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May 7, 2006
Love bites. (And barks. And picks your pocket.)
woof
“Hmm. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
Not what you want to hear from your vet clinic’s orthopedic specialist. But that’s what happens when you adopt a scruffy little street dog with a limp, who, when you x-ray him, turns out to have a pelvis shattered like a jigsaw puzzle. Murphy looks like a smaller, blonde version of Walt Disney’s Tramp and has been a medical anomaly since his first vet visit in January 2004. Since then, we have ponied up roughly the price of a used car in surgery, pain medication, holistic remedies, and grain-free food (may reduce joint inflammation), and endured countless well-meaning comments to the effect of: “Why would you waste so much time and trouble on a DOG? He’s not even purebred.”
Yes, he is a dog. A dog who lies beneath my desk all day while I work, who curls up in the crook of my knees while I sleep, who dissolves into paroxysms of glee every time I walk through the front door. He rides shotgun when we go to PetCo (if you ask him, he should be driving), he stays up late with me when I’m on deadline, he climbs into my lap to snuggle every time there’s a thunderstorm or I break down in tears during a particularly poignant episode of Alias (shut up; I had PMS and Sydney was having her baby and sobbing about her dead fiancé, who actually turned out to still be alive, but it was still sad at the time)
He’s a dog who had a very rough start in life—besides the shattered pelvis, he had a hematoma in each ear, a stumpy tail (probably docked at home by an amateur with a rubber band), a deep-rooted phobia of broomsticks and rakes, and the lifelong obsession with food that comes from scrambling for scraps on the streets of South Central L.A. When my husband takes Murphy to our local café for breakfast, Murphy will stare at the plates of bacon, trembling and drooling like a crack addict going into withdrawal, until a soft-hearted diner breaks down and gives him some. He is our own little Artful Dodger, known for pickpocketing treat-laden fanny packs at the dog park. I once caught him sneaking a five dollar bill from my husband’s dress pants; we’re reasonably sure he planned to buy some pig ears on the sly. Or he was planning to bribe one of the other dogs to do it for him and let them take the blame. He’s smart, sassy, and possessed of the infamous “terrier temperament”—if he were a person, he’d be Napoleon.
On Friday, I schlepped him to yet another orthopedic specialist, the best in our area, for a final opinion on the state of his hips. The orthopedist studied the x-rays, studied Murphy’s gimpy, stutter-stepping gait, and said that nothing more could be done for him. Hopefully, he’ll have a few more good years before crippling arthritis and fragmenting bones extinguish the crafty gleam in his eye. At this stage in the game, pain management is all we can hope for. So I continue what I know is ultimately a futile quest for a magic bullet—a dietary supplement or a physical therapy that can somehow make him whole again, or at least delay the inevitable day when I look at him and know it’s time to put him out of his pain. I know he’s just a pet and that it was folly to give my heart to an animal who’s had the odds stacked against him since day one, but as lifelong animal lover (not to mention a Chicago Cubs fan), I have this thing about rooting for the underdog.
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Posted by Beth at 4:45 PM | Comments (5)
Comments
As a dog lover I loved this post. We have a dog, Kahlua, who we've nicknamed Sylvia Plath as she has some kind of suicide wish. She's managed to eat and survive rat poison, a tin of fudge and has been known to try and attack the lawnmower. They take your heart. Have you read Marley and Me? You would love it. Prepare to cry.
Posted by: Eileen at May 7, 2006 7:26 PM
Oh, Beth, huge hugs to you and Murphy!!! We've spent so much so far on Peanut at the vet that I joked he was worth roughly $200 per pound. But they're family, right? What else can you do? And, really, what else could be as peaceful as rubbing a sleeping dog belly?
Posted by: Alesia Holliday ![[TypeKey Profile Page]](http://www.literarychicks.com/nav-commenters.gif)
at May 7, 2006 7:42 PM
Hey, as a mom who rushed a hamster nearly an hour away and paid a small fortune per gram to make her well... I understand. They're not "just a pet" they're your family.
Eileen, I just bought Marley and Me for my mom as part of her mother's day gift. I'm glad to hear it was good!!
Posted by: laurenjharwood at May 7, 2006 11:26 PM
You've probably already tried Glucosamine and/or Chondroitin on your dog, eh? (Yes, I'm Canadian) It can take a couple of weeks to really kick in, but I've used it successfully on myself and on old gimpy arthritic horses.
I have four dogs and I love them all to pieces - they are aged nine months to about nine years (we're not sure, no one can remember exactly when we got him). Only one has been to the vet - numerous times, even - but they're all worth every penny we spend on them. As our yearly dog treat bill will attest ...
I loved them even more when we brought our baby home (she's 8.5 weeks old now) and they immediately adopted her into the family. They worry when she cries and lick her head when we let them get close enough (they are all outdoor dogs). Such good dogs!
Posted by: Jennifer at May 8, 2006 12:04 AM
Three of my dogs are rescues--one from the pound and the other two from the streets. Chula, the Chihuahua cross, is the offspring of an abandoned dog, so she has street-roots also, although her little princess paws have never touched pavement! When I look at my pack, I wonder how anyone could have let such wonderful dogs go?! Boo, my daughter's German Spitz, is so darn cute that we joke that he looks like a baby seal and who can get mad at a baby seal?! He just rolls over and looks up at you with these big liquid brown eyes and you just melt... South is our medical problem--we almost lost him to a misdiagnosis of his thyroid condition, and now age and weight are taking their toll on his body, as well as the thyroid deficiency. I don't know how old he is--11 maybe. Which is elderly for a Shepherd, especially one that is at least 50 pounds overweight! He has taken in every stray puppy, kitten, and dog that I have brought home, accepting them and mothering them as if they were his own. (I remember one pup that was absolutely fascinated by his tail and she could be found at any given time chewing happily away on it while he just laid there and let her! Patience is a virtue that South has in abundance!) He is a wonderful dog, and I will miss him greatly when we will also have to make that decision to help him out of his pain... Until then I just enjoy the time we have with him and the rest of the pack. (My Lucy also lays on my feet when I am writing...)
Posted by: Sheri at May 8, 2006 11:25 AM
