Addition to the list of odd things Pooka likes:

Hunks of frozen spinach! Who knew?

Overdue update

I took Pooks in for 8-weeks-post-op X-rays last week. Dr. A called me up at noon, and when his first question was, "So, how has she been behaving at home?" I knew it wasn't good.

Summary: The screws are loose, and it probably happened in the first few weeks. Flash back to the handful of times Miss P. tried to stand on my slippery floors, only to have her legs slide out from under her. Flop. If, when she starts playing again, they bother her, she will need to have them removed.

Also, the positioning means her pelvis is now more narrow than Dr. A would like, but since she's having no problems pooping, it's not a big deal.

On the side Dr. A didn't repair, the break is still...broken.

As was my heart, in the hours after that call. Guilt, of course, is a common theme on this blog, and I was feeling bad for letting her play in the house lately, for not catching her as she climbed on the couch that handful of times, for letting her walk instead of tying her to the furniture when I wasn't right there keeping her still.

But then I looked at Dr. A's directions, and realized that he's giving me the same timeframe as before. Two more weeks of house arrest -- for a total of 10, as planned -- and then about three weeks to ramp up to the normal level of walks/exercise.

And Dr. M, Pooka's grandfather, wrote this encouraging note the other day, which also made me feel a bit brighter:

She's a young, well-nourished dog, and should continue to heal, and bone union is not an all or none phenomenon. The fact that the area with the screws has healed is excellent. The fact that the area without the screws (and didn't need them) is slower to heal is not a surprise, but I would doubt it's not as if there has been no healing. ... Also, how can you keep a dog inactive, especially a young one bred to run? So feel not guilty. She'll do what she can and limit herself as she needs to. If the loose screws really bother her, they'll have to come out, but that's not nearly as big a deal as putting them in.

Thanks, Dad.

And, Pooka, listen up: One more week of this lame routine, and then we'll be on a whole new plan that will bring new blades of grass to sniff with every step.

Vignettes

1. Pooka has just gone outside. She returns to the house. She eats dinner. I sit down to eat dinner. She begins whining to go outside again -- whine whine, walk to the door, turn to look at me, ears up.

I ignore her at first, then say, "Pooka, let me eat dinner first." She takes a few steps closer, whines, paces a little. She then walks behind me on the couch, and though I don't notice, stands with her nose very close to the back of my head. WHINE! Eeek, I jump. We go outside.

A day later, we repeat the little dance. When I still don't give in, she stomps her feet and tosses her head. She does some sort of snorty growly whine. And then starts talking -- or her closest approximation given her anatomical shortcomings. Rwaawwwwwwawawarrarrgggggh. I cannot help but crack up. Pooka, are you talking to me? But still, she wins. We go outside.

2. Pooka eats breakfast. I putter in the kitchen. She stares at me from the other side of the baby gate. I have an empty cereal box, so I insert a few treats and seal it back up. I hand it to her and she drags it into the living room. The clasp on the box was already shot, so instead of tearing the box itself apart she's able to stick her entire head right down into the box. I hear crunching. Then she swiftly picks up her head. Who turned out the lights? She lurches around for a few steps, pauses. Changes direction. I take pity on her and remove the box, but again, I can't stop myself from laughing. She's so silly.

In which I call the Good Samaritan

I finally called her, the woman who left the note in Pooka's file, telling me she saw the accident over on Aurora. I don't want to dwell too much on the details, but I am glad I had a chance to thank her.

The person who hit Pooks had his whole family in the car, and felt terrible, she said. She disregarded advice of other onlookers, urging her not to touch Pooka, and went over to pet her. Then she and a friend drove P. to the shelter, and on their advice, turned around and took her to the emergency room. Thank you 100 times over, J.A., for all that work.

She said she was worried all these weeks that Pooka was so badly hurt that I wouldn't have the means to afford her care. She was very interested in the details of the injuries, and told me she had a little dachshund who fell off the sofa and was paralyzed in the hindquarters, but that it goes on walks in a little doggie wheelchair.

And that was that.

This week marks the beginning of slightly longer walks for P., so today I took her to the coffeeshop to visit with the baristas for a few minutes. Lots of sniffing and peeing along the way. And of course, when we got home...she wanted to turn around and go right back out. Soon enough, missy, soon enough.

Like watching paint dry

Dear Pooka-lovers,

Just a quick update on a crisp Friday morning. Pooka is doing very, very well. She still walks like a drunk -- somewhere between a swagger and a stagger -- but in all other respects, is very much herself.

She's back to peeing almost normally, with just one squat per walk, for the most part. And she's got a manic amount of pent-up energy by the time I'm home from work. Of course, with the stock market plummeting and the product cycle kicking up at the companies I cover, I do not have a manic amount of pent-up energy by the time I'm home from work, and I can sense the frustration on her part. The other night she went over to her toy box and pulled out every last thing, tossed it around for a moment and looked at me. "How about this one? Can we play with this one? How about now? Can we please go back to the life I used to lead, where you'd chase me in endless circles around the couch? Please?"

And two nights ago, I gave her a Bully Stick. Now, Pooka chews through chew-treats faster than any dog I've seen. I have brought home things the nice but naive doggie boutique workers say should last for "hours" and watched her devour them in just a fraction of that. An eight-inch bully stick lasts her * maybe * 10 minutes. But the other night, she did not gnaw or chew at it, she bit off whole pieces like it was a Slim Jim. Manic, I tell you.

I sigh. Poor kid. I try to explain to her that as soon as her bones have mended, it will be back to business as usual, with lots of running around like a crazy-dog. But for now, and at least the next 3 1/2 weeks, we have to pretty much sit still and wait for things to happen on the molecular level. Pooka sighs a lot, too.

More Pooka than not

Apologies for having been off blogging for so many days. After the initial high following a first good night's sleep since her accident, the ensuing days have still been tiring, and nights more often interrupted than not. So while the sedatives have definitely helped, things remain a bit rocky. And thus, a bit of a rambling, tired post.

The biggest problems aren't really big deals. She's frustrated and bored, and wants to go outside and play. And instead, I take her out for mere minutes, then tie her to the furniture or shovel her into the kennel. And this is not making my life easy. She wants attention, a lot, when I'm home, and can barely stand for me to be in the other room while she's alert. A friend was over, and she was unsettled and whiny for much of the time. The whining may not start until 6am...or it might be 4am: whine whine moan moan barkbark, barkbark, barkbark...repeat to the point where I cannot take it any more and get up to take her out. Ear plugs are the new potty training pads. (See next paragraph.) I'm generally patient, but reached the outer limits of my ability to deal last night, and realized how much I need some time away from her after spending most of Saturday together in the house. I feel out of touch with my friends, my life. I miss all the walking we used to do. I need air, exercise. And so does she, poor kid.

The other -- the difficulty peeing problem -- is getting better. We no longer require the potty-training pads, though there are still very occasional accidents, and she seems to pee more in a single attempt than a week ago. Dr. A was concerned we might need to consult a specialist, because his opinion was that Pooka's bladder should be better if it were merely accident-related trauma, but Dr. M (the vet, not the dad) said he thought it might take weeks longer. I'm happy to give it time, as long as it's not getting worse or causing any major additional problems.

Other than that, her recovery seems to be on track. The incision has healed over, so no more blue doughnut or conehead Pooka for the forseeable future. The swelling in her legs and behind has gone down, her bumps and scrapes have scabbed over and are getting much better. Her shaved parts have enough hair that she doesn't look pathetic.

She can't stand well on the floors still, and I'm still helping with the sling on stairs and when she seems wobbly. She's walking more steadily, but nowhere near 100%. Today she tried to jump on me when I came home and took her out of the crate -- but realized when she collapsed into a squat that she wasn't quite ready for that yet. She's started using hind legs to scratch gently, and has begun a very toned-down version of the game where she parades around her favorite treat when I come home.

Basically, the hardest bits now are the waiting, and saying to her, no, you really can't go out again. You can't keep walking. You can't play with Maka. You can't get on the bed. You can't hang out on the couch while I'm out. Dog: stop being a dog. I hope she forgets this all when it's over. I hope I forget it, too.

Two more things

I forgot to mention:

- One of the hardest things for me at first was to see Pooka's hairless hindquarter. I'm pleased to report she's not looking nearly so bald.

- Kennel + conehead = absolutely batshit Pooka. On O.'s suggestion, I got an inflatable blue donut-shaped collar that keeps her from reaching her incision. I put it on her, left for a few hours, and came home to a neatly deflated blue donuthead. In the middle of a sleepless howling-filled night, it struck me that I could fill the donuthead cover with stuffing from the fabric store. Voila! An un-poppable blue donut, which freaks her out way, way less than the cone.