On June 27th, 2011, my heart was split in two. My diva, my hard headed, independent beautiful little girl, Teagan, passed away in the night. She was 15 months old. The most probable cause was mesenteric torsion.
She was opinoniated, bossy, independent. She could do a mean alligator death roll when she didn't want to do what you asked her to do. And had an ego that knew no bounds.
She was only 15months old, but I remember more stories about her than all my other dogs combined, the trouble she would get herself into. As a young pup, maybe 10-12 weeks old, she decided that she didn't want to be walking over the creek on the bridge, she'd rather be in the creek. Problem was the bridge was about 4 feet above the creek bed. And there was no water in the creek. Not only did she jump, she leaped exuberantly high up in the air. The look on her face on the way down was priceless: Oh s**t, this is gonna hurt. Splat she landed, got a mouth full of rocks, shook it off and race off into the pasture to chase the big dogs.
She could play stick like none of my other dogs. Darcy is world class, but Teagan ran circles around her.
She and Deacon got real good at reducing reusing and recycling socks. He'd eat one, throw it up and she'd swallow it back down. Socks...mm, mm, good
She was fearless when it came to the retrieving games. The only problem was, she thought that since she worked so hard to get the bumper that it was her's. Unless there was a long line on her, you weren't getting it back. So she was sent off to big girl camp to learn that there are consequences for ignoring momma...
The first report I got from the trainer was all good. The second, kind of funny and glad I wasn't the one having to deal with her. She thought she could get a way with the crap I put up with. Unfortunately for her, the trainer is a former Marine Drill Master. At one point he told his wife to shut doors, close the windows and ignore what she heard coming from the kennel.
Remember her alligator death roll ability? The second day she was there, the trainer gave a leash correction, a little pop on the leash and collar. She threw herself on the ground and pitched a hissy fit that would have done a New York City fashionista wannabe proud. She rolled around and around and around on the end of the leash, until the trainer told her in no uncertain terms she was being stupid and that wasn't going to fly with him.
She still tested him though. One of the first things a retriever is taught is the "hold" command. The trainer opens the dog's mouth, places a wooden dowel in her mouth, closes her mouth and repeats "hold". Sounds simple, right? Try opening a dogs mouth when she is gritting her teeth together as hard as she can.
They got through the rough start and when I went to visit her, she most eager to stay with the trainer because she got to do a lot of fun things with him.
She was an awesome cadaver dog-in-training. More methodical and patient when trying to find the source than her older brother and her mother. I still remember at one training, only being able to see her butt as she tried to wiggle her way down into a pile of rocks to touch the source.
I will miss her. I will miss the incredible journey she and I were about to embark on. I'll miss seeing her get her first orange hunt test ribbon. I'll miss the satisfaction of her find some poor lost soul and give at least some peace of mind to a victims family.
Most of all I will miss her in the quiet of the evening when she falls asleep in my lap, belly up, feet stuck straight up in the air, and her head hanging over the arm of my chair, snoring gently as she recharges for her next adventure.
Good bye my fireball. You burned bright, hot and way too fast.
When out searching, I am always on the lookout for all the big beasties that can harm me and my canine partners.Lions, tigers and bears, oh my!Cora has the habit of finding bear dens, and once found one that was occupied!My teammates won’t let me live down what I looked like running away from the den.And all the occupant was doing was snoozing peacefully, its humungous head resting on its crossed paws.
We’ve run into a few snakes, and saw a few bobcats on the way to tasks.
But, it’s the wee beasties that drive me insane, especially in the summer time.There’s gnats, yellow jackets, black flies, deer flies, big black horse flies, little green horse flies, spiders, centipedes, millipedes just to name a few.All laughing at my attempts to prevent them from invading my eyes, my nose, biting my flesh, and drinking my blood.Over the weekend, as I was hiding for a team mate, I put my hand down as I was sitting next to a tree.And immediately felt like I’d stuck my hand in a flame. Pulled my hand back and it was already starting to swell.Fortunately, it didn’t go much beyond my thumb and now I have a pretty rash!My team mate and I think it was this that got me:
I’ve had one search where I couldn’t search a major portion of my sector because we kept running into yellow jacket nests.On that same search, one of the walkers had to be transported to the hospital after getting into a nest of them.Just last week, I moved my portable mounting block to get on my horse and started running as fast as my fat little legs would carry me down the driveway.It appears that a nest had taken up residence under the block and didn’t appreciate the move to a new locale.The whole nest seemed to come boiling out in a black cloud of anger, just looking for a victim.All of us were fortunate and didn’t get stung, much.
Right now though, my least favorite wee beastie is the gnat.I could be swimming in a vat of 100 proof insect repellant, and they’d still figure out a way to get in my eyes, up my nose or inhaled.They are just wretched.The only thing that works for me is a branch snapped off of the nearest tree that I can wave around like a mad woman. I’ve often wondered what my dogs are thinking when they are coming back to me to indicate and find me furiously waving round this leafy frond over my head.
Then my least favorite wee beastie of them all, the tick. There are so many different kinds, the dog tick, the lone star tick, the deer tick and on and on.I hate them for a myriad of reasons.They are useless blood sucking disease carrying parasites that serve no useful purpose in the grand scheme of things.I might be a little biased in my thinking after having to deal with many a dog dying of Lyme induced kidney failure or the fact that my Finn almost died from Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.
Mountain Laurel in its full glory is beautiful to behold. You can turn a corner on a hiking trail and be stopped in your tracks by the sight of acres and acres of it tumbling down the mountain side like white water river rapids.
rushing towards you
and tumbling down hill
As you get closer the subtle fragrance tickles your nose.The buzzing bees, attracted by the flowers, are industriously collecting their nectar.The bell shaped flowers, delicately veined in pink, are beautiful in their simplicity.
However, I rank Mountain Laurel and her cousin, Rhododendron, right up there with ticks.
My very first search EVER, after certifying my first dog Ben, was looking for a lost 9 year old girl in a vast tract of harvested timber.Pine trees planted so close together I could barely walk through them. I was able to walk the top of my sector along a two track. Then plunged into the woven thicket of pine branches and Virginia green wire. After spending, what I thought was most of the night bushing wacking through that, I was never so happy to see the far boundary.We broke out of the mess and breathed a sigh of relief (ha!) at the open ground under the set of electrical transmission towers that marked the boundary of my sector.They were set on a slope so steep most of the way down Ben and I were skiing on old leaf litter.We were spit out at the bottom of the sector into a creek bottom.Whew, I thought, we can do some real searching, since it was night time and the scent should be dropping into the drainage.
Oh what a naïve newbie I was.For in front of me was this vast mat of tangled branches of old growth Mt Laurel.
a small smattering of mt laurel
I stopped my team for a moment.Gave Ben some water and a little food.Readjusted my pack, made sure my head lamp was on straight, and had my clippers ready.The Gods of Fate were probably having a good laugh at my expense, because I really had no clue of what I was getting into.
I boldly strode into the Mt Laurel and was stopped short no more than 10 feet in. Head check right, head check left. Headlamp just showed more Laurel, no path, no nothing. Even the stream was clogged with its branches. Got my trusty pruning shears out. The Gods of Fate laughed again.
When I say old growth laurel, there are branches as thick as my wrist and trunks as big around as my leg. All the pruning shears were good for that night was to scratch an itch.
The end of my sector was supposed to be 3 drainages in or about 300 meters.There was no navigating skill I could use to find the end of the sector.The laurel blocked my ability to see the drainages.And in order to pace count 300 meters I had to be able to pace.I am not exactly sure what my pace count is when I am belly crawling under, over and through this crap.
I had to sling my pack underneath me.If I’d kept it on my back, I would have been so tangled it would have taken a bulldozer to get me out of there.I even had to take Ben’s vest off because he kept getting trapped by the snarl of branches and trunks.Once he was free of the vest, he was able to slip and slither through with no problems. Especially when he was in the creek bed.
When I and the rest of the team could finally stand upright, I made the executive decision to head up hill and back to the truck.We weren’t accomplishing anything and could realistically become part of the problem.
That hike back to the truck was a whole ‘nother mess.Some of us were having hallucinations from lack of sleep (I was working on 60 hours of searching with only 5 hours of sleep). My own special hallucination was some weird floating head that looked like it could belong to some long ago mountain man, following me just on the edge of my peripheral vision.
From that very first search, I learned to hate mountain laurel and rhododendrons with a passion. And, yep, a lot of my searches end up in patches of those evil plants. At night. In the rain. And sometimes with fog.
Last night I went on my first search mission with out the alpha dog. And I only lasted through one task, before I was too overwhelmed to go on.
Since Finn is 11 years old and is still recuperating from major thoracic surgery, I've been forced to retire him. Finn is actually my second air scent dog, the first one being Ben. He was found wandering the streets of my home town. I am not sure how much he counts, since he was only operational for about 2 years before he suffered a career ending injury to his suspensory ligament in one of his rear legs.
Finn has been my do everything, go every dog. The places we have traveled to and people we have helped are uncountable. Everything I asked him to do, he's done. But my favorite thing is his attitude: "Come on! Let's go see whats around this corner". If I was turned around, which happened more than once when we were out searching in the dark, fog and rain, all I had to do was follow his glowing collar and there was the trail. He is my partner, my protector; he is a part of me.
So leaving him at home brought forth an amazing array of emotions. A part of me is missing and I was unsure in the woods with out him there to guide me. I don't trust another dog as much as I trust him. There was heart aching sadness and with that came the irrational feeling of wanting to quit everything. That I couldn't do this without him.
I wonder how long I will feel like this. Darcy, my new dog, shouldn't have to labor under the unfair load of trying to live up to Finn. She is her own dog and needs to have the chance to write her own story. Just as Finn wrote his own incredible epic.
On his way home from Guyana in 2009 after thoroughly pissing off a fashionista-wanna be by jumping up on her plane seat and leaving his beautiful golden Lab hair all over it.
I know my alpha dog, Finn, is getting old. I see him slowing down. I even have a young dog coming up quickly through the ranks to take his place. In my mind though, he is immortal.
Just two weeks prior to what I am about to describe, he’d spent several hours in the mountains near Lexingtion, Va on a cadaver search. And was sounder, both mentally and physically, at 11, than my younger cadaver dog was when the search was over. This was all in the back of my mind when my search team, Blue and Gray Search and Rescue Dogs, were called out to assist in the search, rescue and recovery mission after the devastating tornadoes that flattened Glade Springs, Virginia at the end of April. Finn is an old hand at disaster work. He’s spent time in New Orleans after Katrina and knows how to navigate jungles, both the green ones and the steel ones. So he was the first one I got out of the truck.
He and I were walking down to the first rubble pile we were assigned, and he stumbled on smooth ground, doing a face plant. That had me a little worried. Then when he didn’t want get on the pile; this from a dog that climbed 30’ piles hour after hour in the 9th Ward, I wasn’t just worried, I knew there was something very wrong.
The following Monday, Finn got up on my picnic table, reluctantly let me hold off a vein and I got two tubes of blood to send into Antech. I don’t remember what I was expecting to see, maybe elevated BUN and Creatinine. Indicators of failing kidneys. I certainly wasn’t expecting to see a blood calcium level of 17.3. When the normal high is only 12.
Calcium is delicately held in balance by two pairs of parathyroid glands on either side of the thyroid glands in the neck:
Too high, cardiac arrhythmias occur. Too low, seizures and tetany occur. Both easily lead to death. Low calcium is something most dog breeders are very aware of. Bitches can develop low blood calcium when they are nursing a large litter and develop eclampsia. However, there are very few things that cause the blood calcium to go high, all of them devastating. In school I was taught when there is a high calcium level it is time to search for the tumor that is causing it.
I can deal with mayhem, destruction, broken bones, HBC’s and other assortments of catastrophes as long as it isn’t my dog. When one of my dogs ends up with even the most minor of problems, I become the veterinary client from hell. Irrational, illogical and very emotional. However, a small rational part of my brain was still working and it pushed me to start researching how to figure out what was happening to my heart dog.
As a veterinarian, I belong to a wonderful resource called Veterinary Information Network. With the click of a button, I can get questions answered, research obscure clinical signs, and get help putting all the pieces together. So that is where I started. First, I had to determine if the elevated calcium was a true number and not lab error. That required an ionized calcium level. If that was elevated then it truly was an accurate number and I need to continue to find the source of the elevation. This test requires a lot of special handling of the blood, the most important being the blood has to arrive at the lab frozen. Luckily, I have a lot of ice packs to use for my vaccine cooler and several were sacrificed to the cause. It only took a day to get those results back, and unfortunately it confirmed the levels as being a real number and not lab error.
Back to VIN I went. The next step is determining if the elevation is due to the parathyroids having a fit or if there was a tumor inducing the calcium levels to elevate. There is an interesting test from Michigan State University vet lab called the hypercalcemia of Malignancy Profile. It measures two specific hormones, the Parathyroid Hormone (PTH) and the Parathyroid Hormone related protein (PTHrP). PTH is the hormone that keeps the calcium levels, well, level. PTHrP mimics PTH causing the calcium levels to elevate. If the PTH is elevated, then the parathyroid glands are working over time. If the PTHrP is elevated that means a tumor is producing it making the calcium to go up.
Finn’s results were difficult to understand because not only was his PTH zero, so was his PTHrP. His parathyroids weren’t working and the tumor wasn’t producing PTHrP so what was making his calcium go so high? I’ll probably never know for sure, but all the specialists said to continue looking for a tumor.
In intact male dogs there are two places malignant tumors are most commonly found: in the prostate and in anal sacs. I couldn’t palpate a mass in either one of these places. And none of his external lymph nodes were enlarged (the first place lymphoma likes to pop up). But there are lymph nodes internally that aren’t readily palpable. The next step in this dance was chest radiographs and an abdominal ultrasound.
While I was doing office calls, my two technicians were able to get 3 views of his chest (which is standard when looking for tumors in the thorax). My heart almost literally stopped when I looked at the first radiograph. Sitting right in front of his heart was the tumor. An ugly malevolent mass taking up the first 1/3 of his chest. The first thought that went through my head was he had lymphoma and I only had my boy for another 2-3 months. The next thought was how in the hell can he still feel good enough to continue working? I mean he was just on a difficult mountain search not 2-3 weeks prior to this.
He still needed the abdominal ultrasound done, but I couldn’t stand to be around when it was done. I don’t think I could have held it together in front of all my co-workers if nastiness was found in Finn’s abdomen. So I left.
While Finn had his ultrasound done, I took his rads to the internal medicine DVM at Veterinary Internal Medicine Practice of Northern Virginia for an unbiased evaluation of what was in his chest. By the time I got back to the clinic the u/s was done. I asked them to just fax the results to me, because I was sure all his abdominal lymph nodes were enlarged and I wanted a few more hours of ignorance. Finn snored in the back of the truck on the way home, oblivious.
I got a call from the wonderful Dr. Deppe at VIMP before I even got home. He confirmed that it was a mass. But he gave me some hope when I told him that none of his external lymph nodes were enlarged, that we need to consider a thymoma. A benign tumor of the thymus. He opened up an appointment for my boy the next afternoon to try and get a fine needle aspirate of the mass. There was even better news sitting on the fax machine at home: his abdominal ultrasound was clean, even his spleen looked normal.
Turns out Finn is a grumpy drunk! He needed to be sedated for the ultrasound guided fine needle aspirate of the mass. Not that I am complaining, though. I didn’t want him moving while they were sticking a needle into his chest so close to his heart. But boy was he rumbly grumbly when I picked him up. I soon had the samples winging their way via FedEx air to Colorado State University lab for cytology and also to have a PARR test done. PARR is a test that helps to determine if the lymphocytes are reactive and come from many different lines or if they are neoplastic and all come from the clone of one lymph cell. It’s not cheap but helps with treatment options.
More good news when the cytology and PARR results came back. Cytology was suggestive of a thymoma and the PARR results also pointed in the direction of a thymoma. If you want an explaination of the PARR test click here: CSU PARR test
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I was ecstatic, Finn just wanted breakfast.
The results showed up on Monday morning. By Monday evening, Finn was scheduled for surgery Wednesday morning with Dr. Bradley at Veterinary Surgical Referral Practice of Northern Virginia. His clinic is in the same building as Dr. Deppe’s clinic, and I’ve referred many of my own clients to him. He is a surgeon with an unbelievable work ethic and astounding talent.
I was 95% sure I wanted to do this. But there was a small part of me that questioned my motives for doing such a massive, invasive surgery on an elderly dog. But he was healthy otherwise and there was an excellent chance that the tumor was benign. Combine all that with the fact that Finn has given me his all every time I asked him, quieted those doubts.
I had to be at Dr. Bradley’s by 7AM, so in the pre dawn light of Wednesday morning I loaded up Finn in the truck for the 2 hour drive to the clinic. I won’t lie and say I didn’t shed any tears on the way up there. My mind going to the worst case scenarios, all ending in death. And the little doubts that I thought I’d come to grips with were rising up and throwing themselves at me, making me so very conflicted. He just looked so healthy that the irrational part of my brain made me doubt there was really anything wrong with him. I couldn’t stop from trying to touch him the entire way up there. Finn on the other hand, got impatient with me, hurmphed at me and moved to the back of the truck to continue his snooze like he normal does when we are on a road trip.
Dr. Bradley explained how the surgery was going to go. He does his thorocotomies from the left side, and not through the sternum, because he feels they recover more quickly. The difficulty of this surgery was the mass was so far forward, he was going to need to make the incision farther forward than he normally does. That meant that the muscles of his shoulder were going to be involved, not just the intercostals muscles. But, I trusted him when he said that he’d get better exposure to the tumor and was more likely to get it all. As I was walking Finn back to his surgery cage, in the cage next to his was a dog that was going home that morning after her own thorocotomy for a lung lobe abscess. Seeing her made me more comfortable with my own decision to go ahead with Finn’s surgery.
His surgery was scheduled for 10AM and was supposed to be done by 12 noon. Dr. Bradley called me at 12:05 to tell me that it was a text book surgery and Finn was in recovery. I start letting everyone know my boy is doing well, and I am over the moon! My heart heads back to where it is supposed to be and not in my throat.
Everything comes to a crashing halt when I get another call from Dr. Bradley too soon after the first call. And the nightmare begins. Dr. Bradley is very specific when he says he’s going to call, and is never more than a couple of minutes off. If he calls at another time, he really doesn’t need say much, I already know Finn is either dead or dying.
He’d gone into respiratory arrest.
For some reason his lung stopped working and started filling with fluid. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs were so filled with fluid no oxygen could pass. They tried to pull off some of the fluid with Lasix, but it didn’t work well or quickly enough. So they put him on a ventilator. Later, both he and Dr. Deppe came up with a few reasons why it happened: re-expansion injury or neurogenic pulmonary edema. His radiographs really didn’t match up with either one, but there is not a lot of data on those conditions in dogs because they usually die. All we could hope for was that it was a solitary event and that the ventilator would keep him alive long enough for his lungs to repair themselves.
I called back shortly after Dr. Bradley's first call because I really couldn’t process what he told me during that phone call. Not surprising, after going from a high of him coming through surgery to having him put on a ventilator. Dr. Bradley didn’t give much different information from the first call, but at least now my brain had a better chance of trying to understand what was happening. Didn’t make it any easier though. My precious Finn, my heart dog, my partner, was dying and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it.
I went around to the rest of my house calls, but I am not quite sure how much sense I made. I think I helped the vomiting dog and the diabetic cat, but I don’t remember. I was just waiting for the call. “The call”. I never wanted that call. I’ve had to make that call to my own clients, but it was shear torture being on the other side. My phone was now enemy number one, but also a life line. I didn’t know whether I should just throw it out the window or just sit and stare at it.
I finished my housecalls around 5PM, but I couldn't go home. He wasn’t there, might never be back there and I wasn’t prepared for empty hole that was there in his place. I tried distracting myself at Barnes and Noble, but kept getting strange looks as I wandered aimlessly around, picking up books, putting them down and the occasional tear. I finally left. There were 4 hungry dogs at home that needed to pee.
I almost made it home before I broke down. Driving and texting can’t hold a candle to how dangerous it is to drive when you can’t see the road for the tears. I don’t recommend it. Dr. Bradley had asked me earlier if I wanted to come up and visit with him. I just couldn’t do it. I wanted to remember him as I walked him back to his cage, tail wagging, talking smack to the dogs in the cages as he walked by (he’s good at that), not with tubes in him. That wasn’t him, just a facsimile of him.
Thunderstorms start rolling through as I was sitting at the computer in my office, aimlessly wandering around the internet, when Dr. Bradley’s number pops up on my phone. He was not supposed to call until 10PM when he went into check on Finn, and it is only 9:15PM. I didn’t want to pick it up, just stared at it and it wouldn't stop ringing. Surprisingly, my voice was actually half way normal when I finally answered the ring, when all I wanted to do is throw up. Nor did I drop the phone.
The thunderstorms that had rolled through my town, ended up in Manassass, where the clinic is located, knocking out power to the clinic. Two very quick thinking LVTs ran a power converter from a pick up truck in the parking lot into the clinic, plugged in an extension cord to it and attached the ventilator to the extension cord. Good Lord! A power failure, just makes the whole thing so much easier. Dr. Bradley was just calling after the fact to let me know what happened. His blood oxygen saturation never went below 85% and one of the LVTs hand bagged him until they got the extension cord set up. Ironically, the week before the clinics started a search for a generator large enough to power both clinics in case something like this happened.
I was told not to call before 7:30AM on Thursday. The fact that I got no further calls from Dr. Bradley was a little comforting. Again, I was surprised that I could hold the phone when I called, my hands were sweating and shaking so much. An interesting sensation, to be sitting a chair and feel like you've run a hundred yard sprint there is so much damned adrenaline pumping your body. My heart felt like it was about to explode.
Dr. Bradley calmly told me he’d taken Finn off the ventilator at 6:15 that morning and continued to breathe on his own, maintaining normal blood oxygen levels on room air. And that he continues to recover normally from anesthesia. Normally!
When I went to visit him on Thursday evening, he was weak and unsteady, but who wouldn’t be? He ate like the Lab he is when I was there. While laying on the floor next to him, the LVTs and I talked a little about what happened. More light was shed on what happened, especially the detail about the power converter and the extra tidbit that Finn had turned an ugly shade of purple before he got on the ventilator. No one there really expected him to make it, including Dr. Bradley. Me either. Of all the dogs I know of that ended up on a ventilator, Finn is the only one that lived.
He never looked back. He came home on Saturday with an OMG huge incision on the left side of his chest. And other than a too fast drop in his blood calcium that I am supplementing right now, the biggest issue he’s got is pain from the cut muscles. The anti-climactic news was the biopsy confirmed it was a benign thymoma.
He is sleeping at my feet right now, and nothing is better than that.
My team mate Misty Sampson made this video of Finn working the 9th Ward after Katrina. It is one of my favorites:
I’ve been off pretending to be a writer and was participating in NaNowrimo, however, I didn’t make the 50,000 word count in 30 days goal. When I first started I didn’t have any concept of how difficult it would be to pull close to 2,000 words a day out of my imagination that actually made sense when read all in a row. After reading the last thing I wrote one evening, the next morning, I had to wonder who actually wrote it, because I certainly didn’t remember ever striking those keys. And, no, they didn’t make any sense.
But that doesn’t mean I and my horde hasn’t been active. Finn, the old man, is still able to put in a four hour middle of the night search on Massanutten Mountain, or as I like to call it, Mass-a-rock Mountain. We were looking for a mentally handicapped person that decided that he really wanted to go for a hike, forgetting that he couldn’t remember how to get home. A lot of people and dogs put in quite a few hours and covered many miles looking for him and the three dogs that went with him.
I like searching at night, because if I could see what I was actually trying to search through, I’d probably turn around and go home. Much of what was in my search sector that night consisted of rock. Big rocks, little rocks, boulders, rocks that like to rock, rocks that hide under leaves, slippery rocks, moss covered rocks and holes that hide. All of them just waiting to break an ankle.
That looks like a field of ferns, but the ferns are covering field of rocks
The beginning of a laurel thicket
One of many rock slides Finn and I encounter on our searches
And then down at the bottom of the rock slide Finn and I were searching was the mountain laurel. After walking across rocks, the thing I hate the most is trying to find a decent path through the woven branches that make up a mountain laurel thicket.
But, if everyone got lost in a city park with walk ways, they wouldn’t need us.
The gentleman was eventually found safe after he set the forest on fire. Literally. He set a fire that ended up eating 10 acres of forest. But he was found and so were his dogs.
However, Teagan and Deacon where feeling a little neglected and hatched a plan to make me pay more attention to them. It consisted of some tag team vomiting and eating of said residue.
Deacon is a dog with a severe sock fetish. The first hint that this was going to be a lifelong problem and that maybe he needs some therapy for this mental illness, was Christmas 2009. He stole the nearly naked carcass of the Christmas turkey from the counter at Mom’s house. Pissed off was the least of what I felt, because I had warned Mom what a counter surfer he was. I thought she knew what I was talking about, but obviously didn’t because she wasn’t watching him while he was in the kitchen with her and I was out with the other dogs. My dad, who is normally very unflappable, comes rushing out the house with an extremely worried look on his face, to tell me that Deacon had inhaled the ENTIRE carcass in about two bites. Fortunately, hydrogen peroxide works well on him, and urrppp up comes the carcass in its entirety.
Then 20 minutes later, a sock. A beautiful yellow tinged, sewer smelling athletic sock. As of this writing, he’s puked up close to 5 socks. Several in my truck coming home from hunt tests and SAR training. I know when he’s got a sock percolating in that stomach of his. He gets tucked up, his ribs start to show a little and he has a couple of days of throwing up small amounts of food. And then it appears, always yellow stained, stinking like something dead that’s been rotting in the sun for a couple of days.
I do nightly patrols to pick up socks, make sure the door is closed to the room that has my socks in it, and make sure the laundry is put away as it is done. All for naught… Because he is a mission driven, sock seeking machine. Nothing and nobody will stand in his eternal quest to find that holy grail of his life, THE PERFECT SOCK.
A couple of weeks ago, while I was upstairs plunking away on the computer, he disappears for a few minutes taking Teagan with him. I get down stairs just in time to see him licking his lips and a large area of fluid on the laundry room floor. My suspicion, that he’d just re-eaten what he’d just regurgitated (canines-giving real meaning to reduce/reuse/recycle). I didn’t think much of it and left to go do my morning rounds. However, when I got back home for lunch, he’d continued to vomit in his crate. So I called the clinic I worked for, in only a mildly panicked state, and advised them to prepare for what is probably going to be the first of many surgical sock retrievals I foresee in Deacon’s life.
So I get to the clinic early the next morning and get started on his radiographs. I make all the other veterinarians at the practice look at them and tell me there is nothing stuck. And had to be persuaded not to send the rads off for a radiologist to put their mark on them signifying that there wasn’t a foreign body trapped in his small intestine. But, both of them did feel a mass in there. As I was leaving, one of the docs made me promise to call her and tell her what he craps out. In my crazed Munchausen by Proxy fugue state, I was still trying to figure out how I was going to get him back up there for the surgery I sure he needed.
We get home safely and when I open the door to the laundry room, I nearly pass out from the stench that greets me. It appears that Teagan had pushed Deacon away from the magnificent mass of vomit that he regurgitated for her and ate it, sock and all. For in her crate was a beautiful yellow sewer smelling athletic sock, that she’d very carefully re-eaten everything around it but left that splendid sock for me to see.
In the middle of that night, Deacon leaves me a present of a sock on the dining room floor. Wrapped very prettily in poop.
