I am so angry I could spit, as my mother says. Instead, my blubbery heart has been pouring it all out, every heavy-hearted sniveling, snotting, gut-wrenching bit of it. If it sounds horrible and messy, that’s because it is.
As usual, the cause of my upset is worry over Dallas. She managed to find some chicken bones in the middle of a field and wolf some of them down before Kate could grab the last of it out of her fast-gobbling mouth. *sigh* As Margaret once told me, “Dallas isn’t unpredictable at all- she’s very predictably unpredictable.” Truer words...
Yesterday morning found me worried sick (and I mean that literally), because Dallas had been dry-heaving and retching during the night. It was ... it was yuck. I was too worried to leave her, so I was dialing a recommended vet here at 8:01am, looking for a consultation. They had me in for 9:30am, though I would have been happy just knowing whether to try to induce vomiting or fill her up on brown rice. In we go.
Instead of just advising, I was convinced to do x-rays. Well, I’ve been down this path with Dallas before, but I said yes anyway. The images reveal that she’s got chicken bones in her stomach and lots of bones making their way through her digestive track. Again- yuck. The doctor begins talking about surgery. I bawl. Yes me, right there in the office, struck dumb and numb by the instantly gripping fear of losing my Dallas. She tells me that there is a LOT of bone in there, and an especially large piece (it looks like a baseball) in her stomach. It would be more dangerous to leave them there.
I am not being managed well. I refer to the heap of fax paper in a fresh manilla folder on her desk- Dallas’ file from Vancouver. I ask what the chances of survival are for a 14 year old Golden with heart problems? Well, she hasn’t read the file yet- what’s wrong with her heart? I am upset. I leave, stopping to pay $330 for images of what I already KNOW she gobbled, plus soft dog food and some pills which probably do what milk would have done.
Dad picks up the phone, and hears silence. I finally get out, “....Dad?” and I’m off to the blubbering races. He says, “Oh no.... Dallas?” He eventually understands through my water-works that Dallas ate some chicken bones. I can tell he’d be laughing at this latest stunt except that I’m obviously experiencing core-melt. He drives down simply so I can blubber in his shirt, which I proceed to with gusto.
Later, Dallas poops out three shards. I am out there immediately, poking into her stuff with a stick, searching hopefully for a fourth shard. I am aware, as if in the third person, that somehow Dallas senses a win here. Dallas is walked, petted, cried over, discussed amongst all the neighbours, walked again (a loosening-up strategy), fed, petted, treated, feted, and walked again. It’s been a good day for Dallas, but my eyes are swollen and my cheeks are raw.
This morning saw another 8 bone shards deposited casually onto the yard. Unbelievable. She didn’t even look like she was trying. As soon as rump was raised from grass, Kate went out and surgically removed, washed and counted the pieces out, one by one. I would have been happy to estimate a good handful, but hey, two crazy people live here!
By this afternoon, having found a wealth of information about dogs and chicken bones, I have gone from terrified to sustained high anxiety to... anger. If the wisdom of crowds is to be believed, most of the danger comes from the initial gobbling- when chicken bones can become caught in the throat. After they’re in the stomach, vets elsewhere reportedly recommend milk, bread and sometimes rice. No one mentioned x-rays. No one said there was cause for concern - unless there is blood, etc etc. So there’s me, making a spectacle of myself over surgery fears, and everyone else is tossing a few slices of bread to their dogs. Moreover, my vet keeps calling to check in on Dallas, re-emphasizing that surgery will likely be necessary. Apparently she was so worried that she was going to call again late last night.
After speaking to said worried vet again this morning, I called in and requested another vet for my second appointment, (aware of the message I was sending, but determined to have a conversation with a vet who didn’t see surgery as the only option). Besides, that clinic now had the x-rays and the file from Vancouver, so I wasn’t going to lose time moving it all to another place. In we marched/hobbled, determined not to avoid eye-contact.
This second vet was great, and she went through Dallas’ file, asking questions, making notes- We looked at the x-rays again, and at an assorted mix of bone shards. When asked for her honest opinion, (with a caveat not to sugar-coat her real thoughts for the crazy person), she thought more x-rays and surgery were not indicated. Things are still err.. moving along, and there’s no fever, no pain... so no need to put her under and open her up.
Now admittedly, she was telling me what she knew I wanted to hear, but I feel there was conviction there as well. Just not so much as to be critical of the other vet. This leaves me having to hope that the rest of it all clears, so I don’t have to live to regret my choices today. Things could go sideways from here, and there is a large chunk in her gut that’s only got two options. Still... my feeling is that until/unless the bone thing becomes life-threatening, we don’t take life-threatening risks. Hopefully we don’t have to go there.
We also got the physical done, the rabies shots, the crazy expensive geriatric blood panels, ...the whole nine yards. Apparently, my old girl is getting cataracts too, although she can still see balls and sticks well enough to fetch them when she feels like it. Dallas also got an upgrade to her pain meds for her arthritis and hip dysplasia (which remains mild, I’m glad to report). Apparently arthritis is her main concern, and it’s advancing up her spine. Poor thing. But not so poor... I hope I get this kind of care when I’m 88!
Anyway. Thanks for listening. I’m already not livid anymore- just relieved not to have surgery on our immediate horizon.
