Taquito Chronicles: Post-Op

By the end of his first two weeks with us, Taquito was getting the hang of things. He was growling less, barking less, peeing less and overall being more cute, snuggly and more gremlin-like and less over-the-top macho little dog-like.

We took a second trip to Marymoor, and he was perfect on the flexi-leash. And I brought him with Pooka and Olli to another (better-fenced-in) dog park, took a deep breath and unclipped the leash. I was so proud -- he sniffed and greeted other dogs, stuck close and came back running when he strayed too far.

Tuesday, everything changed, again. I dropped him off early in the morning for surgery on his luxating patella -- a condition caused, the vet says, by overbreeding of little dogs that results in bowed legs and kneecaps that pop out of place. When I picked him up Tuesday night, his back right quarter was shaved bald and he had an ugly incision site with big stitches.

Little Quito was completely out of it until midday Wednesday; since then, he's been absolutely ticked off that he's a) stuck in a crate or a pen, b) wearing a cone on his head and c) being picked up -- the indignity! -- and carried outside for bathroom breaks.

I spent Wednesday working from home, keeping an eye on him. Pooks and Olli were also in the house, and they drove me absolutely bonkers with attention-seeking antics, wrestling matches and whining. By the end of the day, I was ready to have a total meltdown. I wanted to scream at the dogs to shut the hell up. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run really, really fast.

Between getting Quito to surgery and home and mapping out the plan for his 6-week recovery, I didn't really notice how deeply I was affected. It's heartbreaking to see such a wild, energetic little guy come home drugged out and shivering. To see the swelling and bruising set in around the incision. To hear him yelp in pain when he accidentally puts weight on the bad leg. To listen to him cry in frustration and loneliness. Add to that the guilty feeling that I'm not taking very good care of my own dog right now, and it was a recipe for losing it.

I swam last night, and I'm feeling better today. He spent a good chunk of the day at home alone in his crate; now he's sleeping in his bed leashed to the chair I'm sitting in. I don't know how to harden my heart a little about all of this, even though I know I must. After all, he's here in our warm quiet home, not in the cold, noisy shelter. And there's almost nothing I can do for him to help his healing along other than locking him in his crate for the next few days, no matter how much he hates it.

Taquito Chronicles: Food Motivation

Last night after the dogs all had dinner, I thought I'd try to do a little work with Taquito on the "go to your bed" command. So I brought out the clicker and threw some kibble in my pocket, because that little guy will work for any kind of food.

Big mistake. The first click summoned Pooka out of thin air. "Hello? I'm right here? If there's clicking, there's treating, and if there's treating, it should be in MY MOUTH?" She decided Taquito wasn't a fast enough study, so she thought she'd show him by example what "go to your bed" means. By putting her big self into his tiny bed. Emphatically. What could I do? Click, treat for Pooka.

This drove Taquito insane, and he began buzzing and jumping all around me, trying to get his nose into my pocket. End result: a snapping Pooka and a snarling chihuahua, and me desperately trying to empty my pockets so that neither of them would be trying to crawl in and get the treats.

Hopefully this weekend I'll carve out some one-on-one training time for the little guy, because clearly working with Pooka around is out of the question.

Update: I forgot to mention that he was doing really well on the peeing inside...until O. came home last night. I was dead asleep, but apparently he dashed downstairs and promptly peed on the leg of the sofa. Sigh.