Sausage breakfast for Pogo?

The master at playing dead

Pogo on the stairs. There’s a ball in that cavernous mouth somewhere.

The home phone call last week, while on holiday, wasn’t entirely unexpected. Situations, minor or otherwise, rarely go unreported. Today it was Pogo’s turn. Not so minor. He couldn’t or wouldn’t get up. The only good news, if you can say that - we were due back the next day.

This had happened before. I was in the US last time, also on holiday, when the disturbing news came through that Pogo’s walk had abruptly ended, he could no longer walk at all. He’d been chasing a ball with all the mad, sinew straining vigour, he always put into a chase, before flipping over in the long, summer, straw-like grass. A small dip in the field, unnoticed at speed, had been enough for balance to temporarily desert him . He’d done it many times before, as dogs do. This time was different. His head did not bob-up, shaking the dust and straw off his back, this time, there was no movement at all.

Poor Pogo

A week’s stay at the vet hospital on a catheter revealed that he’d twisted himself badly enough to damage some of the nerve-endings in his back. Once home, we spent the next 6 weeks carrying his lifeless backend around in a sling.

His right leg showed signs of recovery first, and the almost daily progress made up for his dead left one, which he continued to drag behind like a rag doll. The constant friction meant he had to wear a rubber doggie shoe, protecting his paw from rubbing raw.

Everyone was glad when signs of life returned and he started to pick his dolly up. No more bending down looking intently in the dew sodden morning grass for lost shoes which he’d somehow managed to slip.

Stand-up

A dog that can no longer stand is a dog in trouble. The guilt-wrenching problem for owners, apart from a long, loving relationship which can’t last forever, is they’re often showing signs of being very much alive. Despite this, we’re forced to play god and call time. It feels like betrayal.

59% of UK households own a dog, that’s 14% higher than a decade earlier. It equates to roughly 12.5m dogs in the UK, of which 80,000 die every year from lethal injection, the single biggest reason being cancer.

Breakfast for one

Our lovely friends in the west country recounted the tale of their Cocker Spaniel who had slowed down and then finally stopped, resigned to lie in his bed. Like Pogo, he’d been incontinent for a while and now the legs had decided they’d had enough too.

On the morning of the vets appointment, he was still well enough though, to tuck into a hearty sausage breakfast. A bon voyage for the journey yet to come perhaps?

Thursday call

On the day of our call, Pogo did manage to limp out of the house. At some point, shortly after hobbling down the mews, probably as far as a dessicated semi-circle of grass, he did his bit to continue the abuse before turning back home. Next steps about his future, not that he knows, are now in the balance. He needs to find a way to keep going.

Let the train take the strain

As we journeyed back through France on the train, we were fearing the worse. It’s been nearly 5 years since his accident and he’s now reached the grand old age of 12, the average life expectancy for his type.

You know the sort. Attention seeking when you’re busy; wilful - that look of I’m going to do it anyway; constantly pretends to be starving even when he’s stuffed full; always has ideas above his station like me first; doesn’t like swimming, even though he has webbed paws and is in fact a waterdog. He does make an exception, because of his complete obsession with balls, even wet ones, he is/was prepared to swim and retrieve. Now he’s just a shit machine who doesn’t wait for the front door to even open anymore.

I sensed Mrs H and me, might end up in different places, as to what to do next? He’s already booked in for a return visit to the specialist vet, to see whether anything else can be done? Is he now in pain, or is it an intermittent sensation, like an electric shock, which is why he insists on worrying his back leg? If he was as bad as described on the phone, I was beginning to think we could dispense with that appointment and just call out the local vet. I’ll even throw in a sausage breakfast.

Our return

He couldn’t contain himself when we opened the front door, late Friday night. His greetings spilled over as usual before I took him out for his walk, expecting a highly truncated affair. As I watched him hobble off down the street, it was obvious that something had happened. Added to his customary injury, which has always looked to me like a back leg trying to mount a bicycle, he now had a front limp on the same side. Maybe he’d had a stroke? Either way, he must have been feeling somewhat better, because he was happy enough to complete our usual tour of the neighbourhood.

He’s rarely on a lead these days. I usually take one to alert passersby that he belongs to me and is not a neglected, wandering stray, begging for food and love from anyone he meets. I stand there like a spare part while he performs his party trick.

He’s a professional, sidler-upper, catching most innocent bystanders unaware, his only expectation, spontaneous bursts of affection and a quick sniff. He’s an incredible optimist and is rarely disappointed. On the few occasions when he is, it’s water off a water-dog’s back. Unperturbed, it’s immediately forgotten. He’s moved on to his next best friend.

Latest

Since our return, there has been a miraculous recovery. Without steroids or any other pick-me-ups, Pogo is quite back to his old self again.

Anyone fancy sausages for breakfast?