The family nurse practitioner had just finished showing me my chest x-ray. The lower half of my right lung was completely white. She informed me that it was fluid in the lining round my lung and that I would be admitted to the hospital to get it drained. My wife and I sat in the examination room of the clinic staring at each other as the revelation of what had been going on with me for the last three months came home to roost.
"I'll send you by ambulance. They will take you straight to the emergency room. That way we will get you admitted faster. Other wise you could be in for a long wait." she announced. "By the way have you been bitten by a tick lately? You also have symptoms of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever."
"Yeah," I said. "Back in August or September, I think." Go figure. The Rockys are a three day drive from Selmer, Tennessee. After a brief silence my wife Dossie was the next to speak.
"I guess I'll go home and pack a bag. Then I'll meet you there."
"OK Honey, guess I'll see you there. Maybe I can get well now." was my response. The worried look on her face spoke volumes. But before I could say anything else the paramedics arrived with one of those roll around beds they use to transport people.I climbed on to the bed, Dossie kissed me good-bye, and then headed for the car. The medics proceeded to strap me down like I was going for Mr. Toad's wild ride and wheeled me out to the ambulance. Once inside the ambulance they started an IV in a vein on the back of my left hand and then hooked me up to a heart monitor. The IV burned like fire and I thought it had hit the bone. The heart monitor served to convince me that this was a pretty serious situation. However, I had always wanted to go for a ride in an ambulance, sirens screaming, racing through traffic, and sliding around corners. Actually, this was nothing like that. We made a rather leisurely drive from the clinic in Selmer, Tennessee where we live to the hospital in Jackson an hour north. I figured my wife could have gotten me there quicker and cheaper, even with the side trip home to pack an over night bag. I even had time for a nap.I felt strangely quiet and relaxed even though breathing was a real chore for me. At some point before I feel asleep they put me on oxygen. I guess my oxygen level was somewhere around 85% saturation. No wonder I felt so crappy.
I started noticing things going down hill for me physically the previous October. It was getting harder and harder to climb the stairs to my class room on the second floor of the High School where I taught. Later that month I took a flight to Cape May, New Jersey to attend my youngest son's graduation from Coast Guard basic training. Walking through the airports was a real chore and so was walking around the Coast Guard training center in Cape May. I figured I was just getting old. After all I would be turning sixty in about a month. To top things off my son had contracted bronchitis during his tenure in basic and he passed those germs to me as I drove him to the airport in Philadelphia. We rode in a sub-compact car together for over an hour. So, it's not hard to figure out how I would get sick too.
By the time I got home from my trip I was both sick and exhausted. Then I started to cough. I coughed and coughed. All day and all night I coughed. I kept Dossie and I both awake nights for the next ten weeks. I kept the cat awake, and if I bothered to ask around, I would probably find out that I had kept the neighbors awake too. We went on a church retreat the weekend after I got back from Cape May. I spent 3/4 of the time in bed coughing. I notice it was uncomfortable to sleep on my back because it felt like I had a concrete block sitting on my chest. Sunday afternoon my wife took me to one of those fast lane, lube job, medical clinics where they make you feel better in lieu of waiting days to see a real doctor or going to an emergency room at $1200 a pop. I got antibiotics and cough medicine, standard fare for a guy hacking up a lung on the lube rack, and returned home figuring that the worst was over. The following Tuesday I went to my regular health care provider where they pronounced me officially sick and gave me more medication.
My birthday showed up on November 21st like it does every year, and I was still coughing. I felt somewhat better but I figured I had gotten a double whammy from this bug what ever it was. After all most of my friends were sick and coughing by now too. Thanksgiving break arrived and I was back in the doctor's office More antibiotics, more cough medicine, more hope for the future, and a few days off to recuperate. But nooooooooo. Now I'm sitting up at night coughing in the living room to keep from disturbing my wife's sleep cycle. Not only that but it was easier to sleep sitting up because now there were two concrete blocks sitting on my chest instead of one. The week of Christmas break I went back to the clinic and this time they gave me a chest x-ray and a CT scan for $950. Nada. But they told me if I didn't feel better in a week or two to come back and they would have a cardiologist look at me. A heart doctor for a lung problem? What ever.
The first day back at work I slept through the first hour or so of our school's in-service. In fact I was finding it harder and harder to stay awake. Some days I had to pull over on the side of the road and close my eyes for a few minutes just to make the fifty minute trip to work. I slept during my planning block. I would doze off after a few minutes where ever I sat down. I was starting to bloat too. Eating made me feel like I would suffocate. I was still coughing but now I was dragging around like one of the walking dead doing an imitation of the Michelin Tire Man.. Little did I know that I was almost dead. Three weeks into the semester I went home with a vow not to go back to work until someone could cure me of this malady. That was on a Tuesday. The next day, Wednesday, I was in an ambulance headed for the hospital in Jackson, Tennessee.
_______________________
When I opened my eyes the ambulance was pulling into the parking lot of Jackson General Hospital. They wheeled me into the triage area where I was greeted by a doctor a short time later. While I was being robbed of my clothing, given a skimpy hospital gown in trade, and covered with a paper thin blanket; the doctor explained to me everything he had learned about my case during the time I was in transit. He told me that after he got the fluid off of my lung that he would then begin an antibiotic regiment to get rid of the Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever; after that he would then start trying to figure out why I was getting the fluid around my lung. Then I was off to the basement, IV bag, wires, and all for my first chest tube. On the ride there I remembered a friend of mine, who had been treated for two different cancers in three years, telling me he had gone on an adventure with God. I was guessing that it must be my turn.
A short time later I arrived in the room where the chest tube procedure was to be performed. There I was greeted by medical personnel who did their level best to put me in positive frame of mind while another guy explained to me the more unpleasant parts of the reason that I was there. Everyone suited up like they were fighting an epidemic in West Africa, rolled me onto my left side, squirted ice cold jelly on the area in question, performed a quick ultra sound, and then masked off the spot where the tube would be inserted. At that point a doctor came in. I assumed he was a doctor because he was telling everyone else what to do and he was dressed like he was supposed to tee off in fifteen minutes. He introduced himself, got suited up to go fight the Chernobyl reactor fire, and took a seat behind me.
Getting fluid drained off of one's lung is a little Draconian procedure along the lines of the Spanish Inquisition except with medical supervision. The terminology is different as well but the results are nearly the same: "I'll do anything! Just make the pain stop!" Yes, they do give you a pain killer, but getting a shot of Lidocaine in the lower right quadrant of your back is akin to being attacked by a red wasp. Then they insert a three inch needle between your ribs and into the lining around your lung. After a few moments the sharp burning pain subsided to a dull ache. But I was not to be fooled. I maintained my death grip on the railing of the bed until the nurse reassured me that it was OK to relax.
"How much you got there?" the doctor asked from the other room where I imagined he was busy playing Candy Crush Saga on his cell phone.
"Oh, about a liter and a half." the nurse replied, holding up a large bag of yellow fluid that looked like it came from a patient with a massive bladder infection.
"Is it supposed to look like that?" I asked.
"This isn't too bad," she responded. "We had a guy in here last night that donated a couple of quarts of chocolate milk."
"Oh, that's not right." was my observation. I was interrupted by the doctor.
"How is he doing?" asked Dr. Gameboy
"We have about two and a half liters now." said the nurse.
"How is his blood pressure?"
"130 over 87 and holding."
"OK, as long as his pressure is good let's keep going."
The nurse informed me that as the fluid dissipated that I would begin coughing because my lung was trying to re-inflate. She also said when the fluid was completely gone that I would experience a deep burning sensation where the tube was inserted into the lining of my lung. Within moments I was coughing and trying to tap out at the same time.
"OK Mr.Briggs, I need you to hold your breath while we take the tube out. We don't want any air in there. The white hot pain had engulfed me by now and holding my breath was damn near an impossibility.
"Shoot some Lidocaine down in there." the doctor instructed from the PS2 play station. Soon the tube was out, I was lying on my back shivering with my left leg jitter bugging like I had just finished my third cup of coffee.
"Would you like a blanket Sugar?" asked a female voice with a heavy southern drawl. I opened my eyes to see a woman of thirty five or so with dirty blonde hair looking down at me.
"Sure, that would be great." I answered. She disappeared and returned with a very warm blanket.
"Oh man, where did you get this?" I cooed.
"We keep 'em in a warmer here in the back." she said with a smile. She really needed to see a dentist soon.
"Where the heck have you been?" I queried.
" I don't get out of the basement much. Ready to go get a CT scan, Hon?"
"Sure, let's go. Is this how you normally pick up guys?" She laughed and wheeled me out the door. Wow, she really needed to get some dental work done.
My wife was waiting for me as I was wheeled into my room on the 9th floor of the hospital. My new room was number 911. I found that ironic.They got me transferred to a new bed, hooked up to various monitors and IV's, then offered me pain medication(which I gratefully accepted) after which I promptly fell asleep. It was the first decent nights sleep I had gotten in ages. Well, at least until 4:30 am when the lab rats came into draw what would come to feel like a gallon of blood over the next week.
______________________
Fast forward 8 months and here I sit working on this draft, at the hospital, and trying to enjoy what is now my fourth stay. During that time I've had three chest tubes, one ablation, one cardio-version, innumerable hospital meals, a cookie jar of pills, and multiple visits from various doctors. I've been diagnosed with A-fib and Congestive Heart Failure, changed diets three times, seen a acupuncturist,had one visit from the local paramedics at 1 am, got the speech from my wife on various occasions, got the speech from my doctors, got the speech from my co-workers, got the speech from my friends, and have gotten daily reports about Marley. The latest one included a description of the one foot square piece of carpet padding she devoured. Then there is the list of friends and family members who are emotional train wrecks because of my condition. My wife looks relieved to see me wake up in the morning, my ten year old looks relieved to see me come home at night, and the rest are calling or texting for updates. All in all, I think this has been harder on them than it has on me. Not much room for jokes and one liners in all of that. Except for one....
I was amazed at how encouraged and excited nursing staff get over a patient who has gone number two. The third time around, (a 36 hour out patient procedure that stretched into two weeks) they told me I wouldn't be going home until I made a sizable doo-doo. They feed you cheese omelets and mashed potatoes,pudding, diuretics that try up everything but your eyeballs, more cheese omelets, then they ask you when was last time that you took a dump.
" I don't know. What month is this?" I'll ask. No smiles nothing except threats of enemas and more days of eating the above mentioned foods. Then they gave me this stuff in a bottle called Magnesium Citrate that tastes like lemonade and works like Drano. Enter the human sewage treatment plant. Then they ask you how much, how big, and how often.
"I don't know. I don't have a tape measure with me." or "Smaller that a bread box.", "Pounds and ounces or inches/centimeters?" "You mean like, in the last four hours?" and my personal favorite: "Didn't you see the EPA truck outside?" Not even a smile or a snicker,these people take personal defecation seriously. Hey, a guy has to have a little fun with all these dour faces.The chipper ones they usually snort or choke on their chewing gum. I love it. After all this mania I'd really like to audition with Comedy Central. Oh and one last thing.
You are in the hospital and folks are asking you how you are doing. Seriously? What do they think brought me here?
"The hotels were all booked up so I came here." Right?
"It's the most fun you can have with your bare butt hanging out. I'll recommend this to all my friends. Hey, Eddie! Wanna moon a bunch of people and get away with it?"
"I like needles. Is that weird? My wife seems to think so. Can you talk to her? Or should I seek counseling"
" Doing? How am I doing? You are they medical professional. You tell me. I thought I was deathly ill but then again I could just be imaging things." I like dumb questions, the keep me sharp creatively speaking. Keep 'em guessing. That's my motto.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Monday, April 25, 2016
Chapter 1: The rescue shelter.
The furry little megalomaniac was eating a dandelion. Not just any dandelion, but a big white fluffy one. I stood there watching in amazement while our new puppy spent the next minute and a half trying to get the fuzz off of her tongue. From there she moved on to trying to eat a small spout from the bottom of one of the Myrtle trees that grew in our backyard. Over the course of that week she continued to develop a taste for all kinds of flowers. She seemed to be partial to Azalea blossoms but she also ate the old tulip bulbs and pretty much anything else, living or dead, from my wife's black plastic plant tubs. She once ate something that she found under the back porch. I shudder to think what that might have been. But I decided not to let her lick my face for twenty four hours afterwards and I have since then also drawn the line at letting her sample anything from the kitty litter box.
I should have known we were in for trouble the day my nine year old daughter (now ten) volunteered to work at a local animal shelter. Everything was going fine until my wife brought home a picture of my daughter Katie holding a puppy. They both had a look on their faces like those nineteen seventies pictures of pathetic animals with over sized sadly depressing eyes. My heart was smitten. It's either that or I had a momentary break with sanity. Or both.
"Mom said I had to ask you." was Katie's only comment.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" was the first my wife's many questions. Most of my answers to her questions were fairly viable (I even slept on it) and then within a matter of forty eight hours we were the proud owners of a mixed breed Labrador puppy. That was my first mistake. Whatever semblance of domestic tranquility we possessed at that point has since deteriorated.
The second mistake happened on the way home. My daughter Katie and I decided to name her Marley. Yeah that Marley, of Marley and Me fame.Go figure. Since that time not only has she eaten a variety of flora and fauna, she has tried to bite the Berber weave wall to wall carpeting in the living room, chewed through the power cable to my laptop computer, eaten a five pound bag of cat food, tried to eat a flip flop, a athletic shoe orthodontic insert, various toys belong to our grandchildren, and to top it off barked at the couch. She has also terrorized our two cats, Calvin and Hobbes, who were under the impression that life was a quiet mundane experience. They now know that life is a quiet mundane experience punctuated by moments of abject terror and/or severe loathing. Then came the morning my wife stepped in the dog's urine, with her bare foot, that had puddled in front of the sliding glass door.It has happened a few times since then and I now know how the cats feel.
I've never in my life gotten an animal from a no-kill rescue shelter. I usually get them out of a cardboard box in front of the local Walmart store or they just show up on the front porch one morning like a gift from heaven. That is except for Calvin our short haired mixed breed tabby that we rescued from a cage in a farmers back yard and believe me he was the exception. We thought he was the most emotionally messed up animal we had ever brought home. My wife thought he had a traumatic brain injury I was convinced he had P.T.S.D. from his interactions with the farmer's hyperactive grandson. It took a full two weeks of constant care from Katie for him to calm down and for her to convince him to join the family. She carried him around 24/7, tucked down inside her pink and black tiger striped bath robe He has since become my beloved friend. Apparently love does win.
My new experience with the animal shelter has taught me a few things that I feel responsible to pass along at this point. The first being that a no-kill rescue shelter is a cross between animal daycare and a refugee camp full of four legged critters. The inhabitants of which put on an adorable show in the hope of being adopted out of kennel purgatory. When my daughter Katie and I first arrived at the shelter, I noticed the exercise area was painted in bright colors like any good play ground. However, a sizable Pit Bull barked at us from the enclosure. He was surrounded by copious piles of canine excrement of various earth tones. He must be the playground bully I thought to myself as we walked past the enclosure. I was careful to keep one eye on its inhabitant and the other on Katie who I had positioned on my left away from the playground bully.
"Oh, he always acts like that!" Katie exclaimed feeling my tension. "But he won't hurt you." Right, I thought.Famous last words from a potential chew toy. The ominous barking continued until we were safely inside the building; where the lone dog's single voice was immediately replaced by a cacophony of barking in various octaves. As we approached the front desk, a round woman with rosy cheeks greeted us. Or more accurately, she greeted Katie. I was just the duty driver. Well, that's an over simplification, I did have the checkbook in my back pocket. No mun, no fun, as they say. I was unaware at that point of how much "mun" our new family member would set us back. While I was getting my bearings a rather large tom cat with a bobbed tail jumped onto the counter and started nose bumping me.
"Well, hello there. I'll bet your name is Bob." I said stroking his head while he purred. It was apparent to me that "Bob" had been at this game a while with little or no success.
"That's his name alright," said the attendant. "How did you know?"
"It seems obvious to me." I replied. The other thing that seemed obvious to me is that one would not be in need of a PhD to work here.
I introduced myself as Katie's father, since I was there in some sort of official capacity. After announcing that we were there to pick out a puppy, my daughter led me back to where our new charge was being detained. Inside a small cage at the farthest end of a row of kennels sat a caramel colored puppy with obvious Labrador features. It had the most bored look on its face of any dog I've ever seen. The attendant opened the kennel door and Katie proceeded to remove the object of her affection like it was a long lost friend that she had given up for dead. The dog on the other hand didn't appear nearly as enthusiastic. In fact, she seemed rather apprehensive. Great, another case of P.T.S.D I surmised. Katie happily carted the slightly paranoid puppy to the front desk with me following dutifully behind her. I took the puppy from Katie at the desk and placed her on the counter top where she cowered against my chest and buried her nose in the crook of my arm. The fix was in,and I was hooked.
I absentmindedly stroked the dog's head and listened to the attendant's well rehearsed speech about shots given, shots pending, and the next available date for spaying. She informed me that our puppy had a hernia which would be repaired when they neutered her. I inspected her stomach to find a marble sized knot where her umbilicus should normally appear. I then signed some paperwork that no one ever reads and wrote a check to the shelter for eighty five dollars. This would cover all shots past, present, and future as well as the spaying to take place Thursday morning promptly at nine o'clock. It was Monday afternoon and little did I know how much drama would transpire in Marley's life by Thursday. I held the puppy and inspected the amateur murals on the lobby walls while Katie and the attendant picked out a pink collar for Marley.
"Oh by the way," the round woman intoned. "She may have some Chow in her too. I just thought you should know." I eyed the black toenails protruding from the toast brown front paws suspiciously as we headed for my jeep.
"Thanks for the info lady," I mumbled under my breath. We had already had one dog that was part Chow. It is not a story with a happy ending.
"Oh, that's right I should thank her too," Katie chirped.
"It's OK sweetheart, you can thank her when you come back." I said as the playground bully made his displeasure with us known one last time.
______________________
By Tuesday Marley had started to cough. Not just cough, but a continual hacking cough that culminated with a wad of mucus on the living room carpet. Around ten o'clock in the morning my wife Dossie sent me a video of Marley hacking up a lung accompanied by a question: "What should we do?"
Then she went out of town for two or three days. The two events are unrelated even though it may seem suspicious. Of course we had the perfunctory conversations before she left:
"Perhaps I shouldn't go. We just got this puppy and now she is sick." she would offer.
"It will be fine, Honey. I'll take care of everything. You need some time off to be with your friends." I would counter.
"What about your Mom and Katie?"
"They'll be fine, Honey. I'll make sure they get fed. Go hang out with your friends you need to recharge your batteries."
" I worry about you. You have been in the hospital twice already."
"I'll be fine, Honey. I promise I'll wait to die when you are home. Your friends are looking forward to you being there with them."
Does anyone see a pattern developing here? Husband acts like his wife needs time off? Wife knows her husband can be somewhat insincere at times and that everything will go to hell in a handbag as soon as the tail lights turn the corner at the end of the block; because her husband couldn't organize a one car Fourth of July parade? Despite my repertoire of canned answers she left anyway. The tire marks in the driveway and street told me she had overcome her apprehensions. I'm pretty sure Marley hawking luggies everywhere played a part in her final decision. Not to be one to drop the ball intentionally I Googled "puppies coughing" on my laptop when I got home while Marley did her best imitation of the Marlboro Man's lap dog in the other room.
I logged onto a site that seemed pretty reputable, a sort of Mayo Clinic for pets type of page, and typed "puppies coughing" into the search bar and hit enter. A detailed menu popped up with the term Kennel Cough as the first listing. After reading two or three paragraphs about kennel cough I decided this must be the problem. Never mind the three or four other things it could be. After all she was in a kennel right? With a bunch of other dogs in kennels right? The only vote being mine. Kennel Cough it is. So, I called the vet and a female voice answered the phone.
"Veterinary Clinic how may I help you?"
"Hi, my name is Steve Briggs. I just adopted a puppy from an animal shelter in the area. She started coughing last night. So, I've been online looking at symptoms. (Do I sound like a responsible pet owner yet?) I'm concerned that she my have kennel cough.
"OK Mr.Briggs, can you hold?"said the female voice not sounding as chipper as it did a moment ago.
"Sure." I said. I imagined that she put me on hold, dropped the phone, and ran from them room. Because when she returned her instructions as to how to handle Marley's condition seemed dire. Although, I had read that kennel cough is courageous, I wasn't overly optimistic about what she told me to do next.
"Mr. Briggs?"
"Yes."
"Can you come in tomorrow around four?"
"Sure, no problem."
"When you get here leave the dog in the car and we'll come out and examine her."
"OK will do."
"Alright then we will see you at four." I hung up. No good-byes, nothing. What in the world were they thinking? I envisioned the clinic staff donning proximity suits, duct taping their wrists and ankles, and dowsing themselves with chlorine bleach in preparation to receive an animal with the canine equivalent of Ebola. This seemed over the top to me. So, I called the animal shelter where we got her and explained the situation.
"Oh yeah," the voice on the other end of the line said. "We had a dog in here last week that had bronchitis. I'll bet she has bronchitis too. I've got some stuff here that will clear that right up."
"Cool, I'll be there in thirty minutes." An hour and a half later Marley was getting her first dose of puppy antibiotics. Twenty four hours later the cough was getting better so I called the vet to cancel my appointment.
" Veterinary clinic."
"Hi, this is Steve Briggs I called yesterday about a sick puppy that I thought had Kennel Cough. Well, I talked to the animal shelter and they gave me some stuff to give to her for the cough. The said they think she has bronchitis. There was another dog there with it so she may have caught it from him. So, I think I'll do that and watch her for a couple of days. She seems to be doing better.
"OK, so do you want to cancel your appointment?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Alright then, call us if you need anything else." she said sounding chipper again. After I hung up I figured the staff at the clinic was slapping high-fives, hugging, and crying on each other. Crisis averted. The next day while I was in the men's room at work I got a text message:
"Call me ASAP." it was from a neighbor. "Now what?" I thought. I decided that I didn't want to know. A few minutes later I got a voice mail from my wife:
"Katie called and said Marley was hurt and that she can't stand on her hind leg."
____________________
I had a crisis counselor inform me that he thought I had an anxiety disorder. I looked at him like he had just told me I should have a sex change operation.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Subconsciously you are always waiting for the other shoe to drop." was his answer. I then informed him I was on the fifth or sixth shoe. Marley's leg seemed like number eight or nine. Number seven was when the doctors told me that I had Congestive Heart Failure, a case of A-fib, and that I might need a pacemaker. Needless to say my adrenal glands are somewhat over worked. Heck, they probably look like raisins by this point. As the old song says: "If it weren't for hard luck I'd have no luck at. Gloom,despair, excessive misery..." I started calling witnesses to Marley's condition on the way home from work.
The first was my ninety-two year old mother who was at home with Marley when she got hurt. Mom took the fifth. No help there. Next I called my mother in law who was watching Katie at the time. Her story was that the dog couldn't stand on her right hind leg and that it appeared to be dislocated from the hip socket. She also informed me that my neighbor the emergency room RN thought the same thing. Wonderful. I hung up and called the vet to get emergency treatment for Marley. They informed me that they couldn't see her until three thirty the next day. I took the appointment. As I pulled up to the house, my neighbor was standing in the street wearing his scrubs. I rolled down the window and said:
"I hear you did triage on my dog today."
He informed me of all that transpired and that he had told another neighbor, my mom, and Katie to take Marley to the vet to get the leg repaired. Which he thought they had done. News to me, but oh well, so was everything else too. I pulled into our driveway, got out of the jeep, and walked up the steps to the back porch. There sat Katie with Marley lying in a cardboard box nestled among some bath towels. Katie had a look on her face like Marley had just been diagnosed with stage four bone cancer.
"What's going on Bug?" I said smiling. "Bug" is my pet name for Katie. She proceeded to tell me in infinite detail everything from her perspective. When she finished I lifted Marley out of the box and set her on the porch floor. She took one furtive towards me and then sat down. She was favoring the leg but the hip didn't appear to be out of socket. We took her inside and set her down in the living room where she limped around a little then laid down and promptly fell asleep.
"It doesn't look like it's dislocated to me Bug." I announced. Katie agreed and we called it a day. Over the course of the next day more of the story of Marley's "accident" came to light until at one point I thought I was in an old episode of "The Twilight Zone". However, Marley continued to recuperate nicely and I cancelled the second vet appointment in two days. Hunter S. Thompson once said that it never got weird enough for him. Personally, I was over it and ready for some down time. Then my wife came home. Dossie is a female version of Sherlock Holmes. She had extracted the real version of the story from all the participants within twenty four hours. I was satisfied, case closed. By Monday Marley was back to her old self, running, jumping, and eating anything that didn't try to eat her first.
I discovered something that looked like a strand of angel hair pasta in her stool a short time later. The vet had come out to give our horse Billy a physical and I described my latest discovery to him.
"Round worm." he announced. After he left I went to the local co-op and bought a ten dollar bottle of worm medication for puppies. Piece of cake I concluded. After the last two weeks I figured I could handle any dog problems short of sub-orbital flight in a space capsule.
I should have known we were in for trouble the day my nine year old daughter (now ten) volunteered to work at a local animal shelter. Everything was going fine until my wife brought home a picture of my daughter Katie holding a puppy. They both had a look on their faces like those nineteen seventies pictures of pathetic animals with over sized sadly depressing eyes. My heart was smitten. It's either that or I had a momentary break with sanity. Or both.
"Mom said I had to ask you." was Katie's only comment.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" was the first my wife's many questions. Most of my answers to her questions were fairly viable (I even slept on it) and then within a matter of forty eight hours we were the proud owners of a mixed breed Labrador puppy. That was my first mistake. Whatever semblance of domestic tranquility we possessed at that point has since deteriorated.
The second mistake happened on the way home. My daughter Katie and I decided to name her Marley. Yeah that Marley, of Marley and Me fame.Go figure. Since that time not only has she eaten a variety of flora and fauna, she has tried to bite the Berber weave wall to wall carpeting in the living room, chewed through the power cable to my laptop computer, eaten a five pound bag of cat food, tried to eat a flip flop, a athletic shoe orthodontic insert, various toys belong to our grandchildren, and to top it off barked at the couch. She has also terrorized our two cats, Calvin and Hobbes, who were under the impression that life was a quiet mundane experience. They now know that life is a quiet mundane experience punctuated by moments of abject terror and/or severe loathing. Then came the morning my wife stepped in the dog's urine, with her bare foot, that had puddled in front of the sliding glass door.It has happened a few times since then and I now know how the cats feel.
I've never in my life gotten an animal from a no-kill rescue shelter. I usually get them out of a cardboard box in front of the local Walmart store or they just show up on the front porch one morning like a gift from heaven. That is except for Calvin our short haired mixed breed tabby that we rescued from a cage in a farmers back yard and believe me he was the exception. We thought he was the most emotionally messed up animal we had ever brought home. My wife thought he had a traumatic brain injury I was convinced he had P.T.S.D. from his interactions with the farmer's hyperactive grandson. It took a full two weeks of constant care from Katie for him to calm down and for her to convince him to join the family. She carried him around 24/7, tucked down inside her pink and black tiger striped bath robe He has since become my beloved friend. Apparently love does win.
My new experience with the animal shelter has taught me a few things that I feel responsible to pass along at this point. The first being that a no-kill rescue shelter is a cross between animal daycare and a refugee camp full of four legged critters. The inhabitants of which put on an adorable show in the hope of being adopted out of kennel purgatory. When my daughter Katie and I first arrived at the shelter, I noticed the exercise area was painted in bright colors like any good play ground. However, a sizable Pit Bull barked at us from the enclosure. He was surrounded by copious piles of canine excrement of various earth tones. He must be the playground bully I thought to myself as we walked past the enclosure. I was careful to keep one eye on its inhabitant and the other on Katie who I had positioned on my left away from the playground bully.
"Oh, he always acts like that!" Katie exclaimed feeling my tension. "But he won't hurt you." Right, I thought.Famous last words from a potential chew toy. The ominous barking continued until we were safely inside the building; where the lone dog's single voice was immediately replaced by a cacophony of barking in various octaves. As we approached the front desk, a round woman with rosy cheeks greeted us. Or more accurately, she greeted Katie. I was just the duty driver. Well, that's an over simplification, I did have the checkbook in my back pocket. No mun, no fun, as they say. I was unaware at that point of how much "mun" our new family member would set us back. While I was getting my bearings a rather large tom cat with a bobbed tail jumped onto the counter and started nose bumping me.
"Well, hello there. I'll bet your name is Bob." I said stroking his head while he purred. It was apparent to me that "Bob" had been at this game a while with little or no success.
"That's his name alright," said the attendant. "How did you know?"
"It seems obvious to me." I replied. The other thing that seemed obvious to me is that one would not be in need of a PhD to work here.
I introduced myself as Katie's father, since I was there in some sort of official capacity. After announcing that we were there to pick out a puppy, my daughter led me back to where our new charge was being detained. Inside a small cage at the farthest end of a row of kennels sat a caramel colored puppy with obvious Labrador features. It had the most bored look on its face of any dog I've ever seen. The attendant opened the kennel door and Katie proceeded to remove the object of her affection like it was a long lost friend that she had given up for dead. The dog on the other hand didn't appear nearly as enthusiastic. In fact, she seemed rather apprehensive. Great, another case of P.T.S.D I surmised. Katie happily carted the slightly paranoid puppy to the front desk with me following dutifully behind her. I took the puppy from Katie at the desk and placed her on the counter top where she cowered against my chest and buried her nose in the crook of my arm. The fix was in,and I was hooked.
I absentmindedly stroked the dog's head and listened to the attendant's well rehearsed speech about shots given, shots pending, and the next available date for spaying. She informed me that our puppy had a hernia which would be repaired when they neutered her. I inspected her stomach to find a marble sized knot where her umbilicus should normally appear. I then signed some paperwork that no one ever reads and wrote a check to the shelter for eighty five dollars. This would cover all shots past, present, and future as well as the spaying to take place Thursday morning promptly at nine o'clock. It was Monday afternoon and little did I know how much drama would transpire in Marley's life by Thursday. I held the puppy and inspected the amateur murals on the lobby walls while Katie and the attendant picked out a pink collar for Marley.
"Oh by the way," the round woman intoned. "She may have some Chow in her too. I just thought you should know." I eyed the black toenails protruding from the toast brown front paws suspiciously as we headed for my jeep.
"Thanks for the info lady," I mumbled under my breath. We had already had one dog that was part Chow. It is not a story with a happy ending.
"Oh, that's right I should thank her too," Katie chirped.
"It's OK sweetheart, you can thank her when you come back." I said as the playground bully made his displeasure with us known one last time.
______________________
By Tuesday Marley had started to cough. Not just cough, but a continual hacking cough that culminated with a wad of mucus on the living room carpet. Around ten o'clock in the morning my wife Dossie sent me a video of Marley hacking up a lung accompanied by a question: "What should we do?"
Then she went out of town for two or three days. The two events are unrelated even though it may seem suspicious. Of course we had the perfunctory conversations before she left:
"Perhaps I shouldn't go. We just got this puppy and now she is sick." she would offer.
"It will be fine, Honey. I'll take care of everything. You need some time off to be with your friends." I would counter.
"What about your Mom and Katie?"
"They'll be fine, Honey. I'll make sure they get fed. Go hang out with your friends you need to recharge your batteries."
" I worry about you. You have been in the hospital twice already."
"I'll be fine, Honey. I promise I'll wait to die when you are home. Your friends are looking forward to you being there with them."
Does anyone see a pattern developing here? Husband acts like his wife needs time off? Wife knows her husband can be somewhat insincere at times and that everything will go to hell in a handbag as soon as the tail lights turn the corner at the end of the block; because her husband couldn't organize a one car Fourth of July parade? Despite my repertoire of canned answers she left anyway. The tire marks in the driveway and street told me she had overcome her apprehensions. I'm pretty sure Marley hawking luggies everywhere played a part in her final decision. Not to be one to drop the ball intentionally I Googled "puppies coughing" on my laptop when I got home while Marley did her best imitation of the Marlboro Man's lap dog in the other room.
I logged onto a site that seemed pretty reputable, a sort of Mayo Clinic for pets type of page, and typed "puppies coughing" into the search bar and hit enter. A detailed menu popped up with the term Kennel Cough as the first listing. After reading two or three paragraphs about kennel cough I decided this must be the problem. Never mind the three or four other things it could be. After all she was in a kennel right? With a bunch of other dogs in kennels right? The only vote being mine. Kennel Cough it is. So, I called the vet and a female voice answered the phone.
"Veterinary Clinic how may I help you?"
"Hi, my name is Steve Briggs. I just adopted a puppy from an animal shelter in the area. She started coughing last night. So, I've been online looking at symptoms. (Do I sound like a responsible pet owner yet?) I'm concerned that she my have kennel cough.
"OK Mr.Briggs, can you hold?"said the female voice not sounding as chipper as it did a moment ago.
"Sure." I said. I imagined that she put me on hold, dropped the phone, and ran from them room. Because when she returned her instructions as to how to handle Marley's condition seemed dire. Although, I had read that kennel cough is courageous, I wasn't overly optimistic about what she told me to do next.
"Mr. Briggs?"
"Yes."
"Can you come in tomorrow around four?"
"Sure, no problem."
"When you get here leave the dog in the car and we'll come out and examine her."
"OK will do."
"Alright then we will see you at four." I hung up. No good-byes, nothing. What in the world were they thinking? I envisioned the clinic staff donning proximity suits, duct taping their wrists and ankles, and dowsing themselves with chlorine bleach in preparation to receive an animal with the canine equivalent of Ebola. This seemed over the top to me. So, I called the animal shelter where we got her and explained the situation.
"Oh yeah," the voice on the other end of the line said. "We had a dog in here last week that had bronchitis. I'll bet she has bronchitis too. I've got some stuff here that will clear that right up."
"Cool, I'll be there in thirty minutes." An hour and a half later Marley was getting her first dose of puppy antibiotics. Twenty four hours later the cough was getting better so I called the vet to cancel my appointment.
" Veterinary clinic."
"Hi, this is Steve Briggs I called yesterday about a sick puppy that I thought had Kennel Cough. Well, I talked to the animal shelter and they gave me some stuff to give to her for the cough. The said they think she has bronchitis. There was another dog there with it so she may have caught it from him. So, I think I'll do that and watch her for a couple of days. She seems to be doing better.
"OK, so do you want to cancel your appointment?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Alright then, call us if you need anything else." she said sounding chipper again. After I hung up I figured the staff at the clinic was slapping high-fives, hugging, and crying on each other. Crisis averted. The next day while I was in the men's room at work I got a text message:
"Call me ASAP." it was from a neighbor. "Now what?" I thought. I decided that I didn't want to know. A few minutes later I got a voice mail from my wife:
"Katie called and said Marley was hurt and that she can't stand on her hind leg."
____________________
I had a crisis counselor inform me that he thought I had an anxiety disorder. I looked at him like he had just told me I should have a sex change operation.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Subconsciously you are always waiting for the other shoe to drop." was his answer. I then informed him I was on the fifth or sixth shoe. Marley's leg seemed like number eight or nine. Number seven was when the doctors told me that I had Congestive Heart Failure, a case of A-fib, and that I might need a pacemaker. Needless to say my adrenal glands are somewhat over worked. Heck, they probably look like raisins by this point. As the old song says: "If it weren't for hard luck I'd have no luck at. Gloom,despair, excessive misery..." I started calling witnesses to Marley's condition on the way home from work.
The first was my ninety-two year old mother who was at home with Marley when she got hurt. Mom took the fifth. No help there. Next I called my mother in law who was watching Katie at the time. Her story was that the dog couldn't stand on her right hind leg and that it appeared to be dislocated from the hip socket. She also informed me that my neighbor the emergency room RN thought the same thing. Wonderful. I hung up and called the vet to get emergency treatment for Marley. They informed me that they couldn't see her until three thirty the next day. I took the appointment. As I pulled up to the house, my neighbor was standing in the street wearing his scrubs. I rolled down the window and said:
"I hear you did triage on my dog today."
He informed me of all that transpired and that he had told another neighbor, my mom, and Katie to take Marley to the vet to get the leg repaired. Which he thought they had done. News to me, but oh well, so was everything else too. I pulled into our driveway, got out of the jeep, and walked up the steps to the back porch. There sat Katie with Marley lying in a cardboard box nestled among some bath towels. Katie had a look on her face like Marley had just been diagnosed with stage four bone cancer.
"What's going on Bug?" I said smiling. "Bug" is my pet name for Katie. She proceeded to tell me in infinite detail everything from her perspective. When she finished I lifted Marley out of the box and set her on the porch floor. She took one furtive towards me and then sat down. She was favoring the leg but the hip didn't appear to be out of socket. We took her inside and set her down in the living room where she limped around a little then laid down and promptly fell asleep.
"It doesn't look like it's dislocated to me Bug." I announced. Katie agreed and we called it a day. Over the course of the next day more of the story of Marley's "accident" came to light until at one point I thought I was in an old episode of "The Twilight Zone". However, Marley continued to recuperate nicely and I cancelled the second vet appointment in two days. Hunter S. Thompson once said that it never got weird enough for him. Personally, I was over it and ready for some down time. Then my wife came home. Dossie is a female version of Sherlock Holmes. She had extracted the real version of the story from all the participants within twenty four hours. I was satisfied, case closed. By Monday Marley was back to her old self, running, jumping, and eating anything that didn't try to eat her first.
I discovered something that looked like a strand of angel hair pasta in her stool a short time later. The vet had come out to give our horse Billy a physical and I described my latest discovery to him.
"Round worm." he announced. After he left I went to the local co-op and bought a ten dollar bottle of worm medication for puppies. Piece of cake I concluded. After the last two weeks I figured I could handle any dog problems short of sub-orbital flight in a space capsule.
Marley's favorite pastime.
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