my life with moose
I will begin with this photo of the patient in recovery at home because it's important to know as you read this, that there is a good ending.
Understatement #1: I was not happy when Rob decided to get Moose. We were going through some "stuff" and I was going through a lot of my own stuff (understatement #2).
We already had one dog, Stella, who was a handful with special needs, and the last thing we needed was the added responsibility, but the Moose train was already on track and there was no chance it was going to stop. . .which is how I found myself sitting in a car, on a Friday night, with a very small puppy on my lap. He was lying on a wee-wee pad, since I wasn't sure how his bladder would hold, and after a few minutes of whining, fell fast asleep. When we arrived home, there was an introduction process that was slow and tedious, but obviously important. Moose was tiny and fragile and Stella wanted to play. Once he got comfortable, he quickly became an annoying little brother - nibbling her with his razor sharp puppy teeth.
4 years prior, we had successfully crate trained Stella, so we gave it no thought, putting Moose in the crate and locking him up for the night. He cried the entire night, and he cried the next night, and the one after that. There was no sleep to be had in 604.
I resented this new imposition, this new responsibility thrust into my life. I was tired, and I was stressed. Even though he was painfully cute, I wouldn't let myself fall in love with him. Having him in my studio apartment with Stella was cramped and crowded. The reintroduction of a dog crate to my space was invasive. I couldn't stop being frustrated.
Time passed, and he grew. He grew directly into his "challenging" stage. This is where training is so important. Stella had taken quickly and well to training. She was highly motivated by treats and praise.
Moose was not.
He was tough and difficult. Walking him was a struggle. He bit his leash, he pulled, he lunged all over the sidewalk trying to pick things up off the ground. Rob left him with a cousin who was house-sitting his apartment. She called me on the first day, asking if I could come get him.
Soon after, we moved in together, to an apartment with a lot space. Moose had come around to being crated, and things were settling down. He was great at home. Followed all the dog rules, played nicely with Stella, learned how to sit, shake and lie down. He waited for his meals, he waited for his treats. He was sweet. He "hugged" - putting his front legs on your shoulders and touching his nose to yours. He loved to cuddle and sleep on my lap. I stopped referring to him as "the foster child" in my head. He was a model citizen. . .except on his walks.
He was still a nightmare, a terror, a hazard. He was out of control. I hated every single minute of walking him. We got a new dog sitter, Ron, who helped immensely, but Moose was still awful on our walks. One night, I managed to lock myself out of the apartment, and after a struggle over the leash, he ripped my favorite tights. Rob was still 20 minutes away. I sat on the stairs in the building on the verge of tears.
I hired a trainer. We went on walks, worked on my skills, worked on Moose's skills. Ron's dog, Loki, is the most perfectly behaved dog and his calm and gentle disposition rubbed off on Moose.
We turned a corner. Suddenly, we could walk nicely. I could take him to the park on my own. I loved Moose without any qualifications or exceptions. There was balance to our relationship. (Dog people will understand this)
Flash forward to this past Sunday. My aunt, sister, and Frog came over. I was cooking dinner. They are playing in the living room. Moose is jumping around with excitement, rolling over so that Frog will rub his belly, nuzzling with my sister on the floor. 30 minutes later, he throws up his breakfast. 10 minutes after that, he throws up some pink-ish bile. 10 minutes after that is straight out of a horror movie.
A pool of blood collected on the floor. Bright red and A LOT.
Rob came in the room and we quickly decided it was time to go. We rushed out, leaving Frog and my sister in the apartment, while we headed to the 24 hour vet on 4th ave. I sat in the back of the car next to Moose, a thick mucus forming from the nausea. He kept gagging and I was afraid there would be more blood.
When we arrived, we were immediately taken back into a room and while we waited, Moose swayed from exhaustion. They came in, he was weighed, they checked his heart rate and pulse and temperature. He was short of breath and sounded like Darth Vader. They wanted to run some tests, see if they could figure out what was going on. They told us to leave, they would call us in 45 minutes or so, to reassess. He would definitely need to be admitted for overnight observation. We went through every single detail of the day to see if we could figure out what happened, but nothing had been different.
The x-rays came back negative for a foreign obstruction, but he continued to throw up blood. A lot of blood. An amount that they were unaccustomed to. They didn't know the cause. The first estimate grew exponentially.
I was prepared for that, but after a few tests, they came back and said they wanted to put him in the ICU. The forms for admitting him to the ICU included a CPR and DNR sections. Decisions had to be made.
We were allowed to go upstairs and say good night and the sight of a sick, weakened Moose in the cage already being poked and prodded was just too much. He meekly wagged his tail as we pet and cuddled him. Needless to say, neither of us slept well.
The following morning found us getting a call from the vet suggesting another 12 hours of observation in the ICU with a reassessment at the end of the day. I spent the day at work in a haze. I spoke with the amazing vets and techs throughout the day, getting minor updates, and feeling helpless.
All test results were inconclusive. They continued to rule out everything immediately life threatening, while stabilizing him with fluids and medications. Scary, but reassuring things like, "none of his organs are in failure" and "no signs of poison" were reported, but the lack of a diagnosis is scary.
At the end of the day, we were told he was stable enough to go home. The vet tech came downstairs - alone. "I need you to pay attention to me while I give you the instructions". We were given two pages of discharge advice (I had to create a chart to keep track of the medication at home). It is unlikely that we will ever know what caused this extreme case.
It has brought up thought-provoking discussions about how much money one is willing (and able) to spend on animal care. I realized, this morning, as I was talking about it, that if they had brought me an estimate five times the amount they first came out with, I would have left to sign up for a credit card. Nothing would have kept me from letting them do anything and everything to make sure Moose came through.
He's home now, recovering, exhausted, and being (heavily) monitored. Things are almost back to normal with Stella, who was excited to see him and has now moved onto resenting every second that he is being fawned over.
We've come a long way, Moose Wallace. A very long way.
*And for all you a-holes (you know who you are, FAMILY) who will comment on my having a "feeling" - please remember that I reserve the use of my "feeling" for animals, children and old people.
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