Think Jack Lemmon in Some like it Hot. I spoke too soon about having staggered intact out of 2020.
Theodore waited until just before Christmas. His sudden loss of appetite and strength sent us to our vet to be told that his red blood cell count had completely tanked and he was gravely ill. Over the next few days, very conceivable diagnostic test was performed. Still a diagnosis eluded them. Covid-19 precautions meant that we couldn’t see Theodore so we sat and waited for phone calls. The only circumstance which could override that prohibition would have been his euthanasia, so we bore it as best we could. We saw him again only briefly on Day 4, when he needed a transfusion and we were advised to transport him to the Toronto Emergency Centre. Our guy was too sick to care that we had dropped him off again.
Perhaps we needn’t have worried that he was so alone. Word trickled back that he had become the darling of the ICU. Pictures filtered in (we declined the offer of FaceTime) showing him starting to turn around, eyes brightening, alertness returning, and what? with a series updos? I personally favoured the saucy pigtails in front of his enormous ears, but someone who had the time actually French-braided his topknot. Jon and I took to referring him as our little milkmaid in this demure portrait. Clearly,he knows when to turn on the charm, though they admitted later that he had started to issue a preemptory bark when he needed a fresh infusion of attention. We know that bark.
By Day 6 the doctors had given up finding a cause, settling for a syndrome: Immune-Mediated Hemolytic Anemia (IMHA). As a last-ditch hail Mary, they tried Prednisone and suddenly Lazarus began to rise. The five dollar fix. Hmmmm. Next time , if there is one, we're STARTING with that!
On Day 7 he began to eat again. "Salmon Delights" cat food. He improved so quickly that he had started to bark non-stop for attention. The phone call was brief: a strangled imperative “Come and get him now!!
Great! We wanted him back!! And if he had stayed much longer we would have had to re-mortgage the house.
We picked Theodore and his luggage: five pages of detailed procedures and charges, his medications and his blankey The traumatic nature of a week being poked, transfused, and needled became evident when he shuddered in the car, fearing that he was being transported to yet another torture chamber. His complete relief at finding himself in our own driveway took the form of collapse. We wrapped him in warm blankets and put his cozy bed in front of the fireplace.
He slept.
We slept.
He is almost back to normal if you don’t count a new preference for cat food and a croaky voice which sounds suspiciously like meowing in French.
Now all we have to do is wean him off the prednisone by September…
P.S.
(Did you notice that I opened with two reassurances that no dogs died in this blog? You’re welcome.)
Theodore waited until just before Christmas. His sudden loss of appetite and strength sent us to our vet to be told that his red blood cell count had completely tanked and he was gravely ill. Over the next few days, very conceivable diagnostic test was performed. Still a diagnosis eluded them. Covid-19 precautions meant that we couldn’t see Theodore so we sat and waited for phone calls. The only circumstance which could override that prohibition would have been his euthanasia, so we bore it as best we could. We saw him again only briefly on Day 4, when he needed a transfusion and we were advised to transport him to the Toronto Emergency Centre. Our guy was too sick to care that we had dropped him off again.
Perhaps we needn’t have worried that he was so alone. Word trickled back that he had become the darling of the ICU. Pictures filtered in (we declined the offer of FaceTime) showing him starting to turn around, eyes brightening, alertness returning, and what? with a series updos? I personally favoured the saucy pigtails in front of his enormous ears, but someone who had the time actually French-braided his topknot. Jon and I took to referring him as our little milkmaid in this demure portrait. Clearly,he knows when to turn on the charm, though they admitted later that he had started to issue a preemptory bark when he needed a fresh infusion of attention. We know that bark.
By Day 6 the doctors had given up finding a cause, settling for a syndrome: Immune-Mediated Hemolytic Anemia (IMHA). As a last-ditch hail Mary, they tried Prednisone and suddenly Lazarus began to rise. The five dollar fix. Hmmmm. Next time , if there is one, we're STARTING with that!
On Day 7 he began to eat again. "Salmon Delights" cat food. He improved so quickly that he had started to bark non-stop for attention. The phone call was brief: a strangled imperative “Come and get him now!!
Great! We wanted him back!! And if he had stayed much longer we would have had to re-mortgage the house.
We picked Theodore and his luggage: five pages of detailed procedures and charges, his medications and his blankey The traumatic nature of a week being poked, transfused, and needled became evident when he shuddered in the car, fearing that he was being transported to yet another torture chamber. His complete relief at finding himself in our own driveway took the form of collapse. We wrapped him in warm blankets and put his cozy bed in front of the fireplace.
He slept.
We slept.
He is almost back to normal if you don’t count a new preference for cat food and a croaky voice which sounds suspiciously like meowing in French.
Now all we have to do is wean him off the prednisone by September…
P.S.
(Did you notice that I opened with two reassurances that no dogs died in this blog? You’re welcome.)
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