In our house, wheels are pups and squeaking equates to demands and needs.
Riley is, by far, the "squeakiest". His epilepsy demands schedules and planning. Our lives revolve around his meds times. We are constantly on alert for warning signs, weather changes, UPS delivery schedules during the holidays as his meds are shipped to us, anything new in canine epilepsy research, and just anything, in general, that might look "off" about him because even the most benign health issue could contribute to a seizure.
And, in reality, Riley is the quietest one in the bunch. He makes a low noise in his throat when he needs a hug but otherwise you'll not hear a peep from him until meal time. And even then it is not a traditional sounding bark but more of an "ra roo".
Frankie is probably next. She is a Queen Bee and the very definition of a diva. At least in canine terms. She can work the smallest of ills and turn it into major drama. We should have known, though. That January day in 2004 when Billy was driving through Lake Providence and realized that "thing" in the road was in fact alive and dragging herself, her sweet broken 9 week old self, out of the road by her two front feet, refusing to just lay in there and accept death as her fate, she was starting the rest of her life as a pampered princess. I used pantyhose to hold up her back half when she needed to go out as her pelvis was fractured. But she healed. One time we took her on a walk and I thought she had leaves stuck on her paws and tried to pull them off. In fact she had slipped her pads (I didn't even know that could be done!) and her feet were killing her. Billy carried her up and down the stairs for weeks as she recouped in the center of our king-sized bed. She milked it, for sure. Earlier this year she decided to stop eating. The vet said she was showing early signs of kidney disease but with some diet changes we might be able to reverse it. Tough to make diet changes when she wouldn't eat. What she didn't know was our desire get her to eat was way stronger than her decision to not to and that I wouldn't stop at anything, including hand feeding one bite at a time, until she started eating again.
Today, she is once again leading the choir at meal time. Demanding, loudly, that her bowl be placed on the couch next to her so she can effortlessly dine.
Micky is the youngest, and the biggest, and the most rambunctious. He is demanding just in his sheer size and puppy-like goofiness. He wants his walk, and will stare at the leash on the wall until you hook him up. Even if it isn't his day to walk, he will act like it is and make you miserable until he gets your attention. Sometimes even longer.
Gabby and Doozer are always around, usually touching us in some form or fashion. Spencer "squeaks" for real, incessantly, just because he can. He will yip his high pitched bark until you give him your undivided attention.
Sadie lives under the bed, and is most happy there. She will only bark and carry on if one of the other pups walks too close or starts to eye her rawhide. She will intentionally not chew hers until everyone else is finished and she can flaunt it.
Not a big squeaker at all.
Her twin brother, Scooter, is even quieter. He will hide behind chairs and in corners to try and not be seen. His hair grows like wildfire and the most activity you will see from him is if you try to groom it. Over the last 9 years I have managed to finally get him to stand almost still while I clip his back but when you get to his legs and feet - Katy bar the door, not happening. He has Sasquatch feet (think hairy boots from the 70s) because I can't bear the embarrassment of taking him to the groomer. I know he will have to be completely sedated to even get him on the table.
Then, there was Patches and Maggie. No squeak whatsoever.
Maggie was contented to lay on the back of the couch and stare out the front picture window. Or outside on the patio in the sun. Or at the foot of the bed while she was still able to jump up there. She was a quiet beauty that asked for little.
Patches was her "buddy". Once we got to eight dogs I started mentally pairing everyone up, male and female, to help keep track of them all. It just made it easier to keep up if I could check them by twos. Patches was a great protector, intimidating in his size. He would bark when it was required but rarely any other time. He was just always "there". Close at hand but never underfoot.
We lost Patches in August 2016 and Maggie just last week. Patches got sick one Sunday afternoon and was gone by Monday lunch. His liver had failed. Maggie had been declining over the last week or so, but we had an appointment and got her down to the vet. I knew what was wrong with her. I had even told the vet in my email to her (our vet works part time two days at one clinic and one day at a second clinic and is two hours away, each way, so I try to maximize our time in her office.) what tests I thought we needed to run. I thought we had plenty of time.
You see, I knew Maggie was diabetic. She had shown all the warning signs two years ago. And two years ago I had her and Frankie tested. Both were negative. The warning signs never abated, but they also didn't get any worse until that last week. I never sought a second opinion because I had the answer I wanted. She was fine! Earlier this summer I saw a black spot on her stomach. I texted a picture of it to the vet to see what she thought. She recommended neosporin and for me to watch it and report back. Billy and I had already had two dogs with Cushing's Disease, and Stormy's started with sores on her stomach. I got caught up in caring for all my "squeakers" and didn't do as asked. What I should have done was texted it to the vet and said "we'll see you Tuesday about this". But I didn't. When we got Maggie to the vet that day to confirm what I felt about her diabetes, her glucose was so high that it could not even be read, and she was Cushionoid. It was almost too late. We left her in the emergency clinic, still believing she would be fine, but she didn't survive the first night. Patches never even got that. We blamed his slowing down and not getting around so good as nothing more than old age. In fact, he was shutting down. Kicker of it is, we brought Riley out of liver failure in 2010. Livers can regenerate, depending on what is causing the problem, and so we know how to treat it. We just didn't see it.
Neither of them ever squeaked a bit. They were just their same, quiet, selves.
In saving the many I feel I failed the few.
I don't say that so you will tell me I'm a good mom and we tried and did all we could and all that. I know that in both cases we gave them life. Period. Not just a better life, but life itself. Patches was a four month old puppy at a shelter in Little Rock, owner surrendered or just unclaimed is irrelevant, and the shelter ran out of room or deemed him unadoptable or something and took him to the vet for his "final visit". Thankfully that vet saw a precious puppy, big and goofy, mixed Australian border collie and who knows what else, that was healthy and happy and just needed a chance and he couldn't "do the deed". My in-laws were in that vet's office, heard the story, and my sister-in-law, without hesitation, said "my brother will take him".
And he did.
The biggest four month old puppy I had ever seen came leaping out of his work van when he returned from Arkansas that trip. One month later my in-laws spotted Maggie loose on a country road, solid black and dark was falling. They took her home so she wouldn't get hit out there on that road. Knowing them as I do I'm sure they looked for her owner. When none was found, after a little shifting between houses, she ended up in Natchez with us. With her, Frankie and Patches we now had the Three Amigos.
I remember walking downstairs one day to find Maggie had our then almost 16 year old Christy by the scruff of the neck and was using her like a dust mop. Christy's eye were huge! She had never had anything like that happen! But Maggie was a gentle giant and did no harm. She was just a sweet baby trying to play.
Patches got 12 years, and Maggie 13. Not bad for bigger dogs that don't seem to have the longevity of smaller ones. I tell myself that even if we had caught on to their ailments earlier it might not have made a significant difference in their lifespan. Maybe a little longer, but they were already at the upper end.
We wonder what we would have done differently if we had known. We have made informed decisions to not do things. We didn't put Riley under anesthetic to check on a mass one doctor found. The risk was not worth the reward. At 12 years old he has already lived longer than most epileptics, and any kind of treatment for cancer was going to be a challenge with his schedule. So we chose not to know and hope for the best. That was over a year and a half ago and he is still going strong. With Frankie, some of her kidney values looked odd and more testing was recommended. Again, at the age of 14 was the risk of the anesthetic worth it? We wouldn't be doing any surgery or anything on her if they found something. So we opted to work with the diet changes and, again, hope for the best.
Ever since we brought Micky in as number 9 at the time, Billy has joked that we are an eight dog family. Sure enough a few months later Patches' passing made us an eight dog family again. Then Spencer joined us earlier this year to make nine, and we lost Maggie a few months later to go back to eight.
I think we'll stay this way for a while. Eight is enough. I remember thinking in 2001 when Stormy died that we had set ourselves up for heartbreak another three times already with Christy, Molly and Midnight. I sit here today looking at eight more, knowing that my heart will resemble Swiss cheese before it's all over.
We love our babies. All of them. This bunch will benefit from our lessons learned. No more waiting to see what happens. No more being embarrassed about what we haven't been able to do. No more "old age". We are not perfect, but we are good pet parents. We love the years we had with them, even while wishing for more. We are forever grateful and blessed for those two sweet babies that no one wanted and gave us so much.
Now, why do I tell you all of this? Again, not so you will praise us for our good works and reassure us that we did all we could and we didn't fail them. I tell you this so you will look at your own life and see what might need a little grease, even it if doesn't squeak yet. There is no law that says you have to wait until metal meets metal to do something.
Is it your health? Do you work so hard that you are continually grabbing fast food and not exercising enough? Do you wait until the squeak (a stroke, a heart attack) before you make a change? How about your relationships? Are you spending time working to provide for your family but your family isn't there anymore? What squeak are you waiting for there (drug abuse, alcohol abuse, teen pregnancy) before you head off some bad behaviors? Maybe a coworker? Are you doing everything in your power to be a part of the team at work and help things run smoothly or do you wait until the squeak (a missed promotion, termination) to figure out what you how you should be spending those eight hours a day.
Think about it. We all have our own toolbox of duct tape and WD-40 to "fix" the things in our lives, but we have to be looking, be aware, be in touch and in tune.
Think about it.
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