Bruno's Blog – a complete animal at work

Why has there been no comment from Bruno recently? Well it’s because I’ve been frozen into inactivity on that front for these last 2 months.

This is why.

On December 28th, I went into the office to pick up the post Christmas orders, mail, deliveries etc etc. Bruno stayed at home.

In the afternoon he went out for a walk with my daughter – something he was quite used to doing - but on the way back decided it was time to leg it back home.

He always had a bit of a blind spot with cars and traffic, sitting at the edge of the pavement straining on his lead and ready to dart across just as soon as the order was given. As if believing that if he were to run fast enough across, in homage to Einstein time would somehow slow down and there would be no danger.

He had never before had a chance to test his theory, but this time he got there first.

I don’t think he saw the car coming, and the driver certainly did not stop.

We were plunged into the deepest grief, unable to quite believe that our dearest little Bruno was not going to be there any more, bouncing up as we came in the door, creeping down under my daughter’s duvet. No more excited chasing after squirrels and the heavy scent of foxes in the park.

No morning chattering as he struggled to utter his first words, pawing at the side of the bed, his lips and face twitching away as he squeaked and snuffled his morning greeting. We felt sure that one day he would finally manage it and actually say ”Hello! It’s morning! Let’s get up and run around!”  

We miss him dreadfully but it is also true that they don’t ever leave completely. Just when you’re not expecting it, he somehow is there running around again and it hurts all over again because I want to pick him up and have him lick my neck and wag his tail and smile.

We scattered his ashes on Friday in the forest that he loved.

 

I think it’s time to post a little tribute to Gertie.

Gertie passed away this last weekend, and with her came the end of an era at the clinic. The old man has been practising there for nearly ten years (big birthday celebration coming up next month) and Gertie had been with her human Sheila for nine and a half of those.

We knew when Gertie was coming in because you could hear her insistant barking. Latterly you knew when Gertie had entered the room because you could smell her teeth.

Gertie was a Pekinese of slightly uncertain but definitely advanced years. She had enough medical history to write a medium-sized tome, in fact she would probably merit an entire shelf on the great medical library in the sky. But why, you ask yourself. How could this be? Particularly when she was in the supposedly capable hands of the old man, why would she need so many specialists?

The answer lies in Gertie’s great sensitivity. She was no ordinary dog. No common rules of medicine applied to her. She did not respond to medication in the way that other dogs did. In fact it was frequently the opposite. Her symptoms baffled some of the great medical minds. She failed to show the clinical signs associated with many of the ailments that she clearly suffered from, whilst at other times displayed the cardinal attributes of diseases that she patently did not have.

Let me list her personal medical team. We’ll spare them the name checks for reasons of professional discretion, but you know who you are…

Her personal dermatologist for that period when her integument was troubling to her. The diagnosis remained ‘open’.

She had a cardiologist who was unable to explain why her heart rate for some months dropped consistently to 40 beats per minute, to the point where the anaesthesia team at the University were unwilling to anaesthetise her for an important procedure.

Her neurologist had to be consulted when she showed signs of seizures which he was completely unable to characterise, predict or treat.

Her soft tissue surgeon had been unable to locate and remove a troublesome grass seed from her paw, necessitating many months later a referral to the top surgeon in the country who only with great difficulty managed to dissect out much of her lower leg until the offending herb fragment was found.

Her acupuncturist struggled to contain the pain and inflammation of her advanced elbow arthritis as she pronounced herself needle shy, obliging him – unusually – to use laser acupuncture.

Her ophthalmologist struggled with persistant corneal ulcers that steadfastly refused to heal despite his best endeavours. She ended up losing one eye, at which point the other one healed and caused no further problems.

Her dentist, desperate to do something about the ghastly state of her teeth, ran the gauntlet of her perilous cardiac condition to anaesthetise her. He cleaned and polished the sound teeth and extracted the dying and rotten. Celebrating her return to the land of the living, he was mortified to see the calculus start to return within weeks.

Finally it was her kidneys. Her renal specialist watching with rising concern as the levels of waste products in her bloodsteam continued to rise. ‘Above normal’. ‘Not that unusual for a dog of her age’. ‘Getting a bit high now’. ‘I’m not sure how much longer this can go on.’ ‘My god any other dog would be flat out and pleading to be let go by now’. ‘She seems to have stabilised at a rather unusually elevated level’.

And so it went on. Towards the end she was helped along by large volumes of fluids, often given subcutaneously. By syringe and large needle, which she decided to tolerate with no concern whatsoever, to the intense irritation of the acupuncturist who was still forbidden by her to use his hair thin versions.

She would not tolerate glucose in the fluids, enjoying the benefit of plain saline only. Plain long grain rice was not OK, pudding rice was fine, until that too was not.

She took us to the brink more times than I can recall – each time a tearful conversation with Sheila along the lines of ‘it can’t be long now’. But those conversations had been going on for over three years, and each time she took a turn for the worse, she would bounce back and come trotting into the clinic as if nothing whatsoever was the matter.

Until the weekend. Time to go, and now she is, gone.