As you probably know, it’s been a horrendous week with a whole slew of minor things-gone-wrong (in the grand scheme of life), with the elephant in the room being Peanut and her paralyzed hind legs.
The cutting of the pills, the lugging her (she’s relatively chunky…) outside down the long stretch of deck to put her on the grassy potty area, the lugging her up the stairs at night and down the stairs in the morning, the middle-of-the-night whines for water (prednisone brings on a tremendous thirst), and then the inevitable “accident on the floor.” The front two-thirds of her body are perky and engaged (and pretty much explodes in joy when my scheduled iPhone beeper signals DOGGY DINNER TIME each evening). And her tail wags. It wags a lot. It works just fine. Peanut is as sweet as pie; the sweetest pie you can imagine. Not the kind that sets your teeth on edge. Just nice and sweet and wonderful.
So seeing her *try* to move, to get somewhere, dragging her hind legs behind her, struggling…well, it’s heartbreaking, you know? I’ve had some very low points this week, just couldn’t stop the tears, just couldn’t dare to hope for a positive outcome from this. I’ve watched carefully to see if there has been any improvement, and although I felt that maybe, just maybe there was in small degrees, I also wondered if I was deluding myself as I’d see her drag her hind legs and struggle so hard. One leg in particular seemed to be stronger and she was actually able to move it kind of like a paddle to help herself along. The other leg, not so much. At all.
We also got word this week that our wonderful new vet is having to close up shop — she just isn’t doing enough business to keep it going. We are just sick about it.
And now for the weird.
Around noon today I headed upstairs to take a shower, leaving both weenies downstairs so I could also put laundry away and not have to worry about tripping over a dog (or cleaning up another puddle on the rug). I did my thing, made the bed, put the laundry away, dried my hair, slapped on some makeup, and headed back downstairs about an hour later. There was Bailey, but no Peanut. My eyes scanned the dining area, the living room, the kitchen — no Peanut. I opened doors and peered behind them. No Peanut. I called for her — crickets. I told myself there was no way I was on the brink of alarm because, my God, the dog is paralyzed, there’s not that much space she could drag herself off to. But when I didn’t hear a whine or a whimper when I called for her, my blood started icing up.
“Bailey, where’s your sister? Where’s Peanut?” I guess I really did expect Bailey to lead me to Timmy’s well, but all she did was prance and hope for a doggy biscuit in the pantry.
Can you imagine how befuddled I was? I felt like I’d walked into the 8th dimension or something, an alternate universe. This was impossible. My dog is missing and she can’t walk. What the freaking hell?
Because I didn’t know what else to do, I walked the length of the deck, down the steps to the 2nd level where there are two more steps that lead to the grassy potty place. And there was Peanut.
(Note: No, I had NOT taken her down there and left her! Honest to God, she was in her doggy bed with Bailey when I headed upstairs to take my shower. John or I take her to the grassy potty spot, wait for her to *maybe* do some business, then haul her back inside. That’s what we do – in the dark, in the drizzle).
She was panting and exhausted, tail-wagging, happy to see me, very thirsty (it was sunny and warmish). I picked her up and carried her back inside and set her down at the water dish and shook my head and muttered to myself. Because she HAD to have headed out the pet door, down two steps to the deck, drug herself a good 15 feet to the next step to the 2nd deck level, then another 8-10 feet to where the two steps are to the grassy potty area.
Impossible!
Then I did notice that she has improved quite significantly — she is using both of her legs to propel her, although she can’t put her weight on them for very long. But she’s using them; they are no longer dead appendages dragging and useless behind her. But still, the improvement, as encouraging as it is, just doesn’t add up to what she did!
Especially since during the 10 years that those legs HAVE been working, getting her to go to that grassy potty area has been a 10-year battle! What? Tickle my belly with grass when I can easily do my business in the warmth and comfort of my house? (If you know dachshunds, you totally get this).
I have to say, I’ve been eye-balling Mojo with a somewhat spooked raised brow.
Perhaps he’s living up to his name?
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