Last night before zipping across town for dinner with L., Pooka and I walked over the ridge to our local dog run -- dusty in summertime, it turns out, after months of mud wrestling. It was a small crowd, but Betty, a black malamute-shepherd-somethingorother showed up shortly after we did, and she and Pooka bared teeth and played bite-face rough and tumble for a bit as per usual.
A man walked in with two soft, shiny Brittany spaniel siblings, nearly a year old. Pooka romped a bit with them -- Abby and Dodger -- then back to dinosaur madness with Betty. I chatted with the spaniels' dad for a few moments, then noticed that Dodger appeared to be trying to cough to clear his throat, or throw up a little something. Pooka does this when she has gotten some dirt or icky bark in her mouth, or tries to swallow grass in a hurry, so I wasn't so concerned.
But then, the poor thing let loose a few little spurts of very watery poo, and before our eyes grew weak and collapsed, eyes closing, rolling back.
Their father B. was shocked, frozen. He and tried to shake/revive the pup, who faded in and out for a minute or two. I asked if he drove, then told him I'd grab the other dog if he'd pick up Dodge, and help him get to the car and ultimately the vet. On our way out, Betty's mom reminded us of the 24-hour pet emergency room nearby.
When B. put Dodger in the back of his little SUV, he didn't want to leave him. I stood there, awkwardly, asking if he had his cell phone (yes), if he had the vet's number (no), if he wanted me to come along. At first he said no, but when it was clear that he was overwhelmed, I offered again to hold the dog while we drove to the ER. The second time he said yes, so I tossed Pooka in the back of his car with Abby (who promptly jumped the seat, but Pooka was perfect and calm), climbed into his passenger seat and took on the task of keeping sweet, soft little Dodge awake.
His eyes were open, mostly, but he wasn't moving. When he seemed set to fade out, I took a page from Jenny's book and blew in his nose, knowing that many dogs hate it. It seemed to do the trick to get the little boy focused and alert.
When we got to the hospital, B. took Dodger and rushed him in, and I followed with Abby and Pooks, who continued to behave as if everything were normal. As I walked in, a nurse was taking Dodger upstairs, and B. was filling out forms. Once he was settled, I handed him Abby's leash, turned down his offer to drive me back up toward the park and said farewell, shaking off his kind "I owe you" comments. God knows if I were in the same situation, I'd want some help. And honestly, the feeling of taking charge and doing something about this sad, stressful situation made me feel good, energized, whole.
I was going to be late for dinner. Pooka and I half-ran, half-walked home from essentiallly Fremont to Hazard Flats, I called L. to warn of my tardiness, and hopped in the car. But I couldn't stop thinking about this sweet, soft little boy I completely fell in love with while holding him on my lap. After dinner and a stop at J.'s for a nice chat, I headed home on a route that would take me close to the hospital. I knocked on the door and the same nurse came out, and was, despite my fears, perfectly OK telling me that little Dodger was on IV fluids, resting comfortably and staying the night. She didn't know what was wrong yet. Test results weren't in.
I hope she tells B. I stopped by. I hope I see them in the neighborhood again soon. I wonder if I'm in the wrong profession, because I want to feel like that more often. I am terrified, though not practically so, that Pooka will some day collapse out of the blue. Mortality.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
New collar
I was inexplicably attached to Pooka's first collar. When I bought it, it was bright green, a deep grass green, with reflective stitching. Simple, pet-store staple. As the days stretched into weeks, the collar grew faded, dusty, stinky and more stinky. I washed the collar. The collar got stinkier. I felt a little bit of panic at the thought of getting Pooka a new collar, like her identity might be tied somehow to this ratty green thing. Like giving up blankie, that was the feeling.
Then, I thought, well, I could get her another green collar...
And then I got over it. At Bark, I found this fabulous bright red and blue lobster collar, perfect for summer, despite being so far away from beloved Cape Cod. Pooka has gotten lots of compliments. (By the way, you can click on the "Jessica Jessica" link under the photo to see the rest of the recent Flickr uploads.)
This morning, I woke at 6am to find her sitting up, ears perked, staring at the closet door. A few minutes later, she was whining at the closet. Sarah's kitties must have been scratching around on the other side of the wall, but Pooka was insistent that she investigate. I feel very safe from whatever horrors might haunt us in the closet now.
In other news, the toenail is growing in -- a bit splotchy and crooked, but starting once again to resemble toenail in shape and length.
Also, I thought I left my carefully prepared lunch sandwich within Pooka's reach yesterday (it's nowhere to be found), but I came home to no sign of sandwich or the large plastic bag, originally from a package of English muffins, in which I had stashed it. So far, no evidence that she stashed it or tried to digest it. I am puzzled.
Also, Pooka is really shaping up to be a Very Good Dog. She's much less anxious than in the early days, as evidenced by her seeming contentedness to flop down wherever I happen to be and chill, rather than pace endlessly through the house. She still does her insane-dance when I come home after a long stretch away, but I think it's overall a sign of happiness, rather than pent-up neurosis. These days when I get home, she has been running to grab a toy, then invites me to a game of "chase me in tight circles around the couch, first one direction and then the other, but I won't chase you if you get the toy, but you can chase me again if you give it back to me," which is our favorite.
Then, I thought, well, I could get her another green collar...
And then I got over it. At Bark, I found this fabulous bright red and blue lobster collar, perfect for summer, despite being so far away from beloved Cape Cod. Pooka has gotten lots of compliments. (By the way, you can click on the "Jessica Jessica" link under the photo to see the rest of the recent Flickr uploads.)
This morning, I woke at 6am to find her sitting up, ears perked, staring at the closet door. A few minutes later, she was whining at the closet. Sarah's kitties must have been scratching around on the other side of the wall, but Pooka was insistent that she investigate. I feel very safe from whatever horrors might haunt us in the closet now.
In other news, the toenail is growing in -- a bit splotchy and crooked, but starting once again to resemble toenail in shape and length.
Also, I thought I left my carefully prepared lunch sandwich within Pooka's reach yesterday (it's nowhere to be found), but I came home to no sign of sandwich or the large plastic bag, originally from a package of English muffins, in which I had stashed it. So far, no evidence that she stashed it or tried to digest it. I am puzzled.
Also, Pooka is really shaping up to be a Very Good Dog. She's much less anxious than in the early days, as evidenced by her seeming contentedness to flop down wherever I happen to be and chill, rather than pace endlessly through the house. She still does her insane-dance when I come home after a long stretch away, but I think it's overall a sign of happiness, rather than pent-up neurosis. These days when I get home, she has been running to grab a toy, then invites me to a game of "chase me in tight circles around the couch, first one direction and then the other, but I won't chase you if you get the toy, but you can chase me again if you give it back to me," which is our favorite.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Excellent news
Pooka and I went to the vet after work tonight, fearing the worst. Dr. M had used the dreaded a-word to describe what could happen if Pook's little toe didn't heal over, and to my unpracticed eye, not all that much had changed since we took the bandage off almost two weeks ago.
In the waiting room, P. got all riled up by a mewling kitty, but she settled down as we waited for our appointment with Dr. R. On the one hand, I worried he wouldn't have reviewed Pooka's information; on the other, perhaps he wasn't quite so scalpel-happy as Dr. M.
His examination of the Pook's toe was quick and positive: it's healing fine, and he expects a full new toenail to regenerate. Really? Completely the opposite of Dr. M's pessimistic outlook, but we'll take it. He even said it was OK for her to start licking it a little (less than 5 minutes), and for her to get out and play again (though not on gravel or crushed seashells -- dry humor, perhaps).
"You're responsible for this foot again," he told her very seriously. "No one else is going to take care of this for you now."
She listened intently.
In the waiting room, P. got all riled up by a mewling kitty, but she settled down as we waited for our appointment with Dr. R. On the one hand, I worried he wouldn't have reviewed Pooka's information; on the other, perhaps he wasn't quite so scalpel-happy as Dr. M.
His examination of the Pook's toe was quick and positive: it's healing fine, and he expects a full new toenail to regenerate. Really? Completely the opposite of Dr. M's pessimistic outlook, but we'll take it. He even said it was OK for her to start licking it a little (less than 5 minutes), and for her to get out and play again (though not on gravel or crushed seashells -- dry humor, perhaps).
"You're responsible for this foot again," he told her very seriously. "No one else is going to take care of this for you now."
She listened intently.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Poor conehead Pooka
This is a repost, because when I used the online editing tool on Flickr to crop, it disappeared from the blog.
Pooka is getting used to the cone. H., who is here for a long weekend, gives me updates on how she's doing, and from her perspective, Miss P. seems to be functioning like a regular dog, if a bit of a clumsy one.
The one drawback is that she doesn't seem to be able to find a good place to poop as readily. It could be some 'irregularity' driven by the antibiotics she's wolfing down hidden in peanut butter blobs, of course. But having to walk her four times a night until she's REALLY gotta go is going to get old.
Pooka is getting used to the cone. H., who is here for a long weekend, gives me updates on how she's doing, and from her perspective, Miss P. seems to be functioning like a regular dog, if a bit of a clumsy one.
The one drawback is that she doesn't seem to be able to find a good place to poop as readily. It could be some 'irregularity' driven by the antibiotics she's wolfing down hidden in peanut butter blobs, of course. But having to walk her four times a night until she's REALLY gotta go is going to get old.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Am I crazy?
I just clicked over to the Rhodesian Ridgeback rescue site and carefully read over all the Northwest region listings, with the idea that maybe if I were to get a second dog, I'd get another Ridgeback companion for Pooka.
Right around when I said "get a second dog" is when I'm expecting to hear the "You must be crazy" responses...why is it so quiet in here?
Right around when I said "get a second dog" is when I'm expecting to hear the "You must be crazy" responses...why is it so quiet in here?
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
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