Dakota is on the mend

Dakota made it out of surgery okay, but she's still one sore and woozy lady.  The first 24 hours are the diciest.  The tumor came out okay, but there was a lot of it--our wonderful vet Monica (my go-to lady for our goats and a top quality vet for any animal) did an awesome job and actually cleaned it all out, something we were pretty sure wouldn't happen.  It was unusual.  This, coming from someone who has done a gazillion of these surgeries.  If it was some sort of funky cancer, there's really not much we could do, but it didn't jump up and scream cancer when she looked at it.  Both these factors helped us decide not to send it in for expensive lab tests.

Dakota will have a drainage port in her side for a week.  I took some time to clean her up today, as she was laying in her own drainage, and I had to clean up the upholstery in the car.  There's something very visceral about cleaning up blood.  I'm used to cleaning up my own, and of course after processed meat, but when it's someone else's, even a dog's or a goat's ... yeah.  I kept thinking, out, damned spot ... I had to wash my hands several times afterward to get them even remotely clean.

Anyway, Dakota's doing well.  She's a tough lady, very sweet and calm, which will help her in her recovery.  It was good to see her walking around today.  I know I wouldn't be up and about nearly as soon or as ably as she'd been getting around after a surgery like that! 

Spare a Thought for a Good Dog?

Dakota taking a nap on Christmas Eve 2009 at Grandma's House

Dakota, sadly, is having health issues.

She's always had lipomas (fatty tumors, generally benign,) at least as long as we've had her.  Most of them grow and then get smaller and grow again ... but one on her side has gotten huge.  In fact it's gotten so huge that (very) recently she's developed edema (swelling from fluid build-up) in her leg as pressure on the lymphatic system (vet's best guess) is slowing the normal flow of various fluids through her tissues.  Thankfully she still has blood circulation, and she doesn't appear to be in any pain.  In fact she's been her usual sweet self.

What's worse is that at the same time the edema appeared, her skin started to discolor.  That may be a sign of necrosis somewhere in there--perhaps a cyst, or something worse.

I'm worried, but the docs are optimistic.   She's in great health (other than the lipoma/edema) and quite spry for a geriatric dog.  She's on antibiotics in preparation for her surgery on Monday (in case there is in fact necrosis or something bacterial going on, although so far she has no fever and things look okay-ish.)  The vets are going to do a mass reduction and a little exploration.  To a civilian, it looks like something they could just peel off and toss in the biological waste disposal can, but these things can be quite a bit more involved than that, and fat cells, when disturbed, can swell up and actually worsen the problem they're trying to correct.  So it's unlikely that the whole thing will go--but we'll see.  They'll know more about exactly how much they'll have to do when they open her up.

If you're so inclined, please spare a good thought for the old lady.  This surgery isn't terribly risky on the scale of things, but you know how it goes with such things.

It's Grey and it's not my fault blame C.S.

I'm taking a kitty in to the vet tomorrow to get it tested for feline leukemia and for shots and probable treatment of ear mites and fleas.  She (we think) may also need to be spayed (neutered?)

What, what's this you ask?

It's not a new kitty.  Really.  It's ... it's a big mouse, that's what it is.  Did I say kitty?  Silly me.  Definitely a mouse, with grey fur and white whiskers and a white bib and cute little ears and a fluffy tail and big, er, I mean beady green eyes.  Totally a mouse.  Ha ha ha, you know us, always naming our animals after other animals, like the goat named Llama, and ... the goat named llama.  Oh, oh yeah, and the goat named Skunk!  So this is a cat named mouse, er, I mean, a mouse named Carey, er, I mean of course we didn't name it.  

In fact there's no cat or mouse here.  I don't know what you're talking about.  La la la I'm not listening!

I'm real tired all of a sudden.  I'm going to bed.  ZZZZZZZzzzzzzzz

Mulching, editing, it's all good work (ethic)

Blah blah blah sick blah blah blah yuck blah blah blah snurk.  But I'm getting better.

The kitty Kat has to go to the vet today to have a lump checked out.  I thought it was probably just a fatty mass but in a few days it's grown to the size of an eyeball.  Gah, furry eyeball from hell!  Hopefully it's something minor and the vet will deal with it in short order.  More news about this later after her appointment.

I'm also trying to pull together the support system I'll need to go to the master's course writing seminar in Lincoln City.  If I can pull this off--joy, rapture!  Then again, because of the cost, I won't also be able to go to the short story writing course (wah!) because I'll already be forced to take half of each of my pay checks for ten months to afford the seminar.  Ouch.

While corresponding with one of the organizers the words 'work ethic' came up.  That's apt.  When you're a writer you're self-employed, essentially.  When you have a day job you're working two jobs, and it's hard.  It's no good beating yourself up about not working hard enough.  That won't get you to sit down and write (though it might give you a nice complex to write about!)  Having said that, if you want the writer job you have to work.  Luckily I love writing enough that it's not a big chore to sit and work.  I look forward to it, even the editing, though I whine and complain about editing all the time.  Beats retail.  Writing gives me the same energy as gardening.  I may complain about the sore muscles and hauling rock, but I do it without hesitation.  Give me a big pile of mulch, I'll spread it.  Weeds?  I'm grabbing my tools and going after them.  Even when work that I love is hard, it's still satisfying.  When it's satisfying, it's not hard to have a good work ethic.

Nikita

Nikita

December 1992-May 9, 2008

We put Nikita to sleep this morning due to multiple complications from extreme old age. It's possible she had a stroke, or something went wrong in her abdomen, or both.

She felt under the weather late last night and didn't want to finish her dinner. We found her in distress this morning and, after comforting her for about an hour, decided to take her to the vet on the very slender chance that they might be able to do something for her, or if not, ease her out of her pain. She had a very high fever. After discussing options including radical intervention, the vet advised that it would be unlikely that we would be able to save her. Rory and I were able to be with her when she passed. She was a wonderful companion, faithful, loyal and true to the end. She passed on a gloriously beautiful day, and will be buried near the house where, if she chooses, she can rest or keep watch as she so loved to do.

I'll look for you on the other side, sweetheart, my beloved, loving friend. Blessed be.

I'd also like to give thanks to the vets of Camas Washougal Animal Hospital for taking such good care of her over the years. Without them we wouldn't have had her for as long as we did.

Doctor and Vet bills mounting

Another beautiful day in paradise.

I was out taking pics of the garden and I'd planned on getting to take some more of birds that come visit the feeder.  I'd just taken this pic of a mutant double tulip (the double flower is normal--but the two large flowers together come from the same stem, and that's not normal) when the phone rang.

It's my mom.  The girl took a bad fall off her bike.  She's okay except for a very swollen wrist and my mom was taking her to the hospital for Xrays.  

We met at the hospital.  Surprisingly they didn't make us wait long.  Aside from a small hiccup (the tech took images of her hand but not the wrist so we had to return to Xray) the staff took great care of her.  No break, just bad soft tissue damage.  So she's in a brace and on ibuprofen.  On the way home she got a chocolate milkshake to help take her mind off the pain.  What is it with me and wanting to reward clumsiness with yummy treats?  As much as it makes no sense, I'll probably keep doing it, though.  

In Kat news, the red-eared one kept after her stitches so she got to play the part of a kitty flower for a while.  She's being good now, but if I catch her at it again, the e-collar is going back on.  Like all right-thinking cats with the barest shred of survival instinct and/or dignity, she hates it.  I don't blame her.  Her ears are red because despite the mites being taken care of for the most part, she also has a yeast infection.  For those of you contemplating adopting a stray cat, this is life as usual for the first several weeks.  Stray cats have ear problems, often have kitty colds due to the stress of being on their own, ear mites, fleas, intestinal parasites, ringworm (which they can pass onto humans) and they may be feline HIV positive or have feline leukemia among other things.  Those first vet bills are bad news.  The spay is the least of it.  We got her microchipped so she's all officially Kat Miller with a number and certificate.  If anyone is missing their kitty, sadly, they have missed their window of opportunity to reclaim her.  If anyone is looking for her, I hope they can hope and dream that someone good took their animal in and is taking good care of her.  I sometimes hope that about Misty and the Claireness, who we still miss terribly.  

Kiss Me Kate

As you can see in this pic, Katherine is pretty beat up.  The vet thinks there were several events that led up to her condition--abrasions, possibly from being thrown out of or hit by a car, some scratches and possibly a bite from one or more fights.  Despite this she's in good shape.  She's negative for feline leukemia and feline HIV, so she's roaming the house now.

I have yet to meet a cat that's as non-plussed by everything as Katherine.  When Huntress hisses and growls, Katherine ignores her.  She'll walk up to anyone for attention.  She purrs readily.  She's wary of but not afraid of Dakota.  She explores with complete fearlessness.  She's faithful about using a litterbox and loves people.  She's quiet and polite.  I can't imagine that this cat has ever been neglected or abused because of her temperament and the fact that she's reasonably well-fed, but then there are the recent injuries all over her face and the fact that she's not home, wherever home was.  A large scab is peeling off her lip.  She's raw and she was so hungry when we took her in that she went straight for the food, halting in her assault only briefly to lap up water before eating more.  I don't know who didn't want this cat.  I can't imagine her running away from anyone.  She has no interest in going outside, and her curiosity is entirely for her immediate surroundings.  If you close a door on her, she doesn't paw at it or even wait beside it.  She moves on.  In the cat carrier on the way to and from the vet she curled up and took a nap.  

The only thing that's really thrown her off were clippers.  She decided she was not getting her belly shaved under any circumstances, and so she still has all her hair.  Unfortunately that means that we don't know if she's been spayed or not, but the vet is thinking not.  That means there's a chance she's pregnant, of course.  If she's not, she'll be spayed on May 1.  That will give us enough time to find out if the little miss has been running around with the bad boys.  If she is, well, looks like we'll be having kittens around here.  One is already spoken for and we don't even know if she's having any yet.  She's that lovely of a cat.  I've seen more beautiful cats, friendlier cats, cats with more grace and dignity.  Katherine has an amazing something about her.  No, several somethings.  Patience.  Kindness.  Trust--amazing trust.  Peacefulness.  Acceptance.  She has an iron strength at her core and a self-assurance that blows me away.  If she has kittens with even half of her qualities, they'll be truly wonderful pets.

But for her sake I'm hoping she's not pregnant.  We won't force the matter if she is pregnant.  I think it would be traumatic to have an abortion/spay event, plus I have this thing about giving unborn things a chance at life if the circumstances allow for a little joy and comfort, or at least the hope of a good life.  I think she'd be better off without kittens, though.  She's young, we can't tell how young, and she's been through a lot.  She could stand to have some time to heal without the added pressure of a pregnancy.

Katherine has found cat paperwork at the SW Washington Humane Society in case anyone is looking for her.  Unfortunately she has no microchip, so if there's a family missing her desperately out there, that will make it harder to track her down.  We'll call in an ad in the paper tomorrow.  

Shameless Plugs and a Dog Note

I wanted to mention that my website and Rory's website are both at a point that we'd love to have the word go out about them.  Tell your friends.  Tell your family.  We'll keep updating them and adding stuff, but what we have there now (I think) is nice enough that we'd be happy for visitors.  And please feel free to sign our guestbooks.  It's nice to see friendly names there.  I have a feeling that eventually the spam bots will find us, and at that point we'll have to shut them down.  Before that happens, we'd love to hear from everyone that stops by.

Second, a probably needless reminder that Rory's book is available on preorder from Amazon.com.  He has a link to it from his website.

In other news, Finn has a yeast infection in his ears.  For those of you who have dogs with floppy ears in particular, but pretty much any dog, the ears should look really clean even if the rest of the dog isn't.  Dirty ears are often a sign of yeast or bacterial infections or mites.  Another sign is the head shaking.  Dogs shouldn't shake their heads very much.  This apparently is prime season for yeast infections in dogs, so keep a look out.  Finn is doing well and he'll be done with his meds in about ten days.  The vets were very happy to see him.  The last time he visited, he was about twenty pounds.  Now he's 88 and thriving.  Mojo's loss was hard on them too, and we all needed the pick-me-up of a healthy animal coming in for a minor problem.  

You're such a good dog, Finn.  Thank you for being a love.

Goodbye, Mojo

We were all wrong.

Mojo had FIP.  We had to put him to sleep.  That's pretty much all I have to say about that right now.  It's just too painful.  We loved him a lot, and we miss him desperately. 

Goodbye, Mojo.  We love you.  We'll love you forever.

Better or Worse

Yet another post about the Mojonator.

The level of Mojonocity appears to have taken a small upturn.  He's slightly more active, and to me he looks like he's gained more weight.  He's starting to wash himself, mostly just his face but still.  He hardly cries anymore.  One thing that concerns me is that occasionally his tongue gets stuck.  This is something that cats, after they've washed themselves, do, or I've seen it in very young kittens during sleep, usually with nursing noises.  With him I suspect possible brain damage, a not-surprising possibility.  Nonetheless, if I had to score this, Monday afternoon would have been a 2 on a scale of 1-10 in what his chances looked like, and this evening I feel much more like an optimistic 6.  

The thing I'm really dreading now is that eventually he'll have to come off the antibiotics and we'll have to reduce his steroids.  What will happen then?  The last time we mucked with his medication he almost died.  Now he's doing better.  I hope it's just because he's healing, but giving him meds twice a day is awfully reassuring.  It gives me something to do.  It seems to help.  It may not have anything at all to do with him getting better, but that's my feeling.

Tomorrow afternoon we're taking him to the Feline Medical Center for some attention from a specialist.  I didn't think he'd make it to Wednesday when I made the appointment.  Now, I think we'll definitely have him in for an examination and hopefully some insight, though I'm not counting on it.

Possibilities we've developed--

He's cleaned up after Nikita almost every time.  What if she didn't eat her pill one day and he got it?

What if the shelter, which feeds the animals donated food, got a batch of recalled food?  If he had hemobartenella, he would fall into the category of at-risk animals that would be most likely to die from exposure to the chemicals.

His dicey history might also play into this.  As a recent addition to the shelter, he may have gotten into rat poison.

It's all speculation for now.  In case he did get Nikita's pill, he's no longer allowed to clean up after her.  In fact, no one is except a person with a broom and paper towels.  Other than that, we'll just hope, and pray, and give him lots of love.  I had a really good moment with him when I got home.  The whole family gathered around him and Dakota.  While Dakota got belly rubs (she made a total fool of herself to keep getting belly rubs, snorting and rolling around and making faces) I got to tickle his chin and rub his cheeks, and I was rewarded with the most amazing purr and look of contentment.  Better or worse, I can sleep easy knowing that it was a good idea to hold off asking about whether we should put him to sleep.  I think he's happy, certainly not all the time and he's certainly in pain, but he's happy to be here.  Hopefully he'll continue to be happy, for better or worse.

Mojo update

Mojo is still feeling really terrible.  He tells me about it all the time.  Instead of spending the day on housework and writing, I spent it cuddling the sad little white thing.  It whined and pawed my face and whined some more and demanded to be picked up and made to feel better.  I can hardly deny him.  He's very seriously ill.

So I called the vet and there was actual good news with the bad.

His liver enzymes are bad.  We're not going to dig him a grave yet but it's serious.

His platelet count is very low.  That explains why he bled from the blood draw so long.

He's severely anemic, but not quite bad enough to justify a blood transfusion.

He does not have feline leukemia or AIDS.  Yay!

We haven't gotten his toxo and some other tests back yet, but if he's negative for those, we're looking at a good chance for recovery with the current antibiotic.  

Determining whether he has haemobart (what the vet calls it for short) or not isn't easy.  It's more of a process of elimination paired with liver enzymes, anemia and low platelet count that diagnose haemobart.  If we've caught it in time, which it seems we have since he's eating and walking around, he should make a full recovery.  Now we just wait to see if there's anything else wrong with him.  If not, we may actually be out of the woods since he's on the right antibiotic now.

Keeping my fingers crossed ...

Wizard's cure

Wizard's procedure went well yesterday, or so I hear. I wasn't able to be with him. In fact, I had to abandon the poor thing at the vet for the day because I had to go to work.

Wizard is so sweet, quiet and mild-tempered it's easy to forget that he was half-wild. Easy, that is, until you try to get him into a cat carrier, succeed, and then leave him with a stranger. He's never bitten or scratched us, something I find miraculous considering his trust issues, but he can wrestle like a Gracie on steroids. The power in his body is just amazing. Arnold would be jealous of his musculature. The cat knows how to struggle and get away.

I was ready for him, though. I had a good grip on him and took advantage of the fact that he won't claw or bite the cat carrier either, which might have given him better purchase. It was still a good fight, embarrassing considering that I weigh about 154 pounds and the cat weighs somewhere around 12-15 pounds. Once I got the door shut he did a quick 360 flip and proceeded to panic. No way out! His eyes got wild and he attacked the door, clawless again but with a good two-paw punch that rattled the whole cage. I spoke his name and he calmed and settled--settled, that is into yowling.

He yowled as he had not yowled since we first caught him and took him to the vet. I'd forgotten he had this ability to pierce human skulls with his voice alone. Murmuring comforting words, I carried him out. He'd completely reverted to wild by then, and didn't recognize the dogs. When Finn nuzzled the cage in inquiry, he hissed, spat and growled as if he'd never deliberately jumped into the puppy enclosure when they were tiny to flirt with the dogs.

I checked him in and left him. It seemed like only a short while later they called to let me know I could pick him up, but I couldn't, not until 3:30, a lifetime later for my poor cat. Verdict, abcess, and they irrigated it and put him on antibiotics because his body wasn't fixing it on its own. He still isn't sick-sick from it, but neither is it healing. Hopefully now the healing can finally start.

He was yowling when I picked him up, yowled all the way home, and then as soon as I let him out he ate food and became his quiet self again. I imagine this all baffles him. I'm sure his leg bothers him, and now that he's had this procedure at the vet's, his leg, well, still bothers him, except now he has to take medicine.

Humans are so weird.

Bring her home

There are no such things as ambulances for animals, at least, not to my knowledge. Sometimes I wonder if there ought to be. Fortunately we didn't need one last night.

Rory heard Nikita moaning, thank goodness, before he went to bed. She'd gotten stuck under the porch, probably wanting to hang out with the young whipper snappers that like to hang around and dig and wrestle and get dusty under there. Or maybe she wasn't feeling well and wanted to hide. Either way, there she was and Rory crawled under there to help her while I herded the sea of unconditional love into our upstairs bathroom so they wouldn't 'help' too. After much coaxing and help as he could offer her, Nikita finally emerged but she couldn't stand up on her hind legs. She was in obvious pain. While Rory comforted her I got her medication and we gave her a double dose. I volunteered to drive her in so that Rory could sleep, as it was now 10:30 pm and he had to go to work at 5am. We had no idea what they'd say. Maybe it was her time.

I didn't want it to be, but I recognized the selfishness in that. Keeping her with us while she was in horrible pain would be beyond awful. On the other hand, she might be willing to endure that pain to remain with her pack. We've been together for sixteen years. She's seen other dogs come into the pack, and die, and new ones rush about oblivious to things like loyalty, duty and the steadfast protectiveness she's always honored us with. Beast might run off for five days like an idiot and come back wondering what all the fuss was about. Nikita will not wander more than a hundred yards from the house, because she might be needed at home, and the only reason she'd leave would be to investigate potential trouble, which more often than not translated into looking in on the neighbor's dobermans of whom she always took a dim view, them being inclined to bark at her people. Barking at her people is not acceptable. They are also owned by He Who is Not to Be Trusted. I'm not sure why she never took a liking to Chuck, but there you have it.

But I digress.

Rory helped load Nikita into the car with the firm admonition of 'you call if you need help with her.'
"I'll bring her home," I promise.

So on the way to the emergency clinic I sing "You're My Best Friend" by Queen and "Wanderlust" by Heather Alexander. I think about passing on, and how lonely that is and I hope with all my heart that in whatever existence she finds herself in after this one she'll not be by herself but with someone or something loving. I wonder if Frey might not be waiting for her, and it chokes me up to hope that he might be waiting for us both, with his big, goofy grin and his shock of dark brindle fur, the love child of a teddy bear and a huge ball of lint who was never convinced he was a dog, like our others. He was a man, and he sat in a chair like a man, and he had his own ideas about everything. He wasn't a fool or disobedient like Beast. He was independent without being aloof, and self-reliant while being a complete slut for attention. And he was never pushy. He was always nearby, just in case you might be inclined to pet him. His head would be right under your hand.

When I'm on the freeway my hand nestles into Nikita's fur while I sing and tell her she's a good girl. She relaxes, and her breathing softens. The only reason I know she's still with me is because her head is leaning on the car seat rather than lolling over. It's good that she feels warm and that she's not shivering in pain.

Finally we reach the clinic and I park. I try to get her out, but she's a large dog and I'm afraid she might have broken her hip, though she doesn't seem to be in that much pain. I settle her back on her side and close the door. I lose my prevailing cool as I enter the emergency room. "I need help with my dog!"

"How big is he?"

"She's about eighty pounds and I'm afraid I might hurt her."

They get a stretcher and a muzzle. The tech is so good--a tall, slender blonde woman with a firm but compassionate voice. Nikita is typically mistrustful of strangers, but this woman she accepts as someone who's okay. "I get along with big dogs," the woman tells me.

It takes me coaxing Nikita and two techs to get her maneuvered onto the stretcher. They strap her in so that she can't get up and take her away. I can't go with her, just like with a person. I have to stay behind and do paperwork while the doctors do their thing. And then I wait. It won't be long, the nurse says, but even a short wait takes forever. They put me in an exam room because they know. Now that I have nothing to do, the tears will come and it's good to have privacy for that. I don't cry but tears trickle down my face and my eyes feel hot and swollen and my throat is cramped tight around the anger and resentment I've grown toward mortality. It's not fair to Nikita, who loves us. She shouldn't have to be separated from us. Screw grief, screw our pain. What really pisses me off is that she deserves to be with her packmates as long as she wants to be.

The vet comes in and she's smiling. A sense of calm settles in. Good news is coming. We've had a reprieve.

"I can't believe she's sixteen years old," the vet says. "She's in such good shape." And then we talk dog. The vet probably knows this role well. All she has to do is sit and listen to me brag about my dog and spill my little guilts about not grooming her and how she hates to be groomed and how we have these humungous puppies who are both a boon and a bane as they lavish her with attention and in so doing knock her down. She talks back to me in all the right places. The verdict, probably soft tissue damage from being stuck. "When I saw her my first thought was this is an old dog with weak hind legs," the vet tells me. "There's no evidence that anything's broken, and she let me move her legs through a full range of motion. There's no guarding in the abdomen, she's well hydrated, no sign of internal bleeding or shock. It looks like she's going to stay around a while longer. If you'd like, we can keep her overnight, take X-rays just in case ...?"

"She's going to want to go home," I say. "She'll be less stressed if she's with her family."

"Does she have somewhere comfortable to sleep?"

"A carpeted dog house."

"Good."

She gives me a prescription for a pain medication and anti-inflammatory that can piggyback on Metacam safely, and then I go home with my dog. Rory comes out and asks about her. "I brought her home. She's okay," I tell him. "You can go back to sleep."

We can all sleep easy now, at least for a little while. Nikita is home.