Visit to the Vet

The dogs had a very exciting visit to the vet yesterday. They both needed vaccines and physicals, so we leashed up and headed off on the 1.3 mile walk, hoping the exercise in the heat would tire them into behaving themselves.

Per usual, I severely underestimated my dogs.

Well, my dog. Just one of them. The other... well, let's get back to the story.

So we have to bring in a stool sample each time we go to the vet to test for all sorts of disgusting ailments. This is easy enough, considering how long the walk is. Carly quickly and happily obliged on a nice, clean patch of sidewalk. Mac, however, waited until we were nearly a block away, then chose a lovely pile of wood chips upon which to make his deposit. We had to explain to the vet tech that no, he did not ingest the wood chips, he just really enjoys pooping on a variety of textures. He's that kind of dog.

Now, I am a pedestrian and am pretty good at estimating how long it will take me to walk any distance. I figured it would take about 30 minutes, so we left the house 35 minutes before we needed to be at the vet's. I like to be early. What I failed to take into account was my walking speed at 8 AM and my Partner in Crime's walking speed at 8 AM. Or 12 PM. Or 9 PM, really, it's all the same. Carly and I moved along at our brisk pace of about 4 steps per second, while Mac and my P.I.C. moved at their "brisk" pace of about 4 steps per minute. So yeah, we were a little late to the vet.

Then there's the medical records: we don't have any for Mac. Surprising, right? A dog with 9 years of abuse and neglect wouldn't have medical records? In other positive news, Mac has gained almost 10 pounds in the past 5 months, and Carly has lost 6 pounds in the past year. Typical, right?

And the best part of the visit: the needles. Carly has had bad reactions to vaccines in the past, so they gave her two pre-vaccine meds to keep her from getting hives and swelling again. She happily hopped up on the table, assuming that the vet, like all humans on this planet, was there to love and adore her. His version of "love," using needles, was not exactly her cup of tea. Leave it to my only dog who has teeth to bite the vet. Three times. "Occupational hazard," he said with a smile. I still felt awful.

So Carly took a break to let the meds kick in while the vet took a peek at Mac. To say he was surprised to look into Mac's mouth and see nubs is not accurate. He was saddened, to be sure, but not surprised, unfortunately. He told us stories from his previous practice in Missouri that would make your blood boil and your stomach turn. Suffice it to say that Mac was just another in a long line of statistics to him. But he politely sat while he was poked, squeezed and otherwise examined. The vet brought in a tech to help with the vaccines and blood withdrawal, assuming that the 55-pound beast with an abusive past might struggle.

I'm pretty sure Mac had no idea he was being poked with a needle.

Much like his sister, Mac is under the impression that all humans have one purpose: to love and to scratch him. So while the vet was busy stealing blood from his leg, Mac was busy bathing the face of the vet tech. She must have been salty; he only licks salty faces. The vet explained that when Mac's teeth were filed down, they certainly hit nerves there, so he had some nerve damage. Which is why he feels nothing when he pries the bars off of crates, for example, or chews holes in doors. Considering how much physical pain he was submitted to in his early life, it's highly possible that his pain receptors just stopped firing. They were on overdrive, so they packed up and quit on him.

Big surprise.

Carly's turn. Mac? That sweet boy who licked the vet while his blood was drawn? He's a good boy. His sister? She needed 3 people to restrain her.

That's my girl.

Return of the Mac

Let’s cut to the chase. El Caballo has some separation anxiety. We were not properly warned.

I recall reading on Petfinder.com about a sweet boy with a sad past who loves his foster sibling dogs, is fully house trained and does just fine in a crate when his humans need to leave the house. I don’t know who that sweet, sad boy was, but he is not. Not. Not my Little Mac.

When we first got the beast, we put Mac in the kitchen and baby-gated him in just in case he and the Blonde Bombshell decided to have a few words while we were at work.

What was I thinking?

He treated that baby gate like a croquet hoop.

And he treated the rest of our house like a Port-O-Potty. More specifically, a row of Port-O-Potties. Let’s just say the boy had a bone to pick with the Play Station. (Amen, brother.) And he seemed to be disappointed with our décor. He felt it needed a bit more… garbage. I mean, just straight up garbage. Everywhere. Who knew used coffee grounds tasted so delicious to the canine palette?

So let’s try a crate! He loved his crate at his foster home! Like a day at a spa!

I must have accidentally adopted Houdini, y’all, because we got home and that boy was out and his crate was still in one piece. And we were only gone an hour. So we zip-tied the corners of his crate so he couldn’t pop the ends off, which was the only way we could figure he’d gotten himself out. The next day, we got home to bars pried apart and one toothless, bloody mouth. And did I mention how far he can pee? When he gets that leg up, I honestly contemplate entering him in the Olympics or something. Then I cry myself to sleep.

So maybe the crate was too small? We weren’t too sure. So we went back to our friendly neighborhood Pet Smart and bought another new crate. “Sturdy,” it said. “Reinforced Steel,” it claimed. “Tested by the Hulk, he never knew what hit him,” read the box.

Move over, Hulk.

This crate seemed to really upset Mac. He popped off the ends; we zip-tied the corners. He pried apart the bars. With no teeth, mind you. We came home and found drops of bloody drool in weird places. Like the ceiling. All I can figure is that he did one of his patented face shakes where his jowls look like a flamenco dancer and he showers everyone within a 3 miles radius. It’s a real treat.

One day, during Crate #2, I came home to find Houdini out and about, looking very proud of himself for solving the puzzle that we made increasingly harder every day. Carly, in the meantime, met me every day with this very knowing look on her face, like, “Mama, I tried to stop him. I said, ‘Stop that, stupid,’ but he wouldn’t listen. I told him to leave the trashcan alone, but he just ignored me. You keep that in mind when you start yelling. I’ll just sit over here and watch.” He seemed to have pried the door away from the rest of the crate. He pried it to an oval shape with a diameter of about 4 inches. And got out of that space. Y'all, his head it almost 7 inches across. Thus the new nickname: Houdini.

I don’t know, I still like El Caballo better. But he is a Wizard. Fo’ sho’.

Then, the last straw: He pried the bars straight off the rest of the crate. Again, with no teeth. I don’t know if he just hates being confined or hates being away from us or he just thinks, “Well, that blonde punk is out, so they must want me to figure out how to get out too…” We got home, he was out, and the crate was in pieces.

And the house was redecorated. Obviously.

The next night, we tried the bathroom. And boy, that was an adventure.

Pardon My Absence

I know, I know... who starts a blog, writes 2 posts then peaces out?

I do.

Let me explain...

First of all, my last semester of grad school just kicked my butt. Plain and simple. The thought of writing anything at all, even a blog about my two most favorite furry creatures in the world, after work and school and life, was just too much for me. (Let me point out here that if this phenomenal woman has time to write multiple blogs daily while raising 3 beautiful children and supporting her church-planting husband, I really have no excuse, but humor me.)

Then there’s the whole point of this blog: advocacy for adopting adult dogs. I wanted to share with the world all the hilarity and joy that comes from the creatures most commonly passed-over in shelters and adoption organizations around the country. I was tired of hearing the excuses. “My dog doesn’t like other dogs; he’s a shelter dog.” “I’m sorry, she has separation anxiety and will never ever stop barking; she’s a shelter dog.” “No, it’s totally normal for my dog to eat sheet metal for every meal; he’s a shelter dog.”

(Just kidding on that last one. Sort of.)

So in short, I wanted to encourage others to see how possible it is to overcome the challenges that certainly exist when adopting adult dogs.

Y’all, I cannot, in good faith, encourage

anyone

to go through what we’ve been through the last couple of months.

It seems we’ve got the situation under control now. To be more specific, my Partner in Crime has the situation under control. I’m still learnin’. But we’re working on it. I think the trauma is behind us. We can stop spending ¾ of our paychecks at Home Depot. And I’m ready to resume advocacy. So, as I was saying…

Everyone wants a puppy. Everyone wants a pure-bred. Everyone wants perfect. Y’all, perfect does not exist here on Earth. But wonderful does. And my babies are wonderful.

But I do have a whole slew of stories and photos to scare the be-Jesus out of anyone considering adoption. Just so you know what exactly you’ll need to overcome.