I noticed yesterday that it's starting to smell a bit like dog. Truth is I only ever wear it when I take the dog out in the mornings and late at night. 8 Am sharp and 10 PM has been her morning routine for 12 years. I leash her up and we casually make our way downstairs and outside. She does her business, sometimes to my irritation taking longer than I would like, while she sniffs and barks at everything in sight, especially the cats from next door. Always, the cats, with Belle. I think she feels like it is her personal mission to announce to the entire globe that there is a cat three houses down the road under someone's car. And Lord help us if there is actually a cat in the yard, which there frequently is. She. goes. NUTS. It's all I can do to hold onto her straining leash while she yanks and pulls and stands on her hind legs, as if that will help her get to them faster. As if I would ever let you chase a cat, I tell her. You would probably get beat up. Those cats would eat you for lunch! So we go back in the house, me in a hurry in my robe, and she, very reluctantly, while looking back and scanning the yard for any glimpse of a lingering feline.
All this has changed now, but a little backstory.
I noticed upon our return from Houston in January that she was walking funny. Kind of stiff legged. I attributed it to the fact that the floors at my Dad's where she had been staying for the last three months were all tile. She was having a hard time on the slippery floor. I also wondered if she was having a little arthritis. She had, after all, been run over when she was two.
In the months since, I had noticed increased weakness in her hind end and her back legs developed a tremble. She began having trouble coming up the stairs. She would trip and fall on the way up. I asked the vet about it. She examined her and told me she might be having some trouble with her back. She told me no more stairs and no jumping off the bed. She sent us home with some Gabapentin for pain.
"Trouble with her back" did not sound serious and I did not take her word as seriously as I should have. She slept with us every night and she jumped off the bed when she needed a drink and every morning. I had bought her a set of stairs but she wouldn't use them. She jumped over them. She followed me everywhere. Up and down the stairs a hundred times a day. I carried her for the first day or two after the doc told me not to let her use the stairs, but she is 23 pounds, big for a mini schnauzer. Very big for a mini schnauzer. So I stopped with that.
Then last week as I was coming upstairs, she following, as always, I heard her behind me. She was at the top of the stairs and as I turned the corner into my bedroom, I heard her. clunk. clunk. clunk. clunk. clunk....all the way down to the bottom. I ran down and picked her up and brought her to my room, very much concerned. But she seemed ok. I gave her her usual dose of pain meds and we carried on.
A few days later upon waking up, I was horrified to see that my poor pup couldn't walk. She was falling all over the place. Trembling legs had literally given way to falling down and stumbling in circles. She had no control over her hind end. I immediately called the vet and they said they would work us in.
We were there early. Scared to death that they were going to tell us it was the end of the road for her. We had been crying all day long. Watching her try to walk was gut and heart wrenching.
Disc Impingement she said. And she is in pain. But, we can give her high dose steroids to reduce the inflammation. But NO stairs, and NO jumping off the bed. STRICT crate rest and NO Excitement. Come back in two weeks for a recheck.
No stairs meant that I would be carrying my 23 pound dog anywhere and everywhere she needed to go. My back ached just thinking about it. But I would do it, and happily, if it meant she would get better.
So I went home and got rid of the doggy stairs. And when evening came, I put on my new robe and took her outside. I held her close and talked to her as I carefully negotiated the steps. The last thing I wanted to do was take a tumble with the dog in my arms. That wouldn't do either of us any good. I put her down outside and let her do her biz and then scooped her very carefully up into the softness of my robe. We carefully made our way back upstairs, me holding tightly but not so tightly that I would hurt her. Nevertheless, I know it wasn't comfortable for her. I could tell by the little grunting sounds she was making all the way up. And she was breathing fast. Too fast. I laid her in her bed. And just looked at her. I had called and spoken to the vet again and she had asked if Belle was happy and bright, and eating and drinking ok. Eating and drinking just fine, but happy and bright, no. She was clearly very unhappy. Miserable in fact. Watching her, I felt my heart breaking all over again. I laid down next to he on the floor, muzzle to face and just stroked her little face. And I prayed. Dear Jesus, You created my little dog. You know all of her ins and outs. Her comings and goings, just as surely as you know mine. You knew her before I did. You know how much I love this little girl, and I ask for healing, whether it's miraculous or through the meds. And give us wisdom to know how to make good decisions for her health care. Let your will be done. In Jesus name. Amen. There was quiet in the room. Just me and Jesus and the dog, laying on the floor having a heart to heart. I got up and went about the rest of my day, keeping a close eye on her as she lay in her bed, and occasionally stumbling to the water and food bowls. That evening we did the robe routine together again. I snuggled her close and told her I wished I could make it all go away. I had asked the vet how much the surgery would be, should she need it, and was absolutely astounded to find out it was about EIGHT. THOUSAND. DOLLARS. I don't know if we could swing that. We paid less than that for our car. That's a LOT of money.
But we weren't ready yet to cross that bridge. The doctor told us it was imperative that we keep her still for the next four to eight weeks. She could possible recover if we made sure of that. The fact that when I had entered the room and she had actually tried to run up to me, drove home the words the vet had spoken. We must crate her. I hated it, but we had to do something. But actually, through a brainstorm my sister had, we came up with a better idea. We had a thought. Have you got a Pack N Play? She asked me. A light went on. Why yes! Yes, I do! So I dragged out the playpen my grandies are now much too big for. Not your normal sized P and P, but about 3 x 3, just big enough to put her bed and water bowl in. She has room to turn around, and can move about in different positions on her bed, but that is about all. She can see us and we can see her. It is open on the top so it's not like she is in a cage. And she seems fine with it. She just lays on her bed and sleeps or watches us. She hasn't cried or whined or even so much as whimpered since I put her in there.
I opened the closet door a while ago to grab my robe for our next trip out. As I donned it and tied the polka dotted belt around my waist, the faint smell of warm dog came up to me again. I wouldn't have it any other way.
It may be a long road for us, but I think she is going to be ok.
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