabs down to give an impression of what the the finished patio would look like. I also decided that cutting slabs by magic was never going to be an accomplished skill of mine, and that I'd better find the right tool for the job rather than destroy the world's entire supply of slabs single-handedly.
After the weekend's heavy lifting, I spent the following day at work aching at my desk, struggling to lift even my mug of tea. Admittedly, it is a very large mug. Ordinarily, it would not be a problem but manual labour, for which I was not designed, had taken its toll. I used my lunch break to investigate the cost of hiring an angle grinder or block cutter. Since I couldn't do any slab cutting until such an implement had been acquired, I used the next couple of evenings to begin the relocation of left-over bricks and rubble to the local tip.
Better inspiration followed. I asked a colleague at work if he had an angle grinder and, if so, would he mind if I borrowed it? Of all the people at work, he was my most likely source of a free loan. Jackpot! He had one and was willing to let me borrow it, especially after I explained that I was always reluctant to lend my tools to others for the simple reason that they usually come back broken. I had to buy some cutting discs but, hey, that was a small price to pay.
I got all my slabs cut, and the garden filled with white concrete dust, not to mention the back porch and stairs, my shoes and my socks, in one evening's work. Magic! I even managed to use the ones I had damaged earlier to good effect. Setting the slabs out demonstrated that the sand bed was not as level as I had believed. Further work was necessary to remedy that, and I wondered if I should have kept a few of those bags of sand instead of taking them back to B&Q. I had half a bag left, and reckoned I would need one more.
My beloved made her contribution to the work by riddling and bagging the pile of topsoil excavated from the raised bed and patio area. I found a neighbour whose rockery needed topping out and managed to off-load a fair amount of the soil on her; not literally, of course, that would be cruel.
The project approached its final stages. I bought another bag of sand on the way home from work on Friday. I had a weekend to finish the job. All I had to do was level off the slabs and grout them with mortar. That's all. That, and walk the dog, give a statement to the police (see here for the reason why), receive a huge delivery of logs and move them by hand into the log store, walk the dog again, and eat some lunch. Anyway, I eventually got to levelling the slabs and worked my way around the outside of the patio. I fixed those at the front and back to the supporting bricks with mortar plus a special ingredient that made the mix much more pliable and easy to work with: washing-up liquid! Brilliant! Saturday came to an end and all I had to do on Sunday was level all the slabs in the middle.
Well, actually, I had to go to church, eat my lunch, walk the dog and then set to work on the slabs. All with a badly bruised toe on my left foot, since I had stubbed it on the solid wooden foot of my beloved's grandma's balloon-backed chair on Saturday night. I'm not complaining. I still had one limb in full working order. Working on the slabs was actually a bit of a relief because it meant spending a good part of the day on my knees instead of my feet. I managed to run out of sand with only four slabs to go, two hours after B&Q had closed.
Finally, on Monday evening, after struggling out of B&Q on that badly-bruised toe with a large bag of sand (how many did I take back and why?), I got the slabs all level enough, swept dry mortar into the spaces between, and sprinkled water all over to dampen the mortar. My heart sank a little later that night, when it looked like I would need to go over the grouting again, the mortar having settled when wet.
On checking the patio in the morning, I was elated to find that all was well. I had finished! I had built a patio! It took a long time and sweat and pain but I did it. On top of that, I have learnt a load of new skills which I hope never to use again.
And there you have it. Well, not quite. The rest of the garden has to be put right but at least the patio is finished. We thought about having a barbecue to celebrate but realised that we no longer had the means...
11 May 2010
A Dog's Life - Progress Report
For those of you who may be interested, I am pleased to report that Max is still in good form and generally interested in doggie activities like eating, going for walks, playing with squeaky toys, rolling around the carpet and barking at passers-by.
We took him to see the vet a couple of weeks ago, and she was very impressed with him. He was in perfect working order apart from the leg; he even had to have his annual jabs because it looks like he will be going into kennels for our holiday after all. She thought he had a good few months to go yet so we are confident he will still be waiting for us on our return.
He has the odd day when he's a bit quieter, and he stops for a rest every so often on walks, but he's quite comfortable. Sometimes he only wants to do a short walk. Then he amazes us by taking us for really long ones. Last Wednesday, for instance, he took me a good mile-and-a-half from home and still didn't want to stop - except for a brief rest. I had to remonstrate with him to get him to turn back, using the magic word 'Dinner'. He was good for another two-miler on Friday! Not easy on three legs.
He also shows great interest in my current excavations in the garden (I am building a patio). Digging a knee-deep hole with a large dog trying to help you find whatever it is he thinks I've lost is not easy! He did go and lie down when I told him but lying down between the hole and the pile onto which I'm throwing the soil is unhelpful.
Good old Max!
We took him to see the vet a couple of weeks ago, and she was very impressed with him. He was in perfect working order apart from the leg; he even had to have his annual jabs because it looks like he will be going into kennels for our holiday after all. She thought he had a good few months to go yet so we are confident he will still be waiting for us on our return.
He has the odd day when he's a bit quieter, and he stops for a rest every so often on walks, but he's quite comfortable. Sometimes he only wants to do a short walk. Then he amazes us by taking us for really long ones. Last Wednesday, for instance, he took me a good mile-and-a-half from home and still didn't want to stop - except for a brief rest. I had to remonstrate with him to get him to turn back, using the magic word 'Dinner'. He was good for another two-miler on Friday! Not easy on three legs.
He also shows great interest in my current excavations in the garden (I am building a patio). Digging a knee-deep hole with a large dog trying to help you find whatever it is he thinks I've lost is not easy! He did go and lie down when I told him but lying down between the hole and the pile onto which I'm throwing the soil is unhelpful.
Good old Max!
27 February 2010
A Dog's Life - Still Going Strong!
For those of you who are interested, our dog is still with us and surprising us daily.
He has really had only one bad day so far, on 10 February when he did something to his leg and was obviously in severe pain. That was a traumatic day for me too, as Max stayed extremely quiet for about 24 hours; I thought the final farewell was imminent. Thankfully, an extra dose of his medication took the edge off his pain. The next day, he suddenly sat up and declared (in doggy fashion) that he was OK and wanted to play. He has been pretty good ever since, and has not needed extra pain-killers.
His leg is virtually useless, although he still tries to scratch his ear with it, and the tumour has grown to the extent that the leg is clearly deformed. He has been getting around very well on three legs, and still pulls on his lead like a traction engine. We sometimes have to jog to keep up with him! In his head however, there is nothing wrong with him. He still wants to go out, eat, and play with us, his toys, and other dogs, although we have to limit the extent of his exertions to avoid further injury and pain.
Although he is no longer able to run in the fields or swim in the river or jump into the car, he has adapted well to his limitations, and seems to us to be happy and enjoying a reasonably good quality of life. The cancer is expected already to have spread to his lungs but hitherto there are no clear symptoms. He is sometimes a bit breathless after walks but that could easily be from the effort required to lug his 43kg around on three legs...
Just how long this good spell will continue we have no idea. We are making the most of him while we can, grateful for whatever time we have left with him, grateful that he is comfortable and, at least for now, still happy to be with us.
He has really had only one bad day so far, on 10 February when he did something to his leg and was obviously in severe pain. That was a traumatic day for me too, as Max stayed extremely quiet for about 24 hours; I thought the final farewell was imminent. Thankfully, an extra dose of his medication took the edge off his pain. The next day, he suddenly sat up and declared (in doggy fashion) that he was OK and wanted to play. He has been pretty good ever since, and has not needed extra pain-killers.
His leg is virtually useless, although he still tries to scratch his ear with it, and the tumour has grown to the extent that the leg is clearly deformed. He has been getting around very well on three legs, and still pulls on his lead like a traction engine. We sometimes have to jog to keep up with him! In his head however, there is nothing wrong with him. He still wants to go out, eat, and play with us, his toys, and other dogs, although we have to limit the extent of his exertions to avoid further injury and pain.
Although he is no longer able to run in the fields or swim in the river or jump into the car, he has adapted well to his limitations, and seems to us to be happy and enjoying a reasonably good quality of life. The cancer is expected already to have spread to his lungs but hitherto there are no clear symptoms. He is sometimes a bit breathless after walks but that could easily be from the effort required to lug his 43kg around on three legs...
Just how long this good spell will continue we have no idea. We are making the most of him while we can, grateful for whatever time we have left with him, grateful that he is comfortable and, at least for now, still happy to be with us.
22 January 2010
A Dog's Life - Update
We heard today that the other vet was quite concerned but could not come to a definite conclusion about whether it was cancer or osteomyelitis. He suggested a bone biopsy, and Max is going in on Monday for that. There is a risk that his tibia could be fractured in the process... That could mean losing the leg below the knee - not the worst thing on earth for a domestic dog but, hey, let's hope for the best.
Looking at Max, apart from the horribly pronounced limp and unwillingness to stand on the leg when stationary, you would not know there is anything wrong with him. He is just getting on with being a dog (I think there's a lesson in there somewhere), and still wants to play and go for walks. Certainly, he doesn't seem like something with advanced cancer. He's quite comfortable, being up to his ears in pain-killers.
The vet told me today that osteomyelitis, while serious, is treatable, and he could yet have a good quality of life, even though the bone will not regain its full strength.
We're not sure how long it will be until we get the results of the biopsy but when we do we'll let you know.
Looking at Max, apart from the horribly pronounced limp and unwillingness to stand on the leg when stationary, you would not know there is anything wrong with him. He is just getting on with being a dog (I think there's a lesson in there somewhere), and still wants to play and go for walks. Certainly, he doesn't seem like something with advanced cancer. He's quite comfortable, being up to his ears in pain-killers.
The vet told me today that osteomyelitis, while serious, is treatable, and he could yet have a good quality of life, even though the bone will not regain its full strength.
We're not sure how long it will be until we get the results of the biopsy but when we do we'll let you know.
21 January 2010
A Dog's Life
I cannot really explain the intensity of feeling that grips me as I write this. Suffice it to say that tears have been shed because events I hoped lay many years in the future now potentially lie only a matter of weeks away.
Those who have followed Max's story in this blog will be aware of the difficulties he has experienced with his knees, having had major surgery to compensate for the loss of both cruciate ligaments. Those difficulties were visited on us again in November last year when Max started limping once more on his left leg, the first he had repaired. We returned him to the vet who had operated on him, and he agreed with us that there may have been a problem with the metal plate that had been inserted, or the degree of arthritis known to be in the joint had worsened. Since his bones were fully repaired and the plate redundant, it was felt that the best course of action would be to take the plate out and see what happened. The procedure was simple, and recovery straightforward.
After ten days, the stitches were removed and normal exercise resumed, perhaps a little too quickly because Max started limping again. We slowed him down for a while, and got him a course of anti-inflammatories from the vet. We were pleased to see he improved and got back to his normal, active self. X-rays showed no change, so we were confident that the plate had been the problem and his post-op lameness the result of soft tissues taking time to heal.
Then came the snow which, in our area, was quickly compacted to sheet ice. Max began sliding about and limping again. Even worse, he began holding up his leg when standing. We suspected more ligament damage that was not getting chance to heal because of the icy conditions. Back to the vet we went, and more anti-inflammatories were prescribed. Ten days later he was, if anything, worse and so yesterday we went once more to the local vet for x-rays.
The news was not good. The x-rays showed poor bone density in his tibia, the type of condition seen in either bone cancer or osteomyelitis, neither of which has a good prognosis. The x-rays have been sent to the other vet for comparison and clarification of the diagnosis. If cancer is confirmed, we can expect Max to have only a few weeks to live, due to the aggressive nature of the disease. If the other condition, there is little that can be done to restore the strength of the bone, which grows more and more likely to fracture irreparably; however long that may be held at bay, his days of charging about are over.
We expect to hear more on Friday.
He, of course, understands none of this. We however, face losing our wonderful friend, a dearly-loved family member. Oh, how painful that thought is. Oh, how we shall miss him...
Those who have followed Max's story in this blog will be aware of the difficulties he has experienced with his knees, having had major surgery to compensate for the loss of both cruciate ligaments. Those difficulties were visited on us again in November last year when Max started limping once more on his left leg, the first he had repaired. We returned him to the vet who had operated on him, and he agreed with us that there may have been a problem with the metal plate that had been inserted, or the degree of arthritis known to be in the joint had worsened. Since his bones were fully repaired and the plate redundant, it was felt that the best course of action would be to take the plate out and see what happened. The procedure was simple, and recovery straightforward.
After ten days, the stitches were removed and normal exercise resumed, perhaps a little too quickly because Max started limping again. We slowed him down for a while, and got him a course of anti-inflammatories from the vet. We were pleased to see he improved and got back to his normal, active self. X-rays showed no change, so we were confident that the plate had been the problem and his post-op lameness the result of soft tissues taking time to heal.
Then came the snow which, in our area, was quickly compacted to sheet ice. Max began sliding about and limping again. Even worse, he began holding up his leg when standing. We suspected more ligament damage that was not getting chance to heal because of the icy conditions. Back to the vet we went, and more anti-inflammatories were prescribed. Ten days later he was, if anything, worse and so yesterday we went once more to the local vet for x-rays.
The news was not good. The x-rays showed poor bone density in his tibia, the type of condition seen in either bone cancer or osteomyelitis, neither of which has a good prognosis. The x-rays have been sent to the other vet for comparison and clarification of the diagnosis. If cancer is confirmed, we can expect Max to have only a few weeks to live, due to the aggressive nature of the disease. If the other condition, there is little that can be done to restore the strength of the bone, which grows more and more likely to fracture irreparably; however long that may be held at bay, his days of charging about are over.
We expect to hear more on Friday.
He, of course, understands none of this. We however, face losing our wonderful friend, a dearly-loved family member. Oh, how painful that thought is. Oh, how we shall miss him...
20 December 2008
Still Minding the Dog Some More Again
I know I've apologised for being a dog bore but I'm sure that some of you may be wondering what became of our Maxie.
If you remember, we were worried about his wound not healing properly and his not using his leg as well as we had expected. To cut a long story short (thank goodness for that, I hear you say), we took him back to the vet where he had the surgery done for investigations. X-rays showed that he had fractured his fibula, the other bone in his lower leg. Apparently, this is not an unknown complication of the TPLO procedure. The fibula is attached to the top of the tibia and is put under stress by the rotation produced by the surgery. In mature dogs, the bone is relatively fragile and a knock can make it snap in these circumstances. That explained why Max was still lame, and the vet explained that it would heal of its own accord and not to worry. He seemed unconcerned about the wound, expecting it to heal soon.
The wound did dry but developed a cyst-like swelling and began to weep again. We went to our own vet to get that checked and were sent home with antibiotics and instructions to keep the wound clean with a strong saline solution. He had to continue wearing his lampshade.
To cut a shortened story shorter, I am pleased to report that his wound finally dried up last Monday, and he has not had to wear his lampshade since. He also began using his leg much more normally. On Friday, he went for his eight-week post op. x-ray that showed his bones were healing nicely. We can now begin exercise - just ten minutes twice a day to begin with, building up over the next three or four months.
The most surprising thing is that Max seems to know that he has been discharged from the vet and suddenly wants to play and have fun again. He was exactly the same on being discharged after his previous TPLO. Perhaps he has merely picked up on our relief at being let out of prison. Perhaps he really has understood all our careful explanations...
If you remember, we were worried about his wound not healing properly and his not using his leg as well as we had expected. To cut a long story short (thank goodness for that, I hear you say), we took him back to the vet where he had the surgery done for investigations. X-rays showed that he had fractured his fibula, the other bone in his lower leg. Apparently, this is not an unknown complication of the TPLO procedure. The fibula is attached to the top of the tibia and is put under stress by the rotation produced by the surgery. In mature dogs, the bone is relatively fragile and a knock can make it snap in these circumstances. That explained why Max was still lame, and the vet explained that it would heal of its own accord and not to worry. He seemed unconcerned about the wound, expecting it to heal soon.
The wound did dry but developed a cyst-like swelling and began to weep again. We went to our own vet to get that checked and were sent home with antibiotics and instructions to keep the wound clean with a strong saline solution. He had to continue wearing his lampshade.
To cut a shortened story shorter, I am pleased to report that his wound finally dried up last Monday, and he has not had to wear his lampshade since. He also began using his leg much more normally. On Friday, he went for his eight-week post op. x-ray that showed his bones were healing nicely. We can now begin exercise - just ten minutes twice a day to begin with, building up over the next three or four months.
The most surprising thing is that Max seems to know that he has been discharged from the vet and suddenly wants to play and have fun again. He was exactly the same on being discharged after his previous TPLO. Perhaps he has merely picked up on our relief at being let out of prison. Perhaps he really has understood all our careful explanations...
09 November 2008
Apologies for being a Dog Bore
I wish to apologise to my readers for the number of posts about my dog's current predicament. I realise that it may be a bit much. My only defence is that I think it is a bit much and I have to get it out of my system somehow... I'm sorry for inflicting it on you. Thank you for your compassion and understanding.
Anyway, there are different things to read in other parts of my Bloggery (see the side-bar for details). I hope you can forgive my excesses and keep on coming back. Don't worry, the current phase will pass and I will get back to my normal self again. Whatever that may be...
Anyway, there are different things to read in other parts of my Bloggery (see the side-bar for details). I hope you can forgive my excesses and keep on coming back. Don't worry, the current phase will pass and I will get back to my normal self again. Whatever that may be...
08 November 2008
Still Minding the Dog Some More
Last night, I had the night off. I went with a friend to see the new Bond movie (well worth seeing), leaving my beloved in charge of the dog (with her full agreement, of course). Max's wound had stayed closed all the previous night and the dressing that I had left on overnight was clean and dry yesterday morning. We had felt confident enough to leave the dressing off for the rest of the day. His knee was rather swollen with fluid however, and we were rather hoping that his body would start to re-absorb the fluid and that the swelling would go down.
There had been no great change during the day but on my return from the cinema, part off his wound was looking swollen and angry. We feared he had an infection and that the wound might burst open. We resolved to call the vet's first thing in the morning and to put a dressing on his leg overnight, just in case. My beloved took the air-bed so that I could get a decent night's sleep upstairs.
The night passed quickly and I dreamed about trying to contact the vet's but being cut off all the time. I was awoken before the alarm went off by my beloved climbing the stairs to the bathroom.
'What sort of night did you have?' I asked.
'OK but a bit eventful. He got up in the middle of the night and started strutting around the room. His wound had popped open and he was dripping all over the place. I wrapped extra dressing on and cleaned him up as best I could.'
Downstairs we went and I was relieved to see that my beloved's 'all over the place' was typical female hyperbole, as in 'You never clean the toilet' or 'You always burn the toast' or 'there's mud everywhere': none of these expressions is true. We cut the dressing off and were relieved to see that all that had popped was a recently-healed suture hole. The removed dressing was sodden and his hitherto swollen knee was back to normal size. The dressing had no smell to it, so infection seems not to be a problem. Apart from the suture hole, the wound looked intact.
All-in-all, a trip to the vet's seemed to be pointless. We redressed the wound, my beloved went shopping, and I settled down to a cosy day at home in the cell, sorry, living room. I've had to change the dressing again after four hours and he seems a bit uncomfortable but is quiet. Meanwhile, we're keeping a close eye on him.
We're feeling quite anxious that he is not walking on the repaired leg as well as he did last time. I guess it must be quite sore. As I write this, he is stretched out on his bed looking quite relaxed and at ease. It will be wonderful to see him swimming and charging about again...
There had been no great change during the day but on my return from the cinema, part off his wound was looking swollen and angry. We feared he had an infection and that the wound might burst open. We resolved to call the vet's first thing in the morning and to put a dressing on his leg overnight, just in case. My beloved took the air-bed so that I could get a decent night's sleep upstairs.
The night passed quickly and I dreamed about trying to contact the vet's but being cut off all the time. I was awoken before the alarm went off by my beloved climbing the stairs to the bathroom.
'What sort of night did you have?' I asked.
'OK but a bit eventful. He got up in the middle of the night and started strutting around the room. His wound had popped open and he was dripping all over the place. I wrapped extra dressing on and cleaned him up as best I could.'
Downstairs we went and I was relieved to see that my beloved's 'all over the place' was typical female hyperbole, as in 'You never clean the toilet' or 'You always burn the toast' or 'there's mud everywhere': none of these expressions is true. We cut the dressing off and were relieved to see that all that had popped was a recently-healed suture hole. The removed dressing was sodden and his hitherto swollen knee was back to normal size. The dressing had no smell to it, so infection seems not to be a problem. Apart from the suture hole, the wound looked intact.
All-in-all, a trip to the vet's seemed to be pointless. We redressed the wound, my beloved went shopping, and I settled down to a cosy day at home in the cell, sorry, living room. I've had to change the dressing again after four hours and he seems a bit uncomfortable but is quiet. Meanwhile, we're keeping a close eye on him.
We're feeling quite anxious that he is not walking on the repaired leg as well as he did last time. I guess it must be quite sore. As I write this, he is stretched out on his bed looking quite relaxed and at ease. It will be wonderful to see him swimming and charging about again...
06 November 2008
Minding the Dog Some More
Well, I am very pleased to announce that we seem to be making some progress with our doggie. As I lay on my air-bed next to him last night, I prayed for all I was worth that his wound would mend. Since we are told that God is kind to all he has made, I thought it a not unreasonable request.
I must admit, it was a prayer of desperation, as we have been in constant supervision of Max since his operation. It is very important that he does nothing like leaping onto the furniture, or climbing up the door to see the postman off, or spending the whole night licking his wound. He came home after surgery on 21 October and so, for the last 16 days, one of us has slept beside him on that air-bed I mentioned. We had hoped this miserable situation would cease after ten days when his stitches came out but, as I explained in the previous posting, that was not to be.
It is not just our sleeping arrangements that have been thrown into disarray. During his first week back home, I took half-days off work to keep an eye on him during the mornings while my beloved went to work. When she came home at lunch time, I went into work for the afternoon. I can tell you without any doubt that there is a limit to how much daytime TV a man can take. After the first week, I began working from home for half days, and then going in after lunch. Life has been far from normal, and all three of us feel like we have been imprisoned in the living room.
This morning, I removed his serous-stained dressing to replace it with a clean one. Guess what: the wound was looking pretty good and showed no sign of weeping. I cleaned it up and left the wound undressed for about half an hour, just to be sure. I did put a dressing on, just in case, but I am happy to report at the end of the day that the same dressing looks clean and dry, whereas previous experience gave the expectation that it would be obviously stained and damp. It is so clean that I decided to leave it on overnight so as not to mess about with his tender tissues any more than is necessary and with the hope that we can dispense with dressings altogether tomorrow.
On the downside, his reluctance to walk on the leg has continued if not increased. As I have mentioned previously, this may well be a result of the aggravation caused by handling the wound, something that has had to persist by virtue of the need to change dressings and keep the wound clean with salt-water washes. An additional factor may well be the absence of pain-relief, since his medication ran out about the same time as his stitches were removed. We've organised some anti-imflamatory pain killers now, so we hope he will begin to feel more comfortable and start using the leg again.
As I lie beside him on my air-bed tonight, you can guess what I will be praying for...
I must admit, it was a prayer of desperation, as we have been in constant supervision of Max since his operation. It is very important that he does nothing like leaping onto the furniture, or climbing up the door to see the postman off, or spending the whole night licking his wound. He came home after surgery on 21 October and so, for the last 16 days, one of us has slept beside him on that air-bed I mentioned. We had hoped this miserable situation would cease after ten days when his stitches came out but, as I explained in the previous posting, that was not to be.
It is not just our sleeping arrangements that have been thrown into disarray. During his first week back home, I took half-days off work to keep an eye on him during the mornings while my beloved went to work. When she came home at lunch time, I went into work for the afternoon. I can tell you without any doubt that there is a limit to how much daytime TV a man can take. After the first week, I began working from home for half days, and then going in after lunch. Life has been far from normal, and all three of us feel like we have been imprisoned in the living room.
This morning, I removed his serous-stained dressing to replace it with a clean one. Guess what: the wound was looking pretty good and showed no sign of weeping. I cleaned it up and left the wound undressed for about half an hour, just to be sure. I did put a dressing on, just in case, but I am happy to report at the end of the day that the same dressing looks clean and dry, whereas previous experience gave the expectation that it would be obviously stained and damp. It is so clean that I decided to leave it on overnight so as not to mess about with his tender tissues any more than is necessary and with the hope that we can dispense with dressings altogether tomorrow.
On the downside, his reluctance to walk on the leg has continued if not increased. As I have mentioned previously, this may well be a result of the aggravation caused by handling the wound, something that has had to persist by virtue of the need to change dressings and keep the wound clean with salt-water washes. An additional factor may well be the absence of pain-relief, since his medication ran out about the same time as his stitches were removed. We've organised some anti-imflamatory pain killers now, so we hope he will begin to feel more comfortable and start using the leg again.
As I lie beside him on my air-bed tonight, you can guess what I will be praying for...
01 November 2008
Still Minding the Dog
Well, Max's early phase of recovery went better this time: he soon remembered how to poo and wee in the garden - something he would normally never consider an option - and we got his stitches out on day 10. The removal of the stitches and the ensuing couple of days are the subject of this communication; the squeemish should look away now (no, there are no pictures, that was a joke).
We went to the vet's on Thursday with a dog who was doing very well and was walking fairly comfortably on his leg after not using it much at all for the first few days after surgery. In we went, with Max's usual, 'I know where we are! This way! Follow me!' attitude. Once inside, we got his predictable, 'What have you brought me here for?' stance, his ears down, his tail between his legs, his legs quivering. We sat waiting long enough for Max to become resigned to his predicament and then the nurse called us through.
The wound looked pretty good on removal of the dressing, and the stitches came out fairly quickly and easily with not much objection from Max. He was pleased to be heading out of the consulting room so soon, and amused himself by saying hello to a Weimarama in reception while we procured worming tablets (for him, of course).
We went outside to the car and I lifted him into the back (he's not allowed to jump in while his bone mends and the leg is meanwhile held together by a small metal plate) and sat with him. It was at that point that I noticed my hand was wet. A quick inspection showed me that his wound was leaking serous fluid; it was odourless and only slightly pink, demonstrating the absence of infection and no serious bleeding. Max was a bit confused by our response, which was to lift him back out of the car and to take him back into the vet's.
It appeared that the leakage was from the suture wounds that were now open, having been plugged hitherto by the sutures. There was quite a large seroma (a serous-filled cavity) around the site of the surgery, and the nurse and vet spent a bit of time applying gentle pressure to express as much of the fluid as possible before putting a new dressing over the scar and letting us go again. No-one seemed too worried at what they saw.
Unfortunately, since then Max seems to have been quite subdued and uncomfortable, hardly using his wounded leg. I suspect that all the manipulation to get the fluid out has aggravated his tender tissues and made the wound quite sore again. The wound was dry the next day so we were quite confident that a satifactory resolution was emerging.
This morning, a different picture presented itself. The wound was leaking again, and his leg looks as though he has been licking it during the night. There is a small hole through which the fluid is leaking. I'm not sure if it is a suture wound or first indication that the wound has begun to break down as a result of the fluid inside and Max's attention from the outside. Max is still reluctant to walk on his leg. We dried the wound and then dressed it to keep it clean and dry and to discourage licking, and plan to keep a close eye on things and return to the vet's early in the week if there is further deterioration or no improvement.
We now have a quiet, house-tied weekend ahead of us just when we thought we might be getting a bit more freedom, although my beloved has gone shopping for the day to try and shake off the stir-craziness induced by the last week of confinement. It's my turn to go loopy today... Max is also looking a bit sorry for himself and will probably feel even more so when he discovers that he has to sleep with his lampshade on again...
We went to the vet's on Thursday with a dog who was doing very well and was walking fairly comfortably on his leg after not using it much at all for the first few days after surgery. In we went, with Max's usual, 'I know where we are! This way! Follow me!' attitude. Once inside, we got his predictable, 'What have you brought me here for?' stance, his ears down, his tail between his legs, his legs quivering. We sat waiting long enough for Max to become resigned to his predicament and then the nurse called us through.
The wound looked pretty good on removal of the dressing, and the stitches came out fairly quickly and easily with not much objection from Max. He was pleased to be heading out of the consulting room so soon, and amused himself by saying hello to a Weimarama in reception while we procured worming tablets (for him, of course).
We went outside to the car and I lifted him into the back (he's not allowed to jump in while his bone mends and the leg is meanwhile held together by a small metal plate) and sat with him. It was at that point that I noticed my hand was wet. A quick inspection showed me that his wound was leaking serous fluid; it was odourless and only slightly pink, demonstrating the absence of infection and no serious bleeding. Max was a bit confused by our response, which was to lift him back out of the car and to take him back into the vet's.
It appeared that the leakage was from the suture wounds that were now open, having been plugged hitherto by the sutures. There was quite a large seroma (a serous-filled cavity) around the site of the surgery, and the nurse and vet spent a bit of time applying gentle pressure to express as much of the fluid as possible before putting a new dressing over the scar and letting us go again. No-one seemed too worried at what they saw.
Unfortunately, since then Max seems to have been quite subdued and uncomfortable, hardly using his wounded leg. I suspect that all the manipulation to get the fluid out has aggravated his tender tissues and made the wound quite sore again. The wound was dry the next day so we were quite confident that a satifactory resolution was emerging.
This morning, a different picture presented itself. The wound was leaking again, and his leg looks as though he has been licking it during the night. There is a small hole through which the fluid is leaking. I'm not sure if it is a suture wound or first indication that the wound has begun to break down as a result of the fluid inside and Max's attention from the outside. Max is still reluctant to walk on his leg. We dried the wound and then dressed it to keep it clean and dry and to discourage licking, and plan to keep a close eye on things and return to the vet's early in the week if there is further deterioration or no improvement.
We now have a quiet, house-tied weekend ahead of us just when we thought we might be getting a bit more freedom, although my beloved has gone shopping for the day to try and shake off the stir-craziness induced by the last week of confinement. It's my turn to go loopy today... Max is also looking a bit sorry for himself and will probably feel even more so when he discovers that he has to sleep with his lampshade on again...
22 October 2008
Minding the Dog
Today, I am sitting at home minding the dog, Max. He's just had major surgery on his right leg because of a damaged cruciate ligament. Actually, this is the second time he's had this procedure, his left leg having been repaired in January this year. We were hoping never to have to go through this process again but that was not to be; he damaged his right leg a few weeks ago.The procedure is known as Tibial Plateau-levelling Osteotomy (TPLO) and basically comprises the re-orientation of the tibial surface of the knee joint to reduce the slope and obviate the need for a functional cruciate ligament. It's an amazingly successful procedure, as Max's recovery from the previous episode demonstrated. It's also quite expensive. The insurance paid for the first procedure but I've a dreadful suspiscion that they will try to wriggle out of paying for this one...
The recovery from a TPLO is long and tedious. The first ten days are probably the worst: he has stitches and a remarkable ability to remove them if given the chance, a wound that has the potential to become infected or to fail to heal (both of which happened last time), and a unfailing explosive reaction to anyone knocking the door or making a noise outside. Until the stitches come out, one of us has to sleep downstairs with him because he is too big to fit into his large cage whilst wearing a buster collar (colloquially referred to as his 'lampshade') and we have to be ready to restrain him if necessary. Once the stitches are out he can sleep unattended in his cage and we can sleep in our bed again. For the first six weeks while the bone repairs he is allowed no exercise at all, except for walking into the garden for toilet duties. Thereafter, and up to six months post-op, we will be gradually building up the levels of exercise on the lead (starting at five minutes) until the patient is able to run about again.
Actually, Max did remarkably well the first time around, reaching full fitness as early as five months after surgery. Full athletic performance was restored, and he was able to enjoy again all the pleasures he was used to - such as swimming, running, chasing tennis balls and generally charging about like a mad thing. All-in-all, the prognosis is good, although it will involve putting our lives on hold for a couple of months (again), and we are looking forward to having our wonderful doggie back to his old self. Fortunately, he has only two back legs and so neither he nor we will have to go through this one again...
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