File this under Things I Can’t Unsee. You know Groucho Marx’ quip about a book being man’s best friend? Monday night, I saw the punch line play out literally, right in my own bedroom.
Here’s what happened. A few weeks ago, Chauncey went back under the knife for a little mast cell binary system on the back of her neck. Every indication was there for a successful surgical solution: early-ish detection, far from lymph nodes, nice scruffy area for the taking of wide margins. Afterwards, she was a little off her game because of the bandage wrapped around her neck to prevent her from scratching, but you know how dogs are: they cope.
Ten days later it was time to take the bandages off and the stitches out. I definitely perceived, or projected, a spring in her step when we got home. I lay there on the bed, loving her up, glad to let Jermajesty claim the pillow. When she started in to scratching the shaved part around her new scar, I put up my hand to prevent it, as I’d been doing for the past ten days. This time, though, it came back wet. Really wet. I looked down and saw that just like that, she had opened up the wound like a zipper. Holy living Kumba-fucking-ya, that was awful. Looking back, I find it remarkable that nobody yelped, gasped, or cried out in pain — not Chauncey, not me, not even Karyn when I called her in. Instead, we sprang into action. K. got a towel to wrap around her neck, and we bent all kinds of traffic laws getting her back out to the vet’s office. The most agonizing part was the wait while Dr. Darley finished up with her previous patient. Those seven minutes felt like an hour.
Naturally, she knew what to do. She even made a little joke about it. She stapled our girl back up and rewrapped her — this time, for a full fourteen days, if not more. Nor did she need to anesthetize her to do so.
Most dogs I know lean conservative. They value routines and family bonds, distrust novelty, and protect what’s theirs. As much as I hate to exploit her ignorances, I do take comfort knowing that from Chauncey’s perspective, this whole trauma was simply time in the car and on one of those strange tables that give you no purchase, no worse than a bath or a nail trim. And now it’s behind her, and what’s done is done.
Need New Body: Show Me Your Heart
“Show Me Your Heart” has always felt to me like a terrier’s theme song. The beat is the sound of trotting down the sidewalk on quick little legs. And the gory lyrics get some extra punch this week.
Tags: Chauncey · rat terrier · trauma4 Comments
4 responses so far ↓
Having loved and lived through many similar instances, too many, in fact, it amazes me how calm they can be, and be our strength. I think they are far smarter than we, and they know that they can’t freak out, or we would also freak out. Smarter than us by far.
Example: Our dear departed Webster got all of his immunizations at the vet, including his Bordatella, which is a nasal drop. Everything was fine, until about an hour after we got home. I reached down to pet his head, without looking, and I felt this huge, swollen head. He was having an allergic reaction to the nose drops, and his head was swollen so much that he could barely open his eyes. Even his ears were swollen. But he was very calm, and matter of fact. He said, in a clear, calm voice: “Do something, dummy.” He looked like a 75 pound puppy, all round edges. Called the vet, she said give him a Benadryl, which worked immediately. We took a long nap wrapped tightly around him, and when we woke up he was fine. Played it up, though.
You’re right, they’re remarkably clear-headed little things who cannot abide bullshit. The frustrating thing is dealing with this 50s-vintage “everything’s fine, don’t worry about me” attitude. I wish I could get the concept through to her that it’s okay to let people help you if you’re in pain. I suppose that’s our job as parents to know when to act.
Wow, what a story. Holy living Kumba-fucking-ya! (I love that.) Hey, you know you can take a bathmat along when you have to take her to the vet. At least then she can get her claws into it and hang on. (They say that makes kitties feel more secure, so it probably works for doggies too.) Much love to you and the Missus and the Chaunce. Keep on hangin’ in there together.
I like that idea, Gloria. Our vet already thinks we’re high-maintenance, so the bath mat would help Chauncey without hurting our hard-earned reputation. I’m pretty sure the reason they do all their work in the back is that she’s much calmer without us around. They always talk about what a good, patient little patient she is, which leaves us scratching our heads.