We sparked with Blue’s sweet face and story at the humane society. Then we learned just how strong he is.
I’ve been sleeping with a great guy who is not my husband. My husband understands, since Blue is his dog.
Our Blue is a big, curious and anxious 70-pound rescue dog with a rich chestnut coat, sweet eyes, a huge head, a body as long as a piano bench and a tail that curls up like a comma when he’s happy.
Blue has had a rough few weeks.
He’s recovering from minor surgery, as we have been renovating the house. Plaster, paneling, old pipes and an entire wall have come down.
My younger stepson’s beagle mix, Echo, doesn’t mind the noise.
But to Blue, this shake-the-house banging and power-sawing has been terrifying.
An anxious, post-op dog with stitches at the same time as a house renovation is crazy-making.
We would have never planned it this way. But Blue’s lump had to come out, and the best contractor could squeeze us in before Thanksgiving and the cold weather.
Sparking with that Sweet Face
On a May Saturday at the humane society, I lingered at Blue’s picture taped to the wall. Eighteen months before, we’d lost our beloved yellow lab mix, Duffy, who had carried us all through a lot of heartache. It was time to welcome a new dog to our family.
Something about that face was so earnest and endearing.
“How about Blue?” I thought, just as my husband said, “What about Blue?”
I believe in signs like that.
The shelter volunteer told us what she knew. He’d been a stray, and there for several months. Twice he’d been adopted and twice he’d turned up back at the shelter.
The paperwork said he’d shown some aggression, but when we heard the details we were cautiously optimistic that he’d been put in no-win situations, and that our family could be a good fit.
He needs an active family and calm house. We are an active, outdoorsy family and our house is typically pretty quiet. We don’t have little kids. We believe well-exercised dogs are well-behaved dogs, so we walk a lot.
“Let’s give this guy a chance,” I said. My husband nodded.
Our Bobblehead
Blue was a lanky stretch of bones and angles. So skinny we could count his ribs and his hind end was maybe three inches. At most.
He is sweet and gentle, and snuggled into our hands. He hugs by leaning his broad body up against your legs, just like our Duff did. Maybe that’s a lab thing. We fostered for several weeks to assure the shelter folks that this time things would work out for Blue, then adopted him.
“He looks like a bobblehead,” said our vet, Dr. Kristi the first time she met him and smiled. His head was so big and his body was so skinny. She is kind and bubbly. We fully trust her and her colleagues with these family members.
Now, Blue is broad and muscled. He’s gained about 10 pounds. On Blue’s first afternoon home, my husband walked him four miles in the woods to an old oak tree that’s become a family landmark. They’ve walked together nearly every morning since then — until Blue’s surgery.
Take Me With You
Blue’s theme song would be Prince’s “Take Me With U.” He doesn’t care where we’re going, what we do or how long the ride is, he just wants to go along. He loves to sit tall and at full attention behind the driver, and takes his co-pilot job very seriously.
He loves to be outside, chasing his ball as I work in the garden, and loves to play in the creek.
Blue can be anxious. Sometimes he flinches. We wonder what he’s been through in his three years. He has some baggage.
Don’t we all?
These past several months, I’ve read up on dog behavior as Blue and I bonded and built trust. We’ve sat together and snuggled. When he’s nervous, I tell him: I know, babe. I get anxious, too. I have abandonment issues, too, honey.
He knows I would never hurt him. I know he would never hurt me or any of us on purpose.
He’s settled beautifully into our home and routine.
Every morning at about 4:30, my husband walks Blue and Echo. By the time I come down to the kitchen at about 5:30, following the scent of coffee and looking like Bill the Cat from the old Bloom County comic strip, they are back from their walk, invigorated and wide awake.
A Scary, Walnut-Sized Lump
“He’s been through enough,” I pled to Dr. Kristi two days after Blue’s surgery. She agreed.
Dr. Kristi had removed a walnut-sized lump on Blue’s chest, plus 3 cm all the way around it, and sent it to the lab to be tested. We were so relieved a few days later when the lab report came back and said it was nothing.
But Blue was already nervously licking at his stitches, and I didn’t know how to make him stop. His slurping woke me up the first night and I’d slept on the couch by his crate the next night. For two weeks after surgery, he was supposed to stay quiet and could only take really short walks out to the backyard. We were giving him sedatives, yet still he licked.
I was worried. I knew the risk of infection.
We tried a cone. He shook it off and attacked it. OK, no cone.
We tried a t-shirt, but Blue just rubbed at his stitches through his shirt.
The more he picked, the more worried I became. The more anxious I got, the more anxious he got. Deep breaths.
Plus — in those first few days, our house was full of chaos and noise, as we started pulling down all the old layers of paneling and plaster in our living room.
After a weekend of hard work and keeping our Blue as quiet as we could — but not very quiet — we were ready for our contractor.
On Monday morning, I realized Blue’s wound was bleeding. Soon after the crew arrived, I zipped him off to the vet.
He would soon be on valium. I resisted the urge to take one.
Shell-shocked
I secured the dogs in my home office, as our contractor and I worked on decisions — zipping up and down the stairs to check on Blue. He seemed OK.
That night, even with special food, and all the medicine, he was anxious. He shook. He licked at his stitches. From what I could see of the incision, it looked red and angry.
I sat on the floor with him against the couch in our temporary living room. Eventually he laid down against my leg. Every time I moved, he’d lick at his stitches.
He was shell-shocked. “We got this, buddy,” I said to calm us both as I stroked his fur. I felt guilty and panicked, tried to stay calm and still. That was our night.
The next morning, Blue’s wound looked awful. We zipped back to the vet.
Dr. Nikki sat on the floor in the exam room, let Blue lick her face, and listened.
“I can’t manage this,” I pled. “Even when I am holding his head with both hands, and with him constantly, I can’t keep him away from those stitches.”
I was nearly in tears. “He is a beautiful, sweet, healthy 3-year-old dog,” I said. “I am not going to lose this dog.”
From her spot on the floor, Dr. Nikki said, full of confidence: “You’re not going to lose this dog.”
She had a plan. As I waited, I realized this had all stirred up my own baggage and painful memories of spending November fighting for life.
This is Blue, I reminded myself while I sat in the waiting room.
Not Duffy. Not Dad.
My November Baggage
Nine years ago, I spent the first two weeks of November by my Dad’s hospital bed, as he slept in a medical coma and fought a life-threatening infection. He cheated death then, woke up a few days before Thanksgiving, and we were all lucky to have another few years with him.
Two years ago, for weeks Dr. Kristi and I fought the good fight to save Duffy, our yellow lab. She ran tests and we tried different medicines and I made special meals of boiled chicken and sausages until the Tuesday when Duffy laid down outside by our neighbor’s fence and would not move. The scans would not show the blood cancer that made him so sick.
Duffy had seen my husband and stepsons through some pretty painful days when their family had broken.
Duff had welcomed me into the family, shown me a dog’s unconditional love, and walked beside me on a ridge trail through the woods day after day in 2013 after I lost my dad to pancreatic cancer. When I started to write about my dad, Duff would walk over and lay his head on my lap.
Duff taught me that every part of our daily life is better with a dog. He’d left us all heartbroken.
And then we healed. So many wonderful animals need a good home, and we had an empty spot in ours.
Super-strength
Dr. Nikki packed Blue’s wound with honey and wrapped him in a bandage that covered his chest, shoulders and upper part of his belly. She prescribed one more medicine to make him drowsy.
For awhile, we were at the vet’s daily for a check and bandage change and our Blue was a walking medicine chest: two antibiotics to treat the raging infection, two sedatives and a painkiller to make him drowsy.
He still fought sleep, but eventually succumbed, and konked out across the backseat of the car. As the contractors worked, I drove a drowsy, sleeping Blue around — with the beagle buttoned up in her crate — to spare the dogs the stress of the noisy house. I postponed anything that could not be done with him, and am grateful for my flexible life.
Date Night
That week, I crossed over to “kooky dog lady.” By Saturday, the house was quiet and we were all exhausted. The dogs and I burrowed under quilts and blankets on the couch — temporarily in the kitchen.
“Let’s go out to dinner,” my husband said when he came home from a day in the woods.
“I don’t know if I can leave Blue,” I said, and realized I’d been with him for nine days.
“He’ll be fine, hon,” said my husband, pointing out that Blue was soundly sleeping and we’d be gone about two hours.
We went to the adorable Italian place with the twinkle lights, chianti and homemade meatballs. Ahhh…
Blue was fine. Still sleeping when we returned.
Blue’s Will
Now, every day is better. Blue’s wound is healing and closing up. Right now, he’s sleeping soundly on my office floor beside Echo as the guys work downstairs.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, that big, beloved celebration of gratitude.
I am thankful. Today, tomorrow, and every day.
Even for Blue’s fight to stay awake. Even for the toughness that’s made him a high-maintenance, expensive handful these last few weeks.
Behind Blue’s sweet face is Blue’s will and it helped him survive, until we could get to him and bring him home.
Pupdate: Blue tolerates a fancy new pillow around his neck so he can’t reach the last part of his wound that needs air to heal. (I tell him he still looks tough.) No more bandages. The house has been quiet for a few days in a row. We have the vet’s green light for normal walks. This morning, as the wind whipped snow into our faces, we leaned in and walked a couple of brisk miles. A refreshing step toward the normal routine.
