I suppose another title for this post could be Wednesdays Woe – but that sounds a tad dramatic, it was more frantic than woeful!
A couple of weeks ago I found a small lump on my dogs back, which looked like a bite. I kept an eye on her behaviour and the lump/spot over the next few days. After eight or nine days, the lump got bigger. By the time the weekend arrived, it had turned angry, that is to say it turned red and not nice looking. I rang my vet and made an appointment for the Tuesday.
After looking at the lump, our vet decided it was a bit too nasty looking to ignore, and he confirmed my thoughts that it could be sinister; a tumour. He asked me to bring her in the following morning for an operation to remove the blight.
Usually, vets will suggest a needle biopsy. The cells would be sent to a pathology lab for tests, and results would be returned within a ten day period. As the lump was small, and only skin deep, he believed the best course of action was to remove it completely and send the whole thing to pathology, that way, if the results are positive for cancer, at least the lump has already been removed and treatment can begin immediately. I agreed, and so, yesterday I took my gorgeous dalmatian in to the vets for her op. All went well, and we picked her up at around half past five.
However, in between time, I had a telephone call from my youngest sons school with a request to pick him up – he had been playing rugby, fell hard on his shoulder whilst tackling another student, and may have broken his collar bone! (Two years ago, my son was playing football with friends, came down hard on his shoulder and broke his collar bone!) Bloody hell, I thought. It was the same side.
So, we took a trip to the hospital. Luckily, it wasn’t broken. Nevertheless, he was still in pain. Dog and boy both felt quite sorry for themselves for the evening. My son, picked up quickly and, feeling better than the dog, managed to eat dinner, chat with friends and returned to usual activities including school today.
Pops, on the other hand is still feeling rather sorry for herself, and with good reason, because, although the lump was small, she had to have a fair bit of skin removed for analysis. Two of her spots have been connected with a lovely straight cut which is glued together. It must be quite sore.
I slept on the sofa with her last night, just to make sure our other dally, the crazy one, didn’t lie on top of her – Lily has pack issues and needs to be close to someone at all times! I felt I had no choice. Pops woke me up on several occasions whimpering in pain, looking at me with her expressive eyes as if to say “Stop the pain, please.” This morning she didn’t eat her usual kibble breakfast and she still hadn’t drank any water.
I made her some toast, at lunch time, with peanut butter. She ate that!
I made her a cup of tea. She drank that!
I scrambled her some eggs about an hour ago. She ate that!
As you can see, I’m a bit of a sucker when it comes to my dogs. Any one who says animals don’t have feelings, don’t feel sorry for themselves, and don’t know how to express the pain or reason for the sorrow, are very much mistaken. Yes, they can be manipulating. Yes, I was manipulated into catering for the canine. But so what? My lad got a Chinese meal, fizzy pop and a box of chocolates to make him feel better, why not treat the dog the same?
They are after all, our family, our familiars.