In which I discuss the topic of Bindu’s death.
I still can’t go into great detail about the day itself; I’d probably freak out if I tried. Suffice it to say that my brother was a rock, my mom was amazing, my aunt and uncle were great, and my G’ma cried with me.
I feel incredible gratitude for my family and the love and support they gave me on the day I had my dog killed.
In which I’m writing not because I have any news but to keep from crying, because that’s how I roll.
I slept until ten, mostly to avoid being conscious, I think. As soon as I woke I started thinking until I was pretty miserable again. Called the vet. “I was calling to check up on how Bindu’s doing, and to see if Dr Alexis had gotten her lab results yet?”
I spent a couple of brief minutes on hold, then the tech came back on. “The doctor says she’s still waiting on the lab work, but you’re welcome to come pick Bindu up?” The end statement was delivered as a question, and I knew the tech didn’t understand why the dog was still there.
I felt a stab of guilt and shame that I’d left her there to avoid having to witness her distress. “I just– It isn’t– But there hasn’t been any– Um, okay.” I said. “I’ll be there in a bit. Thank you. Very much.”
I got up. Poked around in the kitchen, but still couldn’t eat or drink anything. Took a shower. Dressed. Saw G’ma off to her afternoon of lunch and cards. Got in the truck. Drove across town. Walked into the lobby of the vet clinic.
The tech gave me my total and asked if I had questions. I did have questions, yes, thank you. I managed not to cry while delivering them. The tech gave me a sympathetic look and dashed off to get the vet. I took a seat.
Dr Alexis is utterly wonderful. She’s young and present and has that healthy outdoorsy look you want in a vet. She sat with me for awhile, was incredibly sympathetic and communicative, and told me she’d call my cell as soon as she had the tests back. We talked about heart disease and Cushing’s and symptom management and pain and all that; she said that if the results say a particular thing she’s already got a treatment modality chosen. If they say something else, well, we’ll talk about that when she calls. I told her all about the night before last and how difficult it is to have Bindu suffering. Yeah, I cried. I told her I have a gig tonight and that I don’t feel okay leaving a distressed animal home with my 88-year-old grandmother; she said I could kennel Bindu there overnight if that would ease things.
Oh, God. Okay, an option. But what kind of pet owner kennels her dog just to avoid dealing with symptoms?
I brought Bindu home. She’s clearly not comfortable. Constant panting, some coughing. She won’t settle; she seems agitated. I don’t know if it’s the Cushing’s or her heart, but whatever it is, it looks very much like distress to me. I keep expecting her to have another terrifying fainting episode, or a seizure – or to just up and die on me. No one lying comfortably on the couch should be panting like she just ran around the block like that.
~+~+~
My laptop battery died, so I’ve escaped to the basement to plug it in. I left my panting, distressed dog upstairs. In one sense, she’s fine; she’s home, and there’s food and water and plenty of places to lie down… it’s just that I’m abandoning her because I’m a coward. Continue reading Friday
In which I need to vent or cry or complain or get a hug or something.
Bindu kept me up much of last night with terrible episodes involving screaming (the vet calls it “vocalizing”) and panting and whimpering and coughing; she’d calm down and almost sleep in between, but every couple of hours it would start all over again. Her squeal would have me leaping from bed to comfort her and pet her until she seemed to stabilize; in the process I’d end up working myself into a full-blown anxiety attack with the shakes and the clammy palms and the achey skin and the inability to get back to sleep and the whole nine yards.
She woke me up again at a quarter after seven; she was panting a little and looking haggard, but she was upright and clearly ready to start her day, so could I please get my human ass up and remove the blockade at the top of the stairs so she could get on with it? I petted her and asked her to wait 15 minutes for the animal hospital to open (no one had answered when I’d called at three and again at four in the morning, but their office hours begin at 7:30). I made an appointment, got dressed, gathered my things, and carefully carried my dog downstairs and then outside.
She seemed spry enough, and promptly peed… and then she walked about fifteen paces and started with the squeal/cough/pant thing again. She seemed to be in pain and looked abjectly miserable. IT FUCKING SUCKED. I put her in the truck and, still hoping it was a back problem that pain meds could resolve, drove her to the vet and checked her in, explaining that she’d once had a back episode and that her behavior reminded me of my ex-husband’s when he ruptured a disc. They asked me to approve radiographs and sedation; I approved blood work too because of her age (she’s ~14).
When I got home around nine, I promptly curled up in bed with a pillow over my head and crashed for two hours.
The vet called me with an update around one o’clock. Blood work, in areas I can’t explain that have something to do with poor organ function, indicates problems. The radiograph shows an enlarged heart and an enlarged liver. The vet wanted to do an ECG to find out more about the heart problems; for lack of anything better to do I said okay. Due to various factors (distended belly, coughing, drinking lots of water), the vet also suspects an endocrine condition called Cushing’s disease as well. Secondary blood work and ECG will need to be evaluated, she said, offsite.
The vet reported that Bindu doesn’t seem to have arthritis or a sore back, and that her discs looked good in the radiograph. Therefore, it seems that last night’s episodes – and the first one I noticed the day before, and the one G’ma noticed the day before that – were not actually due to pain from a slipped disc or back-related spasming, which is what I’d suspected, but from heart failure. (Most of the time, I was told, such episodes cause fainting, but in some dogs who fail to actually faint they manifest as “vocalizing, stiffness, panting and coughing.”)
Essentially, I’m waiting on another $90 test, one I don’t really need, to tell me that my dog is in the process of dying.
~+~+~
Last week I received an email from my advisor notifying me of a lecture today. I was pretty excited about it, after the disappointment of learning that my curriculum was all online. An actual in-person lecture, on campus, with people!
The Bindu thing dampened my enthusiasm a great deal, but I was grateful for something to do to help me occupy my mind. No one needs to know that I nearly burst into tears twice on the drive over there.
When I got to the lab, the whiteboard said the instructor was out sick and that there were no classes today.
~+~+~
Last month, when I went to Planned Parenthood to get a bladder infection treated, they shortlisted me for a free mammogram program. So I went and got my boobs smashed and shortly afterward I received a lovely letter telling me that I don’t have breast cancer.
Today, I got a bill for $86.
~+~+~
There was some kind of SNAFU in my client’s A/P department and my September 23rd invoice never got processed. I was assured last week that it would be paid Monday.
Today’s Thursday, I’ve just dropped a couple hundred bucks I don’t have on the vet, I owe St Mary’s ninety bucks, my settlement program is unpaid, and I have a $300 tuition payment due on the 20th. I haven’t paid my rent, either.
Guess who’s check wasn’t in the mail today?
~+~+~
I should be studying or working, but I’ll probably just sit here, freaking out and trying not to, until the vet calls back.
~+~+~
They called back. The voicemail says the ECG is done but they won’t have the results until tomorrow, and that I can come pick Bindu up.
Except that I can’t handle another night like last night, and I have no reason to believe that tonight will be different as there has, as yet, been no treatment for the symptoms I took her in for. The vet wanted the ECG and offsite blood work results before prescribing anything.
God, am I the worst dog mom in the world if I leave her there so I can sleep without listening to her wails? I can’t stand her suffering, but leaving her in a cage in a concrete room overnight seems like a sin. But if I bring her home, I’ll carry her up and down the stairs to save her the strain and have a panic attack every time she falls down and coughs, and as much as I won’t want to admit it all I’ll want to do is get away from her.
Oh, God. I always told you I would be a total wreck when this, the end of Bindu’s life, came along, and I totally am.
~+~+~
Update: I cried. Then I meditated. Then I called the clinic and said that I am “unable” to pick Bindu up until tomorrow. (I made it sound like I didn’t have access to a vehicle right now, which is completely untrue.) So, not only am I a bad dog mom who leaves her beloved to spend the night in a cage in a concrete room across town, but I’m a liar as well.
I am not pleased with myself, but this is not the first time since developing a panic disorder that I’ve been displeased with my responses to things. Usually when I’m freaking out I just suit up and go do whatever it is anyway (I don’t even know how many times I’ve done gigs in the throws of a full-blown panic attack), but I know that another night with a screaming, coughing, panting dog in my arms will… — it will, um… — hell, I don’t even know what it’ll do. I don’t have words for it. I just don’t want to do it. Even though it’s my duty, because I took responsibility for that dog’s life and health and comfort over a decade ago.
There may be treatment options, once there’s a diagnosis, I just don’t know anything about cost or efficacy, and she is 14 so none of this is entirely unexpected.
As G’ma has just returned from her afternoon volunteering at the museum, I’ve shared all the vet information with her. I told her I’d left Bindu at the clinic overnight even though they said I could come get her. Then I teared up. G’ma said, “We care too much about the little buggers. We might not show it, but we really do.” And then she went and made a cocktail and brought it to me here at my desk. For my part, I struggled not to start crying until she’d gone back upstairs.
In which we take a look at the blue dog for a sec.
Best dog ever, scowling at me for making her sit while I snap her picture with my cell phone.
In which this post is, like, totally ILLUSTRATED.
I lost two pounds last week, in spite of that four-slices-of-pizza debacle. I lost no inches, though, because of all of those damned squats and crunches and push-ups and shit. Nine weeks to go to achieve my goal weight.
So naturally, yesterday Adam sent me some Swedish Fish. They’re delicious superfruity fish-shaped gummi wonderfulness. They’re also 150 kcal per serving, so I am ignoring them as we speak:
Last night I went to an afterhours party at a friend’s house. She has a cat that will walk into a plastic grocery bag and let you carry her around:
I found it to be so hilarious I carried that cat all over the house. In a bag! LOLz!
This morning I took Bindu to her annual check-up. They poked her with a needle and her rabies cert is good until 2013. She has some tumors the vet thought were not fatty lipomas, but since her overall health is good for her age, I don’t think I’ll worry about them. She pants a lot, she’s nearly deaf, and she’s always rubbing her face on the floor like it itches, but she also eats well, has lovely ears and teeth, wants to go on walks, and runs up and down my bedroom stairs all day long: pretty good shape for a 13- or 14-year-old dog. I might get a basic blood panel done next month, just for the hell of it, but the vet thought she seemed fine overall.
We stopped at the store on the way home, and although I did find fava beans (yay! ful meddames!) I didn’t buy any garlic. Ooops. I made freakin’ awesome delish chickpea curry for lunch, though:
I realize that today is Tuesday, but there’s a nice disco-y Monday Morning Mix for you, if you want!
In which we’ll miss the little poodlet.
G’ma had to have Chipper, her poodle mix, put down last Wednesday.
He’d gotten despondent and the vet had put him on meds for diabetes; G’ma and my brother took turns sticking him with a needle twice a day. A week later he was vomiting repeatedly and was one morning nearly non-responsive. G’ma had my uncle take him back to the vet.
Infection in the pancreas, possibly, or cancer; followed by not eating or drinking, followed by emergent renal failure. Rather than subject a twelve-year-old dog to possibly pointless exploratory surgery, she opted to have him put him to sleep. He’s buried out at the farm in Dave’s pet cemetary.
Bye bye, Chipper-doodle, you were a wonderful, weird, and sweet little dog.
In which I’m waiting for the results of the blood work.
Bindu has a heart murmur for which she may or may not need meds. She does not have ear mites, but she did get her ears cleaned. She’s obese – she weighs 36.1 pounds, up from 29.8 six months ago – and has to lose weight. She received a parvo/distemper shot. She may or may not have diabetes for which she may or may not need meds.
They said they’d call me Tuesday or Wednesday.
I spent $150 at the vet today.
I also watched a movie, failed to do laundry, showered, went to band practice, and may or may not have put a scratch in my grandmother’s car with a bush or fence or something while parking (I’m not sure if the scratch was there before or not).
Over all, despite the lack of real trauma, a fairly high-stress day for me. Going to bed early.
Hurumpfh.
In which we visit the Vet, who Pokes Dogs With Sharp Things.
Bindu had a 10:30 appointment at the vet clinic this morning, where they poked her with sharp things.
That’s what they do at the vet, you see: poke poor, innocent dogs with sharp things.
Of course, I’ve seen this dog smack herself in the head – say, on a brick building or something – with such force that she should have a concussion, and not even notice, so I don’t know why a little 23-gauge needle would cause her to pant and shiver like her very life force is being sucked out, but I digress.
The doc and I discussed her general health – Is she eating well? (Yup.) any sudden, massive intake of water? (Nope.) problems with stairs or moving around? (Nope.) – and then he gave her a general look-over. She’s in great shape for an old dog. He took a look at her lump, then did a fine-needle biopsy and ran away to view the results under a microscope.
Good news! It’s just a fatty deposit. Not cancer. YAY!
Then he gave her a rabies booster – her last one was in 2003 – so now I can register her and pay the $10 licensing fee and she’ll be a totally legit town dog!
The whole shebang cost a hundred bucks. And on the way home I bought dog food, so now I have five dollars to last me until Friday. But at least I know my dog is healthy and doesn’t have a cyst that will explode and poison her to death.
For a creature who is effectively 65 years old, it’s really impressive that she can jump three times her own damn height.
In which I love my dog so much omg it hurts.
I’ll tell you what’s better than a puppy! An old dog. An old dog who heels like heaven.
This morning (well, afternoon, really) when I got up I decided to walk to the coffee shop with Bindu. Alas, I couldn’t find a leash for my dog, so first we hopped in the car and took a quick trip to the farm supply store, where I spent eight bucks and got Bindu a new chain and leash.
Bindu spent the entire drive with her head out the passenger side window of the jeep, her tongue lolling. At a light, a pedestrian said, “That’s a cool dog!”
I replied, “I know, thanks!” and grinned.
Anyway, we got home and began our walk up 2nd street.
My 11-year-old blue heeler bitch is so fucking good on a leash it almost makes me cry. I hate dogs who pull, so I’ve got her trained to always leave slack in the leash. She responds to slight twitches of the leash – I never have to yank on her neck. She walks always on my right (because hey, I’m left handed) and she rarely gets far enough ahead that she can’t see my feet in her peripheral vision.
I don’t even really have to hold the leash as much as thread it through my fingers so that I don’t drop it.
I always use a choke chain on my dogs, because the weight and noise tell them they’re leashed, not because I’m into strangling dogs as a hobby. Also they’re easy on and off; over the head! When first confronted with them they seemed cruel, but now I’ve been around dogs for awhile I realize an occasional choking’s probably good for ’em.
I dropped Bindu’s leash outside the coffee shop and told her, “Stay.” When I came out, people were petting her but she was staring at the door waiting for me to reappear. On our walk home she was proud to be “working,” and her behavior and leash skills were the best EVER, I tell you.
I love my dog!
(Yes, I know I’ve posted about this before but she’s just so good on-leash I can’t help myself.)
In which that tiny little screwdriver comes in handy!
Once upon a time, I bought a little glasses repair kit. It came with a little magnifying glass, four tiny little extra screws, and this kick-ass little screwdriver all snug in a plastic case. I use it to tighten my glasses once in awhile, and I cleverly keep it someplace utterly random — my knitting bag! — where I can always find it.
I just used the kit’s little screwdriver to take the X5 apart. There it is, guts exposed! My new toy isn’t working properly at all; the screen either doesn’t respond or it responds incorrectly, and a touch screen device with a FUBAR touch screen is basically a paperweight.
I dug around here and found that the precise symptoms my X5 exhibits are common with older X5s, so I’m mid-fix as I type. Once I’m done with this post, I’m going to reassemble the thing (and then REINSTALL ALL THE CRAP I’D INSTALLED JUST A FEW DAYS AGO) and if it’s fixed, I’ll keep it. If it’s still a glitchy POS, I’ll send it back.
In other news, now that I live in town I have to register my dog [ordinance #1000 on the link] at City Hall. Which means I have to give her annual rabies shots, which pisses me off. I vaccinate my animal/s every three years because vaccines last for three years, they’re expensive, and over-vaccinating kills pets just like it does people.
Gah. I hate stupid regulations. I don’t mind paying $10 a year to license my dog, but there’s just no way I’m going to vaccinate my 10-year-old bitch for rabies each and every year, no way at all. I tell you what: there’d better be an elderly animal exemption, or my bitch ain’t gonna be legal.