Doggie Ophthalmology Crisis

My Tibetan Spaniel, Taj, was diagnosed by a doggie ophthalmologist two weeks ago with a detached retina. He is blind in his right eye. It will never improve. The Dr. has no clue how this happened. Taj is only 2 years old and too young for the list of usual causes for this problem. 

My only clue that something was amiss was my awareness that Taj was in pain. After a long walk the week before, he was in severe pain for several days. That is when I took him to his veterinarian the first time. After checking him over our vet could not find the source of the pain. Taj's pain level improved during the week. The following Monday we went for a long walk. Again the pain was back. This time our veterinarian saw the problem and immediately set up an emergency appointment with a specialist.

My vet had said he respected this specialist very much so I was feeling confident and comforted driving the 30 miles to the appointment. I made the mistake of going alone. When we arrived Taj and I were taken back into an examination room and a young ophthalmologist came in and started the exam. 

It all happened so fast and I was not aware of how nervous I was. He told me right away the retina was detached and there was nothing that could be done for it. He told me Taj was permanently blind in that eye. He kept using an instrument to push against Taj's eyes to find out the eye pressure. He tried several gadgets before finding one he felt gave him accurate readings.

A number of eye drops had been administered by this time. The young vet then, in an uncomfortable way, talked to me about the options. Fixing the tear was not possible. He said the reason for the pain was the pressure. There were 3 possible solutions. Medication was out, he thought. (I don't remember if he told me why?)  An injection behind the eye was another option but only about 70% successful. The other option was removing the eye. This vet felt that removing the eye was the best choice because of Taj's age--it would eliminate further complications down the road.

Woa! I was overwhelmed!!!!!!!!!!! I couldn't think. I couldn't imagine Taj losing an eye! I couldn't imagine him continuing to be in such excruciating pain. I didn't understand why the medication wouldn't be worth a try. I hadn't understood the diagram the vet had drawn of the injection and what that would do. He indicated I needed to make an immediate decision and left the room to work up the estimate of how much it would cost to remove the eye.

My mind was spinning. My emotions were bouncing so quickly I could not identify what I was feeling. I needed more information. I needed time. I needed to talk this over with friends and family and get suggestions--questions to ask to get the information I needed to make a knowledgeable decision. I felt trapped in the small room and was having difficulty breathing. 

Just in the nick of time it occurred to me I could ask to have the veterinarian I had thought I was going to see examine Taj and give me a second opinion. I asked and immediately he came in the room. I liked him right away. He was older and had a gentle, calm manner about him. He checked Taj's eye pressure and with the drops Taj had been given earlier the numbers had reduced by half in 45 minutes. He said that showed the medication was working to relieve the pressure so that the pain could be controlled.

He said the injection was an option if necessary in the future and that removing the eye was a last resort. I felt my breathing return. He asked to see Taj in 2 weeks and sent me home with 2 bottles of eye drops. 

Taj and I were both exhausted from the experience. He was in a lot of pain. For the next 2 days we slept and snuggled. I was shocked at my emotional reaction to this experience. I have had many dogs euthanized and because of their advanced age have had what I would consider "normal sadness and grief". This experience at the doggie ophthalmologist was excruciating. I felt as though my heart was breaking. 

A friend came over and looked up online resources for dogs who have lost sight in one eye. There were suggestions about how to retrain a dog with these maladies. On the one hand this gave me hope and on the other I found the information overwhelming.

In a few days, Taj's eyes stopped hurting and he started acting like himself. On our short walks it was impossible to tell he couldn't see out of one eye. We started going for longer walks while being mindful of being careful. The eye drops seem to be controlling the pressure in the eyes, and therefore the pain. 

My emotions have settled down. We have an appointment with the ophthalmologist I liked on Wednesday. I do not know what he will want to do next. I know there is concern about why this happened. That may mean doing an ultrasound on the other eye followed by laser treatments on that eye. I feel better able to handle whatever information I might be given. And, I am taking a friend!

The Blessings Of Ladybug

          

May 30, 1997 - July 11, 2013

Ladybug was two and a half years old when she came into my life. She was a Champion, having spent her early years as a show dog and then having one litter of puppies. I already had two Tibetan Spaniels, Arty and Abracadabra, and was indecisive at first about adding a third. But my life lent itself to having multiple dogs and in a weak moment I said, "yes". 

She didn't really have a chance to shine with the other two. Arty had my heart and that was that. He was cuddly and faithful to me and I found him endlessly loving and entertaining. Abracadabra was exactly like her name -- a magical fairy being. She was a little shining light -- clearly the center of the Universe.

Ladybug was hesitant. She always followed and liked what the others did and was never the leader. She was sweet and I liked her. But, she did not like me. She would bond with whoever was around but she would walk past me with her nose in the air. It wasn't until many years later, after Arty and Abracadabra had both passed on, that I sat down with her and said, "if you are truly unhappy with me I will find you a place where you want to be. This blatant rejection, though, is not working for me". 

After that talk, she was mine. She followed me everywhere and would often fall asleep at my feet. She made a 180 degree turn around and we were both happier because of it. I found myself opening my heart to her as well. We became a team and delighted in each other's company and companionship.

Soon after we became friends she was accidentally let out of the house when I was not there. We were living in the desert south of Tucson. She got out of an open fence and disappeared. Everyone searched for her but she was no where to be found. After 4 days, I had given up hope of finding her. There were coyotes and rattlesnakes, mountain lions and many other creatures that were just waiting for an innocent little dog. I made my peace with her loss.

Then I got a call from someone several miles up the road that they had seen Ladybug and recognized her from a flyer I had posted on the main road. I went where they had seen her in a heavy  monsoon rainstorm and she came running to me. Surprisingly, she was okay and we were reunited again.

After that we spent another year in Arizona, a year in Philadelphia and two years in Colorado together. We were adjusting quite well to her aging process. She still had relatively good health. She would go for walks and sniff at everything and walk slowly about 15 minutes and then suddenly run full tilt back to our apartment. I would literally have to run to keep up with her. She did this until her death.

Three weeks before she died she poked her cornea. I never figured out what she poked it on. None the less, it was a serious wound and I had to put antibiotic drops in her eyes 10 times a day. The eye improved minimally but didn't really heal. She appeared to not be in pain or really bothered by it. One night I woke her up for the last time out for the evening and she riled up from her bed in terrible pain. I stayed up with her the entire night and through the next day until our appointment at the Veterinarian's. She only found comfort by standing close with her face to a wall where she would pant for a half hour before finding another wall. It was excruciating to experience and I have never felt more helpless!

The Veterinarian (who I have the deepest respect for) said he would give me his honest opinion about what needed to happen. After examining her he confirmed that she was in a lot of pain and that the eye was not healing well. He felt, as I did, that the compassionate thing to do was to euthanize her.

The most enormous thing Ladybug gave me was relaxing in my arms before the shot. She had never done that before and I realized as it was happening that that was her gift to me. More than any other animal or person who has died in my life, Ladybug showed me grace in dying. I felt extremely sad (I was a wreck, actually) but filled with love and the knowledge that Ladybug and I had reached to end of our lives together in exactly the right time and way.

My perception of death has shifted since that day. One of my dear friends passed away last weekend and I felt the same way that I had with Ladybug. I had always wanted to feel peaceful and not fearful about death but had never achieved this. The blessing I received from Ladybug is that death is simply part of life. It is just a part of the cycle. I have known this for a long time but never really "gotten" it. I will be forever grateful to my little girl!

Death Of My Friend

Champion Arty Come Lately
April 24, 1994 - April 2, 2009

After Abracadabra died Mid-November, Ladybug seemed to skip over grief and never turned back to miss her sister. She hung out contentedly with Arty--through his failing health, as he visibly weakened daily from not eating. She didn't seem to notice when he couldn't walk anymore.

Earlier that day I had called the veterinarian to bring Arty in to put him down to sleep. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow morning at 7:45", met my request. I knew, with only a Mother's knowing, that the time was NOW and tomorrow would be too late. As it turned out it was not only too late but too long.

Mid-afternoon, I came around the corner of the bedroom and found Arty sprawled on the floor with each of his feet going in one of the four directions. He had taken his last steps. I gently lifted him and laid him in his dog bed. Shortly after, as I lay on the floor, rolled on my side petting him, he had his first convulsion.

I immediately jumped into "HELP" mode, totally ignoring my feelings of inadequacy and my ignorance of what to do. The convulsions were mild at first, although I didn't know that at the time. It was only later, after I had stayed up with him all night, I realized that those early ones had been mild.

Arty had my heart. He was the "most beautiful dog I have ever seen", my sister would say. I leaned that way in my own biased thinking. He had been my dear friend from the moment I first laid eyes on him and our friendship grew stronger each year of the twelve we spent together. We understood and respected each others' need for unconditional love. I don't feel he was ever once disappointed in my humanness and I felt deep pride in watching him become more and more of a dog. In his later years, he actually became a full-fledged canine and he was happy.

I can still see him running full-out across the wide green expanse of the park we frequented in our early years together. He was a picture of Grace. Balance. Joy. Even then, Hobbit's vision blurred and Arty stepped right in to guide her, even on their park runs. After a long-enough run he gently brought her back to me. He was by her side day and night and when she died, he sank into a deep grief that lasted a good four years. Her absence broke his heart.

It was when we moved across the country that he began come out of himself and notice his Tibbie sisters and me. The introverted perspective gave way to the world again and he began to enjoy life again. Like the sunshine part of the country we now call "home" he warmed up from the inside out. It was like having the old Arty back, new and better than ever.

I wonder, even now, if it was our strong attachment to each other that created our last awful night together so we could let go? It made the break clean. Necessary. Final. We acted out our entire relationship in that one last precious, tedious, nightmare night.

Ladybug, who I believe always thought wanted to be an only dog, mirrors my grieving now. I see it in her eyes and in her wandering aimlessly through the house looking for something that is no longer here. Arty's absence is more difficult that his death was, for me. So, we wait for our hearts to heal, knowing another Tibetan Spaniel is waiting for us to be swooped up into our lives. Into our hearts. Into our forever home.