R’s surgeon called this morning and told me he was “rarin’ to go”, was already able to get up on his own and pulled everyone where he wanted to go to go potty. Sounds like my boy. So I got to come pick him up this afternoon.
He’s definitely not R right now. My biggest worry at this point is that the spot they saw in his lungs is a lung met (there’s always the outside chance it’s not, as it was a lone little met) and that R doesn’t get to live long enough to really be R again. He was still R before. Limping a little, but still R. This creature snoozing beside me now? Not really R. Looks kinda like him (with one big f***ing change, obviously) but the sedate, drugged out half-snoozing, half-anxiety ball? Not R.
R is the happiest, goofiest boy I know. He is always smiling. And he’s a smart little sh**. You look into those shining eyes and there’s a sharp mind in there, plotting, scheming, planning your glorious doom!
This is like you only gave me back 3/4ths of him, like, spiritually, like you only gave me back 3/4ths of his legs.
I assume that will get better over the next few weeks, that’s what we were counting on when we made this decision after all. But it’s always sad to see your fur-beast out of sorts and this is probably the most out of sorts R has ever been.
I think I managed my big ‘To Do’ though. I was told to be chill. I was told to be upbeat and positive. So I had a little mantra on my ride there: “Be positive. Be strong. Be calm.” Which is probably just good dog-leadership advice in general. But I’ve never totally mastered those three things. Still, it was pretty easy to gush over how awesome it was to see the bug (because, it was) and I spent the whole ride home focused on how I was going to give him “so much kisses” and how he’s so beautiful and how we’re hopefully going to get to have more time laying out in the sun and playing with tennis balls now.
He was super anxious for a couple of minutes when we first got home, hop-hobbling all around the front yard in a weirdly frantic search for the perfect pee spot. Normally peeing is a calm amble and the perfect spot reveals itself as though through divine guidance. So not sure what’s up with that.
We had a bit of a frantic hop-hobble around the living room too until I used my best soothing voice to lure him onto the mattress on the floor for a nap. (He has refused to touch his $200 orthopedic bed I bought just for this purpose. Of course.)
Mostly though, I get the sense this is probably the calm before the storm, as they say. This is the life-sneaky lulling me into a false sense of security. R is too drugged out to really feel any pain yet. The hospital grade drugs will wear off tomorrow or the day after. I expect a bit of a meltdown then while we try to figure out the perfect cocktail of pill bottles. Also, I’ll probably be pretty sleep deprived by then. It seems like a good bet he might want to sleep in bed with me. Which, I probably don’t have the heart to deny him. But he is wearing a giant plastic cone on his head. So. I imagine a few good whacks during the night? Good sleepy times.
The last time I tried to sleep with a coned R was when we were on a cross country road trip for a move. That one ended with R puking down my chest and then I got up to spend the rest of the night on the floor outside the bathroom so if he puked again it would either be on carpet or, if I was really lucky, tile.
I’m glad he’s home, except for the little part of me that doesn’t really feel like he is home yet. And, yeah, the incision is kinda gross and the fact that there’s not a leg where there’s supposed to be a leg just makes me sad and weird every time I see it. On the plus side? He seems super extra comfy lying on that side now. Like, the geometry and angles and shit seem to work extra well now that there’s not a leg in the way back there. Napping position level up.
Big plans tonight for British murder mysteries and more meds. Tomorrow I plan to work on boring sh** from bed all day. I love my monster man. Let’s just get through these next few weeks, keep our fingers crossed we get a few more after that, and get back to being us.
“Be positive. Be strong. Be calm.”
“Be positive. Be strong. Be calm.”
“Be positive. Be strong. Be calm.”
Awwww ((((hugs)))). Your mantra is working, you are doing this. No, he’s not himself right now, but he WILL be soon, and you will look back and be even more proud of how you and him handled this!
I’m thinking of you and sending lots of love & hugs your way. Hang in there and stop by the chat tomorrow, I’ll be in there after about 12 your time.
“My biggest worry at this point is that the spot they saw in his lungs is a lung met (there’s always the outside chance it’s not, as it was a lone little met) and that R doesn’t get to live long enough to really be R again. He was still R before. Limping a little, but still R. This creature snoozing beside me now? Not really R. Looks kinda like him (with one big f***ing change, obviously) but the sedate, drugged out half-snoozing, half-anxiety ball? Not R.”
I can so relate to this! This is how I felt when the days following the surgery of Arktik my 10 years old husky who always been such a ball of energy.
But now, going on 3 months post-surgery, I could not be happier. He is doing so well. And it did not take that long to get my puppy back. The first two weeks are definitely the worst. But you will see R getting back to his normal self sooner than you think 🙂
If you want to see how Arktik is doing after 1,2 or 3 months you can check my blog. Or in the forum for more details on his evolution.
https://arktik.tripawds.com/wp-admin/
Thanks, I’ll check it out. Honestly, as soon as R wasn’t as insanely doped up as the hospital was keeping him, a lot of his R-ness came back. Like, day 2. Now the trick is going to be balancing those meds so he’s sleepy enough not to be a nutcase, but not drugged into oblivion. (He wanted to go after a RABBIT this morning. And then again tried to pull me to the fence to hop up to say ‘hi’ to the neighbor. So we might need a biiiiit more sleepy pills for a few more days.)