A Vizsla, an Osteosarcoma and an Emergency Vet all walk into a bar…

I’d have to say that I knew from the get-go that Hank’s recovery from surgery was not going to be easy, but it was more of the logistical stuff I was worried about. Like the four flights of stairs in our house, plus the flight of stairs leading down into the backyard; getting him in and out of the car, keeping our other dog away from him, changing his bandages by myself, etc. I figured that since I had a new Ruffwear harness, a baby gate and pretty decent biceps, I had this in the bag. Ha.

By day#3 post-op, I had pulled a muscle in my back from schlepping him up and down the stairs, he wasn’t eating well, he hadn’t pooped in 3 days (I always made fun of clients for getting so hung up on their dogs’ pooping habits…I totally get it now) and I had gone through more Maxi pads to cover his weeping incision than I think I ever had as a woman. Not only was I a mess and feeling like I was way in over my head, but Hank was not having the best time either. He hated me carrying him, he sat in his bed ALL DAY everyday for the first week and a half looking like a child that was just told Christmas was cancelled this year, and he figured out Pill Pockets faster than I could turn around and find him eating the pill pocket but promptly spitting out whatever pill I was trying to give him. Epic fail.

This was the pathetic face I had to look at every moment of every day following surgery.

At first, I expected Hank to be different as he recovered, but I was not prepared for the immense change in his personality. I had never really seem him so down. He was the dog that was always in someone’s face (or crotch), wiggling, knocking things over with his tail, obnoxiously shoving a toy into your hand/lap to try to get you to play with him, etc and as much as he drove me nuts sometimes, in the first 2 weeks after surgery, it was almost like he wasn’t even there. It was even more heartbreaking than the morning I brought him home from the hospital because there was a large part of me that worried that he would never be the same. I worried that I had taken away the one thing that made him “tick” and have a true love for life- his ability to run. I would cry from overwhelming guilt most nights as I sat next to him on the floor before bed while he looked up at me with a look on his face that said something like…”What the hell is your problem?”

Couch potato goodness

The day that changed it all occurred about day #12 post-op when we made the trek up to Fort Collins for an Oncology consult at CSU. I was still unsure about doing chemotherapy, especially now that Hank had decided to turn into the canine form of Eeyore, but thought I would at least hear what they had to say so I could make an informed decision. The only appointment I could get was in the morning on a day after I had worked all night, so once I left the hospital, all I had time to do was get home, nap for about an hour, change, and collect Hank and all the crap that he now needs when we travel (ya know….just the essentials….sweaters & jackets in different weights and colors, T-shirts, toys, treats, all his medications, his harness, food, his own water bottle, and an encyclopedia-sized file of all of the medical records he has ever had, because I am sure the oncologists really needed to know about the time I accidentally cut him with a pair of bandage scissors when he was three and I had to suture him back together on my kitchen floor….however, what did I forget? The X-rays of his leg, and tumor, before I amputated it….just the single most important thing they actually needed to confirm his diagnosis. Epic fail #2).

Thankfully my mother joined me for the trip not only for emotional support, but to help drive in the event my sleep deprivation put our lives in danger with my being behind the wheel of a moving hunk of metal. Plus, my mom is pretty cool. And I like her. And she loves Hank (most of the time….she’s more of the crazy cat lady type).

As we pulled into the CSU parking lot, I of course couldn’t shake the feeling that I had forgotten something. When we got back in that car almost 6 hours later, I knew what it was. Two things actually: The huge dose of Acepromazine (a sedative given to dogs for anxiety) I should have given Hank before we came and a large Xanax for myself. Why? Because Hank was back in his typical form that day while at CSU. However, his normally high energy self was now combined with cabin fever from almost 2 weeks of being stuck in the house with doggie depression, so he acted like a 4 year old kid that had just consumed a 60 ounce Coke, a Monster energy drink, an entire bag of Sour Patch kids and then snorted the contents of one of those huge Pixie Sticks prior to our arrival. As a result, this is a brief summary of what I really remember from that day:

Hank dragged me through the door of the teaching hospital, yanked me around by his leash while I was trying to check in and sign paperwork (of course with the multiple bags I brought hanging from both arms and a Starbucks cup in the other hand…my mother saw this disaster occurring as she stood next to me and at least managed to pry the Starbucks cup from my pale, Xanax-deprived fingers so I could at least try to sign the stuff I needed to) and by the time we finally found a spot in the waiting room to sit and drop all of our crap….the Hank “bark-whine-gasm” ensued.

Outside CSU

For people who dont know much about Vizsla’s, they can be a nervous bunch. And although Hank is great at sending out a very loud, mean, confident, I-am-going-bite-you-in-the-nuts bark when necessary (someone comes to the door, approaches the car while he is in the back, or god forbid the UPS or FedEX guy has to leave something on the patio), the rest of the time, the noise he creates when he is excited/nervous/wants something faster than I am getting it to him is more of a combination of the sound a “de-barked” dog makes when they try to bark and the sound of someone letting air out of a balloon really, really slowly. In other words, its the most annoying sound in the world (speaking of which, has anyone seen the movie “Dumb and Dumber?”….again, I digress….). So there we were, 15 minutes early, sitting in the waiting room of the CSU VTH with what seemed to be all of the best behaved dogs on the planet….and Hank. Screech-barking, whining, panting as loudly as possible, knocking things off the side tables with his ridiculous tail from his incessant wiggling/wagging, frequently shoving his face into my crotch and of course trying to evacuate all the hair off his body onto my black hoodie.

When the oncology student finally came to get us, I was half tempted to tell her that I accidentally amputated the wrong limb and therefore he needed one of his back legs taken off STAT (I am an emergency doctor so I get to say stuff like that and it sounds cool). Maybe with only two of four legs left he would not act so absolutely insane. And as the student walked us back towards the exam rooms, I let Hank hop in front of me and pull me along.  But amongst all my embarrassment for his making such a scene in the waiting room, and my exhaustion from trying to make him sit still and behave, I realized something…..Isn’t this the dog I was trying so desperately to get back? And save? The one that despite his goofiness and eardrum rupturing noises would come home that night and spoon me for hours? The dog that was always up for any adventure yet would gladly sleep with me for 14 hours at a time because of my wacky work schedule? The one that loved me no matter what kind of awful noises I made, meltdowns I had or how badly I behaved?

Yes…..yes it was. And as I jogged behind him while he ran/hopped down that hallway, I was so, so glad to have him back 🙂

LP

One of our first post-op walks