Monday, July 25, 2011

My Miracle Boy

I have decided to include you all in a wonderful, amazing, joyous part of my life.  My life with my pets.  In this life, two dogs exist; one 15 (!) year-old Shepard mix named Floppy (because of his, what else? floppy ears!), and one 7 year-old Husky/Greyhound mix named Nikki (we tried to pick a name as close to "Misty," the one that the shelter had for her, as we could since we didn't like it, so she wouldn't get confused). 


Today is about Floppy, and his miracle. 


First, let me back up and explain where he came from.  My beautiful baby girl, Lulu, passed away March 12, 2004, and I still miss her all the time. When she died, I couldn't stop crying for days.  The following night, I slept for fourteen hours, and still didn't want to get up.  I had her since she was four months old, and I was four years old. She was, in my opinion, the best dog ever.  She was a Shepard mix, 12 years old, and the greatest companion and watchdog I've ever known.  She was smart, fun, playful, and strong.  She was all of our best friends, while still standing her ground and being the alpha female of her house and territory.  To this day, no other dog I've ever known compares to her or plays with us like she did.  I unfortunately can't find a picture of her on my computer at the moment, but I will get one and add it to this post.

Lulu had two separate litters of puppies, one litter of three, and one litter of nine. We kept two puppies from the second litter, and since then, one of those has also passed, one of her sons, Biscuit (because of his golden color), a few years ago, when he was also 12. He was dumb as a rock, and did the stupidest
, weirdest things (many stories for another day), but we still miss him every day as well. 


There's really nothing going on in that head.

His brother, Floppy, the other son of Lulu, is a smarty and still going strong now at 15. Which leads me to his miracle story.

He had always been healthy, with his only real problem being his arthritis and pain in his hips, making stairs sometimes difficult.  Even after countless fights with Biscuit (many, many stories for another day) which included surgery, he still came out of them stronger than ever.  Still, Biscuit always seemed a tad bit healthier, more agile, and his only real problem was his constant stupidity. Seriously, you could look into his eyes and know that nothing was going on in that hollow space of his -- just look at the picture above.  We thought he would out-live Floppy, and yet, three years ago, he became sick and couldn't recover.  Without him and his asinine, crazy, idiotic self and antics, sure, life was easier.  But we still love him, he was still a part of our lives every day, and our pets are a part of our family.  It was like losing a family member.

When my boyfriend and I went to Myrtle Beach at the beginning of June (see my post, Living Proof), Floppy suddenly became very, very sick.  My mom didn't want to tell me while I was there and ruin my trip, so I found out when we returned home.  He had been eating less and lost a bit of weight before this, but that was normal for his age.  But now, he was eating nothing.  He refused to move, let alone eat anything.  He lost six pounds.  When I arrived home that night, my mom had Floppy laying down in the living room on an air mattress and blankets, and she had dragged my full-sized mattress downstairs to sleep next to him.  Normally, when anyone arrives home, he jumps up and loves to greet us (his hearing has gone down since his old age, so at that point he wouldn't hear us until we walked in the door), twinkly eyes, big happy Floppy smile and his entire butt wagging from his excitement. But when I walked in, he didn't budge.  He just... laid there, lifelessly.  I sat down next to him and started petting him, which is, next to food, his favorite thing in the world.  He didn't respond.  He didn't even look at me.  He just stared at the wall in front of him, unresponsive.  No food, lost six pounds, apathetic to touch... he was seriously ill.  My mom unwillingly told me all the details of the weekend, inclusive of his downward spiral of weakness, incontinence, and finally vomited something black in which my mom could only describe as "smelling like death."  She thought then that it was over for him, and that the night before, she didn't think he was going to make it through the night at all. Even though he was alive, there was still no improvement.  

The next morning, he was still around.  We kept trying to feed him through a syringe and make him at least drink water, and though he clearly had no desire to, he took it at tiny amounts at a time, though barely.  The next day, he seemed to be doing better.  My mom took him to the vet after he improved a little more, where they ran blood work and a bunch of tests.  He started eating and drinking a small amount more each day, and even was standing up and walking around on his own.  Though we were happy, we were shocked. There was no explanation for his improvement.  When the results came back, we were informed that there was nothing medically wrong with him in his blood.  Um... what?!  How?!  We were speechless.  There was nothing in his blood that explained this illness.  Yet, he slowly improved on his own, and everything remained a mystery.

Then, we got the results of his sonogram back.  He had a tumor in his spleen. Oh, God.  A tumor?  Though it wasn't cancerous, it was still completely frightening.  The only way to get rid of it at this point was surgery, to go in and remove the entire spleen.  Surgery?  On a 15 year-old dog? Are you crazy?!  There were so many risks involved with doing surgery on a dog this old.  How could he handle anesthesia and a gaping hole in his stomach to remove an entire organ??  Even if he survived the surgery, would he survive the recovery? Could he survive it?  

The vet told us that he had improved so much on his own and his vitals were up to par, so she thought he could handle it.  She knew the risks, but informed us that if she didn't think he could survive it, she wouldn't do it.  But she was all for it, and really believed in him, so we approved and went for it. 

My mom took him in, and we waited.  And we waited.  And waited.  Finally, the vet called us back.  She informed us that the surgery was over, and he came through like a champion.  They removed the spleen, and he was resting and recovering. Oh, my God, he made it!  As I write this paragraph, there are tears in my eyes, as I recall how we felt and reacted to the good news.  They wanted to keep him overnight to keep an eye on him make sure everything continued to run smoothly.  I now can't remember if he stayed, because my mom didn't want him to stay at the animal hospital with people who didn't know him, but when he came home, whether it was that same day or the next, we were ecstatic.  He was groggy and still a little loopy, but he was standing, walking, he knew where he was, and he was clearly happy to be home. 

For the next four days while my mom was at work, I took care of him.  I fed him slowly through the syringe with a mixture of proteins and other things that my stepdad created, made sure he went outside often, and gave him his medicine.  Each day he improved by leaps and bounds.  By the third day, he was eating small amounts of solid food again and drinking water, and all on his own. It was amazing.

He's now back to his old self, and while he has trouble with the stairs sometimes because of his hips, he's alert, happy, eating, and trotting around again like he used to.  It's truly a miracle that he survived, and I am so grateful to have him around even longer, and have those little bits of Lulu and Biscuit still around as well.  

My Miracle Boy will be 16 in November!  You go, Floppy!


My beautiful, old boy. =)

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