3 Week Update

So, we're at 3 weeks post surgery today for Drake.
Whew! Things are kinda hard some of the time. Maybe a lot of the time.

Today was good. At the two week check up with the vet, Dr. Masan had said Drake could start swimming five minutes a day…in a week. That was a week ago, so today we put his bright yellow life vest on him and took him to the lake, where he got to motor around for five minutes.

Swimming for exercise really isn't his thing: he's more of a "get exercise by chasing/chewing/etc." kind of dog. But we did swim out a ways, and round about, and it was good to see him moving more smoothly.

What's been hard has been the fact that he's feeling better and better, and is only supposed to walk….one block per day. We've broken that up, and taken 30 minutes to go to the mailbox and back. (Literally. I timed it.) And I'll sit with Drake in the sun for blocks of time: probably two hours a day. But he's going crazy from inactivity, and is starting to jump around, which is absolutely forbidden.

Today we got to add five minutes of swimming, and another block of walking, each day. That's a five minute swim and two blocks of walking, plus peeing. That's not so much for a dog that used to get 80-100 minutes of walk, 40+ minutes of swim (and play in the weeds near the water, plus go outside to chase squirrels whenever he wanted).

Everyone's sanity's wearing a little thing.

But the swim helped, and Drake was a big hit at the two week check up. All the workers came out to see him, and he wanted, god help us all, to tackle a big dog to play.

So…I'm tired. Kathy's tired. Drake's tired of being inside invalid dog.

Sigh.
Greg

The First Drake Update

Whew!I had meant to update everyone on Drake’s condition before this, but his rehab has been so labor intensive that I’ve kept notes, but didn’t have any time to write them up. He’s sleeping now, so I’ll try to update everyone.

In July, Drake was diagnosed with a torn cruciate ligament in his left rear leg. Given his breed and activity level, the vet advised us to have a TPLO, which stands for tibial plateau leveling osteotomy. This would, the specialist assured us, return Drake to 99% of health…after an extended and rigorous rehab.

That’s where we are now. On July 31, 2010, Drake had the TPLO. He stayed at Seattle Veterinary Specialists in Kirkland over night. We picked him up the next day.

He was pretty out of it, then and the next day, and we got our first surprise: he had tried to lick the stitches, which would eventually tear them out, and so had to wear the cone of shame (pictures are coming). They tried a floppy cone. Drake, um, ate it. Well, he shredded it. So, he got the big plastic cone. He hates it, and it was too big for the crate (at least for him to turn around in it), and since he is supposed to sleep with the leg stretched out, that left us with him sleeping outside the crate. The problem with that? He’s not allowed to jump, climb stairs, get on a couch by himself, or move quickly for some time. That means he has to be in a crate or be watched. Since he can’t be in the crate, that meant Kathy and I were suddenly sleeping on the floor to keep him safe.

We put down cushions and blankets, but Drake has been restless with pain and drugs (we can’t always tell which), and so gets up often. He also bumps the cone into things: things like chairs…faces…groins. He loves being on the couch, and seems to be sleeping there better, some of the time, so we put him up there. Taken together, this means we’re sleeping on the floor and waking every hour to lift Drake, keep him from jumping, move his cone from where he’s stuck, etc.

He started feeling better a few days ago, and that’s not good. Drake is supposed to be kept quiet and still; Drake’s nature is loud and springy. That means when he stopped hurting, he started trying to self-destruct.

This has led to many battles of will, some compromises, and some use of vet-approved sedatives. The battles of will are over how far Drake gets to walk: the vet says only into the yard to pee; Drake says let’s go way down there. As a result, we do a lot of standing at the edge of the yard (as far as I can justify) with me saying “Other way, Drake.” The vet said don’t let Drake go outside, but he goes crazy inside, so I walk him a few feet out, and we sit down in the grass. I then crouch or sit over him, with a hand closed around the collar, so he can’t jump up and blow out his knee. Again. The sedatives have helped calm him down, as we were promised, but the suggested dose was waaay too high, and he ended up loopy. My favorite example of this is that Drake nibbled my nose to say hi…and then fell asleep with his teeth closed on my nose. He actually snored.

Thus far, on Day 9 after the surgery, Drake seems to be healing well. We, however, are exhausted, and counting the days until Drake’s 2 week check up. That’s when he gets his stitches out, which means he can sleep in his crate and we can sleep in the bed. That’s also when he gets to start taking little walks, and (cross your fingers) going for brief swims.

Let’s see, what else is interesting about the post-surgery days? Oh yes, between the empty belly on the surgery days and the side effects of the pain killers, it was days before he pooped. This meant Drake got to extend every “walk” for a long time, with me waiting for…well. Things to move through the system.

Also, the signals. Drake gets regular walks, and the back yard is fenced, so he can go to the bathroom whenever he wants. What this means is, we’ve never had to learn his “I have to go outside” signals, and he’s never had to give them. So, some of the time he’s whining, due to frustration, and we read it as a need to pee. Some of the time he’s whimpering to poop, and we think he’s frustrated. It’s led to some confusion.

Drake’s extremely affectionate, but he’s more than ready to be done with this. In fact, I’ll close this first update with the best example of that. He whimpered, and I thought I read it right: he has to poop. He hobbled outside (I’m supporting his hindquarters with a sling), past the nearby bushes, and…led me to the car. Where he sat down, to wait for me to open the door and drive him to the lake to swim.

Sigh.

A Meeting of the Mutts

Drake has to have surgery soon, and he'll be doing hydrotherapy afterwards, to rehab his leg. The head of the humane society was gracious enough to offer her old life jackets for Drake, so we went out to the shelter to get them today. This meant Drake got to be returning royalty for a bit, with the workers fawning over him.

It also meant that, just by chance, he got to meet Nalu, and I got to see him again before he left. Yes, Nalu is at long last in foster care. However, before he left, I walked into the lobby of the humane society. A worker warned me: "There's another dog in here. Nalu."

"Oh, Nalu." And we went in. Now, the non-workers there were a little scared by two male pit bulls in a small space, but I knew my boys. They pulled to get to each other, sniffing and playing, and in general had a good time.

Once we got them outside, I put Drake in the car, and turned back to Nalu. He rushed at me and lunged his front paws into the air, so he could hug me. He burrowed his snout into my belly, as if saying, "I’m not leaving."

He was, though. He had to, and unless we were going to adopt him, which we couldn't really do with Drake having the surgery, he was better off.

But my boys met, and Nalu is finally out of that box. That's a good day.

Greg

Eagles and Puppies and Pit Bulls, Oh My!

So, yesterday Drake I went swimming. That's not news. Ever since he followed two labs into the water about six weeks ago, we've gone swimming almost every day at noon.

Some days we have the lake to ourselves, and I let him off leash. Other days, now that it is warm, we have to share the lake, and I keep him on leash and we swim together. (I just get concerned about people overreacting about a pit bull running free.) Yesterday as we were headed down the trail to the beach, we ran into two teenagers. They were very attentive: "Is your dog friendly?""Yes, absolutely. He loves other dogs."

"Oh good." We saw the reason for their concern a few seconds later. A tiny black lab puppy came bounding around the curve in the trail. He was soaked, and the boys told me, rather proudly, that he'd just had his first swim. He and Drake had a friendly meeting (nose to nose, both tails flailing away, etc.), then Drake told me it was time to go swimming, and we did.

Drake loves other dogs so much that I wasn't sure he'd stay with me, so I kept him on leash for a while. We went swimming out to the center of the little cove, and then something in the air caught my eye.
It was one of the local eagles (there's a nest in the woods we visit most often), flying overhead with a small fish in its beak. "Eagles, Drake!" Drake dropped the tennis ball he was holding and starting swimming in a circle, looking for whatever had caught my eye.

Then something more caught my eye. The eagle was being followed by a crow, who was doing a little Top Gun action on him, trying to get the fish. The crow was diving bombing the eagle, so that the eagle had to turn its beak to one side to keep the fish safe.

I was stunned. The crow was enough smaller than the eagle that at first I thought it was an eaglet, but he wasn't backing down. The eagle flew in a big circle to try to shake him, and the crow hung on, coming at him from above, below, and both sides, trying to get that fish. "Look at that crow!" I yelled.

Eventually, I realized my yelling was freaking Drake out, and since I was standing on firm ground but he was swimming in water over his head, I calmed us down. I helped him float while the aerial battle played out. The eagle kept the fish, but the crow won my respect.

Nalu

Last week Drake went to doggie day care at Tails a Wagging. (A great place: I can't say too much about it.)The theory behind Drake going to doggie day care is that he'll get a chance to play with other dogs, and we'll get a chance to get things done with him not there.

The reality is, we brought another dog home from the humane society for a day, sort of a one day foster trip. Nalu is a fantastic pit bull I'd been walking at the shelter. Everyone there loves him, and it's hard to say too many good things about him. He is stubborn, of course, but he only uses his stubbornness to try to stay out in the grass, or to lengthen his walks, which makes a lot of sense to me. As nice as the shelter workers are, the kennel has to be a little bit like going to jail. Maybe more than a little bit like that.

In any case, Nalu is a fantastic dog: loving, gentle, etc. He is, however, a male pit bull, and so he's been sitting in the shelter for weeks. He seemed to be going a little crazy, so we brought him home.

It was like springing a kid from boring school and taking him to Disneyland. Nalu loves the grass (rolling in it, lying in it, eating it), and so loved the back yard. But he also misses being someone's dog, and so he slept on Kathy's legs, and on my feet at the desk. He would run in from the outside and jump on to the couch, throwing his head in our laps.

We tried to get everything in on one day: toys, treats, walks in the woods, meeting people, a roll in the water, sleeping with people. He was so happy. If Drake weren't injured, and we weren't afraid of becoming the crazy pit bull house, we'd snap him up. He is simply pure love.

The only painful time of the day was when I took him back to the shelter. He was perfectly willing to go into the building and lick everyone…but he wouldn't look at the door to the kennels. He laid down on the floor and looked away, then looked up to charm /beg me. He was ready to be my dog.
Sigh.

Things in my Pits

As a mailbox was ruffling my underarm hair, I mused over just how many things I've had in my armpits.

It isn't something I used to give much thought to. After all, for most people there's a shirt, a finger, and, ideally, deodorant. Otherwise…?

However, in recent months I've accumulated quite the tally of things in my pits. Today, of course, saw not one but six mailboxes, one after another, skimming the flesh and hair o'me pits. Or rather, five skimmed, and one kind of dug in, because Drake shifted a bit, pulling me forward.

In other words, I blame Drake for these many things in my armpits. Today he wanted to walk on the other side of the mailboxes, and I thought it was easier to let him than to renegotiate with a stubborn pit bull. I was largely correct, until one mailbox was a little taller than the rest. Scrape!

I've also lost track of how many trees I've had in my armpits. This sounds unlikely, I know, but the woods near our house has a lot of scrub trees in it. They're pretty flexible, and many are only four or five foot tall. Since Drake likes to take the smallest trails he can, we sometimes end up walking right over these trees, with the trunks sliding along the leash and popping up again in a tingling and spritely fashion into my armpits.

There's the leash itself, of course, which sometimes gets wrapped around, especially when I'm bracing myself, and any number of bugs and blackberry thorns, which carve brief and bloody trails through areas best left unplowed.

Recently, there's been a Boston Terrier by the name of Roscoe. Drake and I have been getting him to take him for walks, and he likes to ride on the arm rest between Drake and me, his soft and pointy gargoyle ears tickling my pits.

Finally, of course, there's Drake himself, who is a rather… intimate dog. He can time a yawn perfectly, to lick the inside of your mouth, and who seems to think that any bend in a limb is an invitation to snuggle in. Unlike some animals, who only tuck certain parts in when they snuggle, Drake's fine with any part of his body being tucked into any bend in someone else's. So a snout? Sure. A doggy knee? Of course. A bizarrely exposed groin? You know it.

All in me pits.

Darn Ducks

So, Drake and I had another encounter with the ducks, and this one was a lot scarier. The first one, I was scared that Drake would catch a duckling and chomp chomp chomp. This time, I was getting ready for a little mouth to snout resuscitation.

You see, we went to the lake, like we have every day for the past two weeks. For those of you watching the weather here in the northwest, that means there's been some swimming in 50 degree weather after nights in the 40s, in a steady rain. In fact, the guy making my sandwich today asked, "So how's your day going?"

"Pretty good," I answered. "I took the dog swimming at noon."

"Dogs are amazing," he said. "They can tolerate such cold water. They go swimming when we wouldn't even think about it."

"Um, I went with him."

"Dear God!"

But I digress.

In any case, we went back to the same beach, and I made loud noises to scare away Momma Duck. She was nowhere to be seen, and I thought we were fine. We started throwing and retrieving the ball…and some other ducks showed up.

If the first batch were "Aw shucks ain't that cute" ducklings, these were the "Let's stick our beaks in here and see what happens" teenage boys of ducks. For example, when I clapped my hands at Momma Duck, she and the ducklings paddled away as fast as possible. When I clapped my hands at these half-grown ducks, they swim fluttered towards me, to see what the loud noises were. Shouts of "Get away you stupid ducks!" rolled off their backs like…and I was surprised to see that they went after tennis balls.

And when they did, Drake swam after them. He almost got them, and there was no kidding around like Momma Duck had done. They weren't going slowly to tease him, they mistimed the leap, and they almost died.

Cue the revenge of the ducks. They swam straight out from shore. So did Drake.

They swam farther, until they were barely visible. So did Drake.

They got out to the navigation buoys, far beyond where I usually went. So did Drake.

I was yelling after them, promising Drake all kinds of treats, and eventually, he gave up and let the ducks escape. He made this sloooow turn around, and by this time he was flailing. Remember, he's not a lab. He's a pit pull, about as buoyant as a brick, and he's only been swimming for about two and a half weeks. His endurance is still pretty low. So I'm wading out towards him, in the freaking rain and freaking chilly lake, waving my arms.

The first time he went swimming, he got this panicked look when he turned around and saw how far away the shore was. He was about three times that far out today, and he got that same look.

He swam past a lone piling, the only remnant of an old dock. He tried to clamp on with his jaws for a rest, but couldn't get a grip.

So he swam for me, wheezing and blowing, and churning away. And he made it.

He wouldn’t have drowned—I was ready to swim after him—but I was pretty sure he was going under. And I was wrong, and he wasn't worried at all. Once he got back to shore. But he was so cold he was shivering, and he was exhausted.

Darn ducks.