On the Loss of a Good Dog

Taco, December 15, 2001 to April 29, 2010.

On Thursday, April 29, 2010, at 6:15 p.m. I had to hold my 10-year-old Miniature Pinscher, Taco, as he was put down. My husband, Reggie, my 16-year-old daughter, Ruth, and my dear friend, Shirley, were with Taco at the end.  Dr. Ruth Ainsworth at Village Vet in Sterling Ridge administered the pink injection.  We will have him cremated.

We thought we had licked the liver infection and had him on the road to recovery, but yesterday he began to suffer neurological distress--weakness in the hindquarters, which progressed to staggering and falling, along with impaired vision and vertigo.  The Vet determined it was hepatic encephalopathy--the neurological decline that comes from cirrhosis of the liver.  Essentially, toxic chemicals were building in his brain, causing muscle control loss and eyesight stress.  Taco must have been light-sensitive because two days before, he was barking at the little light on the ADT alarm pad and the red-light in the anti-pest plug-in device.

In spite of his staggers, Taco had a good last day--he ate his breakfast with fairly good vigor, he got to snuggle with me under a blanket in the mid-morning and patrolled his yard (lurching), and he sat calmly at in Ruth's lap and let us all love on him before it was time.

We had Taco since December 2001, and got him at a PetsMart Adoption event in Louisiana.  He was a quirky little dog, but a very good dog.  He killed rats and moles, could jump five feet straight into the air, always had to work for treats, and once stood up to a husky (and lost).  He loved to jingle his collar tags for attention, and if that wasn't enough, he was a loud barker.  He was nippy and ugly with toys, especially his favorite "uggee bone."  He tore up all the blinds he could reach whenever he saw something he wanted to attack on the other side of the window.  He was bossy toward other dogs and only tolerated Cross, our little Rat Terrier Mix, although this last month, we could tell he was really quite bonded with her.  In short, Taco generally swaggered around like a buff stud-muffin in a 14-inch high,17-pound stag red Min-Pin body.  He was a brave little guy.

His six-week battle began on March 12, triggered perhaps by his nom-ing on a squirrel carcass, and cost over $5,000. However, he had improved and was eating on his own again after having to have force-fed slurry and sub-cu fluids.  We thought he was recovering.  I have never worked so hard to take care of a dog. Plus, I never dreamed I would do what I did for this particular dog (he was VERY quirky--a bite-first, ask questions later little terrier-killing machine).

Taco will be much on my mind over this weekend and in the near future as I do my part with dog adoption off-sites.

Lucky Dog

My Miniature Pinscher, Taco, is one lucky, lucky dog—after more than a month of battling a liver ailment, he appears to be fully on the road to recovery. Yesterday, he began eating out of his bowl, and not just sniffing disdainfully at the food. He’s more likely to follow me around in his normal nosey way. He’s had a couple barking spells. And today, the effusion (swelling) in his lower abdomen is clearly diminished.

He still requires meds, including some pills I’ve not been able to get down him. Yesterday he actually took a pill in a pill pocket! Now I have a regimen of meds to improve his liver and guard against ulcer formation. Plus, he’ll stay on antibiotics for another couple weeks.

I’ve not had a foster dog since his illness began and I’ve been too worn out from working with him to do off-site adoptions for the Shelter. My Adoption Team Coordinator has about given up on me. But I just couldn’t focus on the Shelter dogs while my own pet’s illness was so severe.

Here’s what I’ve learned from my experience with Taco:

1. Be aware that animal treatments are as comprehensive today as human treatments. It should go without saying, but it still threw me for a loop. Taco’s illness would have resulted in certain death perhaps only five or ten years ago. The Vets who cared for the beloved dogs of our childhoods didn’t have sophisticated blood testing, portable sonogram equipment and specially trained personnel to read the results. Plasma transfusions for companion animals were a rarity. All these procedures are readily available, for a price, to most Vets today.
2. Decide before your dog gets sick what you will do when presented with expensive (and often escalating) treatment options. One of my friends had some lipomas removed from her 7-year-old Cattle Dog’s torso. When her Vet asked if she wanted to have the tissue sent out to analyzed for cancer, she declined. “I didn’t want to know if the tissue was malignant or not. If it came back cancerous, we’d feel too guilty to not treat it,” she explained. “We decided we’d do the removal of the lipomas for the dog’s comfort, but we weren’t going to go further.” To some people, this may sound harsh, but it’s reasonable—my friend is committed to providing palliative care, but not treatment that may or may not work.
3.  Ask about euthanization costs before the need arises. Some Vets charge an additional cost to euthanize a client’s pet, and others don’t charge faithful clients for the actual injections. There are often other charges that are mandated—disposal fees, etc. Ask so you know ahead of time.
4. Decide what you want to do with your pet’s remains. If you plan to bury your pet’s remains on your property, you need to make sure local ordinances permit this. Cremation is a popular way to handle a pet’s remains, but procedures and costs vary. The April 2010 print copy of “Houston Pet Talk” has an extremely good article about pet loss, and includes suggestions on how to evaluate the services offered by pet cremation companies
5. Consider Pet Health Insurance. I don’t have insurance on my pets. My Mom used to carry pet insurance on her pets, but doesn’t now. I asked my Vet for a brochure from the company honored by my doctor’s practice (I use VCA, a corporate Vet, with franchises nationwide—the reasons why are better left for a post in the future). I’m not purchasing insurance, but I did review the brochure. I might consider it in the future. I need more information.

What do you think about pet cremation or pet health insurance? Leave me a comment!

We Are Nearly Out of the Woods

Buddies
Originally uploaded by Calsidyrose

Finally, I think we're on the road to recover with Taco, my Miniture Pinscher (left in the photo) who has been battling a liver issue since March 12th, when he got ahold of a dead squirrel. It's taken $5,000 (yup, you read that right, not that I'm thrilled about it) and round-the-clock effort but he's starting to act like his old self again.

We're still having to force-feed him 2 times daily (a high-protein, low-fat slurry fed through a big syringe) just to keep his protein intake up, but his energy and attitude have vastly improved. This week he has finally begun showing interest in his toys again--he got the "ugee bone" ( a bone-on-a-rope thing) and guarded it vigorously. Yesterday, he "stole" one of Cross's squeaky toys and pushed it at my hands, trying to get me to tug it. He worked at making the squeaker peep for several minutes. He is also starting to lurk under the table again when we eat. We're so relieved.

Would I have spent this much money and effort if I'd known up front what the costs would be? I don't know--we love this dog, but he's always been a challenge-dog. He is mouthy, pushy and doesn't always play well with others. I've owned a muzzle to use when I handle him for medical purposes for years. Our female, Cross, is far more people-oriented and sweet-tempered than this guy.

But we spent the money because he's our dog and we're responsible for him. The potential for prolonged treatment and vet bills is just part of dog ownership, and it is something people need to think about before adding a dog to their lives.

There's No Free Lunch--or Free Dog

One of my Dad’s favorite sayings is there’s “no free lunch.” When working with clients who are considering one of our Shelter’s dogs, I echo my Dad’s assessment, adjusting it to, “There are no free dogs.”

Recently, our Shelter altered its fee structure, reducing the cost to adopt a dog or cat from $100 to $75. We also offer lower fees for senior animals, multiple adoptions and long-term Shelter animals. The current fee includes the animal’s spay/neuter, rabies shot, bordetella preventive, yearly vaccination, microchip and a heartworm test (but not treatment, if needed). This is quite a deal—the spay or neuter alone can run around $300 at a local Vet’s office, once meds and other costs are added.

However, many of our clients feel that even $75 is too much for a Shelter dog. True, many of our dogs will need additional Vet attention to combat Shelter-induced infections such as kennel cough, worms, mange, mites, fleas, coccidia and other ailments, but no matter how you look at it, the point-of-purchase (and let’s face it, legally, this is a sale, not an adoption) cost is the least expensive part of owning a dog.

If you get your dog from Craigslist, you can get a “free dog” but most of the ads I see list a “re-homing” fee (which is really a price) ranging from $25 to $800. Of course, the Craigslist flaggers get busy when the “re-homing fee” for a dog is more than $100, but their vigilance has more to do with the stated rules of Craigslist than anything else. In our local paper, some breeds of puppies are marketed at $1,800 or more.

No matter the take-home cost, dogs are not “maintenance-free.”

Regular basic care for a year (including heartworm prevention, regular shots, one Wellness Vet visit with routine shots & fecal/blood tests, decent food and purchases such as bedding, leashes and a few toys) in our area runs about $300 to $600, depending on the size of the dog.

And that’s assuming your dog doesn’t get sick, hit by a car, attacked by another dog or otherwise suffer a serious illness or contract a chronic condition.

For most folks, the costs of a caring for a healthy dog are not problematic. The joy of having a companion animal is well worth it. But when an animal is ill, all bets are off.

So far, I’ve spent about $5,000 treating my dog, Taco, for a severe liver infection due to his dog-natural tendency to nom on dead squirrels. He is about 9 or 10 years old, and was very healthy before this illness. When I opted to start treatment, I was prepared for $2,000 but not double that and more. At each step, I asked my Vet, “Am I throwing money at a dying dog?” And each time, it was clear I was dealing with a critically sick dog, but not one that was at death’s door—unless I simply decided to stop treatment entirely. Of course, the outcome electing not to do IV fluids and one plasma treatment (which were pricey) would have meant death for the dog.

I’ve halted treatments on my own dogs before (both personal pets and foster animals). I have even selected euthanasia when the Vet recommended it. In short, I don’t think I’ve plunged blindly into trying to heroically save a dog’s life when I should have simply “let him die.”

I have sacrificed my summer vacation and a computer upgrade to treat this dog. I haven’t been able to do off-site work or take on a new foster dog. I have learned how to do all sorts of things I never dreamed I’d need to know how to do—how to muzzle and force meds down a dog, how to administer sub-cu fluids, and how to give a dog an enema. I am out of money and worn out. And it’s not over yet. My dog is still not fully recovered. He’s a lot better, and he’s one lucky dog, but he sure as heck ain’t a “free dog.”

When I’m back doing off-sites and my clients start fretting about the cost, I may have to remind them that the cheapest part of dog ownership may well be the point of purchase.

How to Hold a Nippy Dog

We are learning all sorts of new skills from our experiences with my Min Pin, Taco, who has been battling severe gastro-intestinal illnesses since March 12^th.

A very dear friend of mine has been helping me give Taco sub-cu fluids (I’ve learned how to hold the needle in place once she slides it under the skin).  Today we reviewed the process for the “Vet Tech Hug,” which allowed us to administer medicines (pills crushed and dissolved in distilled water and Hills Science Diet A/D food mixed into a thick slurry (20 ccs at a time, administered by mouth through a big syringe).  Taco’s severe pain has made him extremely bitey, and I’ve got bruises and small punctures from his sharp teeth.  Fortunately, he is a small dog, so the bites are small, but his jaws are very powerful.  It hurts like the dickens when he clamps down on a fingerful of Nutri-Cal.

The “Vet Tech Hug” method requires two people, a towel and a slip leash.  The towel is spread on the table to stabilize the dog.  The slip leash is for back up control at the beginning and end of the hug.  The dog is left un-muzzled for this process.  The holder encircles the dog’s neck, using the crook of the elbow like a vise to still the dog’s neck and lift the dog’s snout toward the ceiling.  With the other arm, the holder encircles the dogs body—I’m more comfortable putting my arm over the topline, but it can be easier to slide the arm underneath the dog’s belly.  You pull the dog toward your torso, hugging the animal in a firm squeeze.

I do the holding, and I have to get the grip right on the first go, otherwise, a dog Taco’s size can get leverage with his forelegs and pull his neck out of the grip or snap at my face.  I don’t have a photo, but you can get the idea of the position from the picture above, which I found on Flickr.

While the dog is in my arms, my friend or my husband can take a prepared syringe and squeeze liquefied pills or food into the dog’s mouth.  The key is to place the tip of the syringe in the small gap between the perimolars, as shown in the diagram below.  The dog may mouth the syringe with its canines, but it’s almost impossible for the dog to bite down.  Plus, this puts the syringe tip far enough back in the mouth that the dog is forced to swallow the liquid.

So far, we have given Taco half of his medication dosage for the day and have fed Taco 60 ccs of liquid food (20 ccs at a time, every hour and a half).  The third syringe of food went down with only minimal resistance on Taco’s part.  We’ll feed him again twice before bed tonight and give him his meds.

On Monday, Taco will have another sonogram.  My Vet reviewed the numbers on his liver bloodwork and she suspects sludge in the gallbladder.  A sonogram will confirm that and give us a clear look at the liver and other organs.  Yes, it’s another expense, but if the gall bladder has been affected, it’s actually one of the easier issues to treat.  There’s a possibility that Taco has developed pancreatitis, but we’ll have to wait until Monday.  For now, the key is to get him eating (hopefully on his own) and to get his meds down his throat without getting bitten.

Memories of Old Yeller

We all know what happened to “Old Yeller” in the classic book and Disney film, and we all bawled our eyes out. Of course, back in the days when Old Yeller fought bears and contracted rabies, advanced veterinarian treatments were non-existent.

Today, vet care is as sophisticated as human medical care—even if it is without a bitter Congressional fight—and owners can treat their animals for an ever-expanding range of maladies at an ever-increasing cost.

I’ve spent more than $3,000 on a rescue dog I’ve owned for 10 years. Back when we went to the PetsMart adoption event, we never visualized this, of course. We saw a cute, spirited Miniature Pinscher. We didn’t know he would be a dominant, nippy little twit, but after all these years, we love him, even with his drawbacks.

I was describing Taco’s recent illness to a group of friends, and an older man began describing how his family cared for the dogs of his youth: “We had dogs on our farm in Wisconsin,” he said. “And we never did much for them, but they were healthy and lived a long time. We didn’t even feed them fancy dog food. And we never took them to a Vet. We might have called a Vet for a cow, maybe, but never for a dog.” He was appalled that I had spent so much on “just a dog.”

I didn’t get into it with the gentleman, but 30 or 40 years ago, when he was a boy in Wisconsin, a farm dog might have lived for 3 or 4 years before getting injured, ill or hit by a vehicle. Dogs simply “ran off” never to be seen again. Even when I was a kid in the 1960s, if you had a dog that lived to be 7 or 8, that was an “old dog.” A very old dog.

Most Vets still consider a dog a senior at age 7, but vaccinations, spay/neuter programs, better food nutrition, preventive health checks and a growing list of drugs and treatment options have extended the life-span of our pets. Today, I meet people with 14-year-old Golden Retreivers who still take (slow) daily walks and 18-year-old Dachshunds who might be hobbled with cataracts and toothless, but they still have pep. Advances in Vet care today mean that if you want to spend the money, you can provide your ill pet with blood transfusions, open heart surgery, joint replacement and sophisticated cancer treatments.

Have I spent too much on my nasty little Min Pin? I don’t know. As I told my husband, the time to decide how much you want to spend is BEFORE you are involved in a full-bore treatment plan. I could have stopped, I suppose, after my first visit—skipping the pricey emergency care and nixing the follow-ups. My dog would be dead now simply due to system collapse and dehydration. I’m taking him to the Vet this morning, after watching him slip into a decline last night. However, this morning, his whole attitude seems better.

Still, I warned my daughter that we might have to make that big Decision with this dog. I told I needed to be honest with her—I needed to know if she wants to be with Taco when/if euthanization is needed. She said yes she did. Meanwhile, my conscience won’t let me just abandon this dog to death if reasonable efforts will help him improve. My Vet, at this point, believes he is a good candidate for total recovery. So for now, I will hand over my credit card.

Taco's Illness Worsens

What an ordeal. The last two weeks have gone by in a blur due to my Miniature Pinscher Taco’s fateful encounter with a dead squirrel.  Since I discovered him with a squirrel carcass, I have been to three different veterinarian offices, and have spent more than $3,000 dealing with his symptoms.

We’ll never know for sure, but my Vet thinks we’re dealing with Salmonella.  Taco went downhill the Saturday after our first Vet visit on March 12^th, in spite of three injections (anti-bacterial, anti-nausea and pain medication).  He stopped eating.  His eyes grew squinty, his gums were engorged red but very tacky, and he bit at us while we tried to medicate him. 

On March 14^th we took him to the San Antonio Animal Emergency Clinic, which is rated second in the state of Texas behind the facilities at Texas A&M.  Taco spent the night with IV fluids and antibiotics, along with heating pads to raise his abnormal and dangerously low temperature.  There were Xrays and a sonogram.  No sign of tumor, no sign of pancreatic distress, no damage to the liver.  Just sever inflammation all along the gastric track and inflammation around the liver.

March 15^th and 16^th were spent at Spring Branch Vetinerary Clinic, where my Mom takes her dogs.  We brought him home on March 18^th and he saw his regular doctor on March 19^th.  His blood work was improved and she gave him 300 ccs of sub-cu fluids, a powerful anti-biotic injection, and a full round of additional meds.  We fed him via syringe, but Taco became more balky and by Sunday, March 21^st, Taco had bitten both  me and my husband so hard that we couldn’t give him anymore liquid medicines (muzzling him became an exercise in avoiding Taco’s teeth).

March 22^nd, he went back to the Vet for more fluids.  He seemed to improve, making a poop and even eating a bit more enthusiastically on his own.  I found a way to get him to take his pills—a dab of whipped cream cheese worked wonders.  On March 23^rd, a friend of mine helped me give him 200 ccs of sub-cu fluids at home to keep his electrolytes in balance.  Afterwards, Taco ate shredded boiled chicken and I/D dog food.  He pooped again the next day.  However, by afternoon on the 24^th, he was refusing most food, except for a couple T/D kibbles.

Today, my friend and I gave him another 200 ccs of sub-cu fluids.  His temperature was normal, and his attitude seemed better.  He is still reluctant to eat—I have five open cans of special Hills Science Diet dog foods and he only sniffs at them.  He ate some kibbles, a bit of I/D and a  bit of rice.  However, tonight, his gums are pale and tacky, and he’s hunched over again.  Instead of letting him sleep with my daughter, I’ve tucked him snugly in his “Happy Place,: a bed in the closet.

My daughter, who is almost 16, asked if maybe we had done the wrong thing by treating his illness—she wanted to know if he is in too much pain and needs to be euthanized.  At each stage of this process, I have asked the presiding Vet whether or not we’re trying to treat a dying dog.  Each time, I was told he was critical, but not dying.  We’ve spent more money on this dog to fight this than I’ve ever spent on one animal, but the problem is that once we started treatment, we were pretty much committed. 

Tonight I am concerned we are losing the battle.  I have an appointment for Taco in the morning.  Plus, I had a long conversation with Taco’s doctor this afternoon, and she was hopeful that his improvement would continue.  But his symptoms appear to be worsening.  I am not confident that we can save him.  Only time will tell.

Squirrels + Dogs = Not a Good Idea

“Dug” the talking dog in the Pixar loses all focus when it comes to “Squirrels!”  And so do my dogs, especially my Miniature Pinscher, Taco. Today I went out in the backyard—it’s Spring here in Houston—and saw Taco sunning himself. Then I realized he was guarding something. His prize?—the back half of a dead squirrel.

Yipes! I rushed into the house for a hunk of leftover rotisserie chicken and performed a bait-and-switch. I got Taco inside, picked up the dead squirrel, and realized that we were missing the head and forequarters. Not to mention the guts. The carcass was cleanly cut and fairly fresh, with red flesh and a white spot of bone. No shreds or tears. I think this squirrel got caught in the community association mowers’ blades or perhaps was a dropped by the big black vultures that take care of the roadkill around here in the Piney Woods.

I scoured the yard, letting Taco out twice. Each time, he led me to more squirrel bits—two piles of guts. It wasn’t a fun job. A little later, the barfing and pooping began. Because it’s Friday and because we’re traveling to my folks this weekend, I decided to take Taco to my Vet. I use VCA (it’s a complicated story for another post), which is a chain vet. My dog’s regular Vet had called in sick, so I had a different doctor.

You know the rest of the story—nothing you can’t throw money at. The first estimate was about $450, including a premium blood panel. The examining doctor was concerned about pancreatitis, but I vetoed that call. Taco has eaten all manner of things in the 10 years I’ve had him and has never had anything worse than a regular gastrointestinal upset. I brought him in to see if we needed to purge his gut, and to find out what prophylactic measures to take against Leptospirosis, a bacterial infection carried by squirrels and threatening to dogs. We settled on a less expensive blood-fecal-urine panel, along with a pain injection (my normally stoic dog was hunched and groaning and certainly not his bossy, nippy self) and then added an anti-nausea injection after he hurked up in the car before we could get out of the parking lot. I have the pain meds from a different visit, and so went home with antiobiotic (Metronidazole) and another drug to slow the loose stools. The bill was about $275 by the time we were done.

Taco is groggy from the pain meds and I’ve stashed him in a crate with comfy blankets. Hopefully, his system will settle down and we'll get a clean report on his bloodwork. We’ll take some Science Diet ID along with us before we put him back on regular food. I’ll touch base with his regular Vet, plus I’ve already talked to a Vet Tech friend just to make sure I wasn’t over-reacting. I suppose I could have played “wait-and-see” but I chose not to do that.

Squirrels are fine for chasing, but not good at all for dogs to snack on.

-*-
Top Photo:  "Dug" from the Pixar Movie, "Up"
Bottom:  Taco on the prowl for squirrels.

Gonna Getcha

Taco, my nine-year-old miniature pinscher, still has plenty spring in his bounce as he tries to get at this grumpy possum on Easter Sunday.

Taco can jump even higher than this, but he'd been harassing the possum for several minutes. Taco has a strong prey instinct--he kills rats,frogs and has even cornered a copperhead (we moved the snake out of our backyard before it bit him). Taco is oversize for the American breed standard, 12 inches at the shoulder, and 17 pounds of muscle. He embodies the old-school characteristics of the German Pinscher, which was bred to kill vermin in the kitchen pantries and stables. He is headstrong and assertive, so we have to employ "Nothing in Life is Free" type training techniques to keep his bossiness in check.

Meet My Mutts

I have two rescue dogs of my own—a 9-year-old male stag red miniature pinscher (adopted in 2001), an avid hunter who has never figured out he’s been neutered, and a 5-year-old black-and-white rat terrier mix girl with fluffy hair and terminal cuteness (adopted in 2004). Taco is named after the southernmost Taco Bell in Louisiana. Cross answers to her rescue name--as a puppy she had a white "cross" marking on her forehead--which stuck because she was the group’s official mascot for two years. Both dogs like living in Texas, and they're tolerant of the fosters who cycle in and out of my house. Taco requires payment in treats, but Cross just wants a little lap time without having to share.