Dog surgery
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the diet didn’t work. If you’ll recall, I wrote several months back about our little beagle/spaniel/who-know’s-what mix, Maggie, and some “mild but vexing health problems” she was experiencing. To put it bluntly: she was peeing all over the place.
Our options were few: give her meds and put her on a diet to see if losing weight would alleviate the problem; address the issue through surgical means; or do nothing and continue to let her destroy our floors until the end of time.
We of course opted for the cheapest and most hygienic option, the meds/diet combo. Our little lady managed to drop an astounding two pounds, which is actually a pretty drastic weight loss for a 20-pound pup.
For a while, things seemed to be getting better. Maggie was sleeping through the night, taking care of her personal business outside instead of on our basement carpet, and going on her daily walks without having to stop every 20 seconds to relieve herself. We were overjoyed.
But then, things slowly started to go downhill. At the end of my rope, I took her into the vet yet again, where I ponied up the 200 bucks it takes to get a doggy x-ray so we could finally figure out exactly what was going on.
Turns out Maggie had a bladder stone that was two and a half inches in diameter. I’m no mathematician, but using my proportion-calculating skills honed in the fires of middle school math, I deduced that a two-and-a-half-inch bladder stone in a 20-pound dog is roughly equivalent to a bowling ball rolling around in the belly of an adult human. Ouch. I think I would pee wherever I darn well pleased, too.
So we opted for surgery. It’s not a decision we came to lightly because, although we love Maggie, we are not classic “animal lovers” or “dog people” who will stop at nothing for the comfort of their pup.
Do you know how expensive it is to anesthetize a dog for surgery? Not to mention the meds and the check ups and on and on and on? Let me tell you: it’s a lot. Logan and I went around and around about how much money we were willing to put into this little doggy whom we love, yes, but who is decidedly not a human.
“That’s the opinion of a monster,” some of you might be thinking, while others are nodding their heads in agreement with our pragmatic approach. I get it. I have friends in both camps.
“You’re doing WHAT?” my friend Brook asked incredulously when I informed her that Maggie was booked for surgery the next day. “I can’t believe you caved.”
“What other option do I have?” I said. “It’s not like I’m going to put her down over a bladder stone. She’s miserable and we’re miserable—there’s really nothing else to do.” Brook nodded her head in understanding. Her own dog is blind, hard of hearing, and “has an abundance of warts,” as she puts it. And still, he is an adored member of their household.
Here’s the truth: sometimes I wish Maggie would just run away and find another happy family who exults in dog hair on the couch and incessant barking at deer. I go back in my mind to that Christmas Eve seven years ago and wonder if I had it to do over again, would I answer that classified ad in the newspaper and buy Maggie from the somewhat questionable “dog dealers” who sold her to us?
Every time I look into her big brown eyes, or see her snuggled up next to one of my kids, or watch her little tail almost wiggle her entire backside off of her body because she’s excited to see us, I know I would. Even with all of the shedded dog hair, the barking, the doctor visits, the peeing—all of it—I would bring Maggie into our family all over again. There’s simply no other option.