I
don’t process emotions that quickly. I’m the type of person who, should you
tell bad news to, will respond with an oh, ok and calmly go on about my day.
This goes for good news or exciting news, too. Congratulations, I’ll say. Well
done, I’ll say, showing little emotion or excitement. It’s two hours later, or
a day later when news hits me. Recently a friend told me she was getting
married. I initially was very calm and congratulatory. A few hours later,
though, I was grinning madly and texting her in excitement. So when my brother
told me the dog had died I wasn’t really sure how to feel. Surely I should be
bursting into tears or something? Instead I just sat there in confusion for a
few minutes. The dog hadn’t been ill to the best of my knowledge. She wasn’t
the type to run away and get hit by a car. Perhaps it was something sudden?
The
phone rang again. This time it was my mother. The dog hadn’t died, it was just
my family’s rather strange and a bit sick sense of humour. She had been very
ill, though. She had found a peach pip in the garden, which must have been
thrown there by the previous owners, or a visitor to our house, because my
family wouldn’t just throw things out in the garden. Instead of chewing it to
pieces, which was her normal way of doing things, she swallowed it. It got
stuck in her oesophagus. My parents noticed she hadn’t been eating or drinking
as much, and that’s what the vet discovered had happened. She underwent an
operation to remove it. Right from the start my Dad in particular wasn’t sure
that everything was fine. He was working from home at the time, which, in
hindsight, was a very good thing. Her wound wept a lot. When my father
mentioned this to the vet he dismissed my father’s concerns and told him that
sometimes that happens. My parents have had 3 children, all of whom were active
and therefore got cuts and scrapes of various depths. We’d had plenty of
animals requiring operations either because of neutering or because of cats
getting in fights. They’ve cared for them and seen what a normal healing wound
looks like. My parents remained concerned, the vet remained dismissive.
Remember
when I talked about those doctors who ignored my mother when she was in labour
with me and then when I was young? It seems vets can be just as bad.
My
father was working from home, Tia by his feet as per usual. He noticed her
stitched had come loose. They got worse and the way my mother described it to
me, her stomach was practically falling out. I’m sure it’s a bit of an
exaggeration, but I do know my father had to carry her to the car, drive
quickly to the vet and carry her into the vet because he was terrified that all
of the stiches would come apart. She had E.coli and peritonitis. Part of her
stomach had to be removed. Her wound went from half way down her stomach all
the way to the top of her throat. On a human the equivalent would be a wound
that goes from the belly button up to the chin. She was in a pretty bad way and
for a while it was touch and go whether or not she would make it. It took her a
long time to recover from that. There’s some rather funny pictures from that
time of her wearing a Tshirt of Jamie’s, put on her in order to cover up her
wound and stop her from licking. We tried to put a cone on her before when we
had her spayed, but she couldn’t get through the dog flap with it on and it
just added another layer of distress to the situation, so a tshirt it was. She
also stopped eating for a while. My father discovered that the only way she
would eat is if he ‘accidentally’ dropped food on the floor from the dinner
table. She very quickly learnt as a puppy that begging was a no no, but that if
she stayed under the table she could quite often munch on food that fell on the
floor. As Jamie was quite young at the time, this happened a lot. Come to think
of it, it still happens a fair bit. So Dad would drop food on the floor on
purpose and she would eat it.
As my
mother told me how ill she had been, I realised just how much a dog becomes a
part of your family. I was very sad when Pimms got ill and finally died. I
still miss her sometimes. But Tia is so much a part of our lives that when she
eventually does go (we keep calling her a puppy in the hopes that she doesn’t
realise she’s getting old) it will leave a massive hole. I can’t imagine
turning up to my parents’ house and not having her greet me. Or be in the house
alone and have her follow me around from room to room. She’s so excited to see
you, whether you’ve been away for a while, been away for an hour or just been
asleep. We love our cats, but a dog is just always very present, a dog loves
you back in a way cats just aren’t capable.
Two
months before Tia got ill my mother had downgraded her pet insurance as she was
a young dog and she couldn’t see her needing the extensive coverage she had.
This meant that when the two operations had to happen the insurance didn’t
cover everything. There was a large amount that still had to be paid. The vet
also insisted that they pay for the second operation. He argued that this was
unforeseen. My parents initially argued that they had told the vet of their
concerns, he hadn’t checked her out and so it wasn’t unforeseen. However they
didn’t really have much fight in them after what they’d gone through. They were
just happy that she had come back to them safe and relatively healthy. They
gave up fighting and had to pay an extra £1,500. Before this experience she
didn’t mind going to the vets. My parents changed to another vet soon after she
had gotten fixed up, and she loves going to that vet. But we can’t drive past
the old vets, or stop anywhere near it, without her shaking, whining and
generally being very, very distressed. The whole experience was horrible for my
family. It can only have been so much worse for her.
I’m
very glad it was my Dad who had to deal with her stitches coming loose. My
mother, while capable of dealing with stressful situations quickly and well, is
likely to dwell on it afterwards. A few years ago, during my second gap year,
our next door neighbour knocked on our front door with our cat Brady (the cat
we got after Pimms died). She was found clinging to their fence, trying to get
through to our fence, and she’d been obviously hurt. Her left leg was bloodied
and she was unable to move it. Dad and I were the only ones home. He opened the
door to the neighbour. I rushed to get the cat box and a towel to put her on as
Tia nervously darted around us. Once placed in the cat box, we headed off to
the vet. We had no clue what had happened. We thought she’d been hit by a car
or something and that she was more seriously injured. The vet whisked her away
from us and took her to be x-rayed. She had no internal injuries. Her left paw
was broken in two at the bottom and shattered at the top. We could either
amputate it or we could have it pinned and hope it healed. As it as shattered,
though, the vet told us there’s a strong chance it will have to be amputated
anyway. All that pinning will do is cause her months of pain and discomfort.
And so we went for amputation.
Brandy
is an interesting cat. She’s a tabby cat that’s got the fluffiest, softest fur.
You look at her and you want to hold her. She won’t let you, she hates being
picked up and will go crazy until you let her go. The only time she holds still
is if she’s wrapped in something and held like a baby. That she seems to find
soothing. The dog is her surrogate parent. While she doesn’t like to be
cuddled, held or even really petted by people, she absolutely adores the dog
and cuddling up to her. She will snuggle up to the dog and fall asleep. The
only time she purrs is when she’s kneading and grooming the dog. Mom was upset
that the amputation might mean that she could never do that to the dog again.
She
was picked up from the vet the next day, and we were told to keep her as immobile
as possible and as warm as possible. She was placed down on a blanket and left
to sleep. She would not stay still. Of all our animals she’s probably the one
with the most stubborn personality. She’s determined and will get what she
wants. She did not want to stay on the blanket. She did not want to stay still.
She also looked pretty angry at the fact one of her legs was missing. I stayed
with her that night. I was woken up by a massive crash. Brandy had decided that
she did not want to sleep on the bed, she wanted to get to the top of the
wardrobe. It was one of those canvas wardrobes that is open on one side. Grabbing
onto the side of the wardrobe she tried to climb and couldn’t. She slipped off
and took down half of the clothes that were hanging up with her. She was up and
walking around the house the next day, very quickly getting used to the fact
that she only had one front leg. When we took her to the vet a few days later
for a check-up he gave us the biggest smile. This man is brusque and blunt,
never rude, but he doesn’t really have the best manner with people. I’d never
seen him smile until that day. He was so pleased with her progress telling us
that he was worried she wouldn’t be able to cope. It is more common for the
back legs of animals to be removed and harder to learn to deal with one less
front leg. There Brandy was, hopping up on furniture and running around with
almost as much speed as she had before. He thinks the fact that she was so
young when it happened helped a lot. I think the fact she’s as stubborn as all
heck helped even more.
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