I’m not a psycho. There’s a reason I refused to neuter my dog Bungee.
For three years, I avoided what turned out to be inevitable. Then, my dog began suffering from anal gland problems that would not go away after vet expressions (three so far) and his second round of antibiotics (for a total bill of over $100 a pop).
Dr. Harrington said to us at his last expression, following a bloody bout of loose stool, “You need to neuter him. That will help with the anal glands.”
To my credit, I pushed back a little, asking about the impact that would have on his ability to absorb vaccines since he would no longer have testicles and hormones to keep his immunity strong.
The vet said that’s not a problem after three years. He also brought up the likelihood of prostate cancer. I didn’t have the heart to argue with him anymore.
We couldn’t keep bringing him to the vet every week to express his glands. He won’t be able to do it on his own anymore.
Bungee has never had normal poops. Ever since we got him as a three-month-old puppy, he’s had loose stools, save for one or two times. We did everything to beef up his gut, including feeding him pumpkin, switching from a name-brand dog food to a more organic one with less fillers, lowering his intake of carbs, adding more fruit and veg…even walking him everyday, despite my aching joints, once the ice and snow melted.
Nothing worked.
I’d watch him poop, oftentimes in three or four different piles throughout the park before scooting, waiting for the tell-tale drip of that golden spray (similar to skunks). But barely a drip, and eventually, snapping at his rear and crying in the night.
I took to warm compresses, which he enjoyed.
But I could not prevent the mighty force of this world and its impenetrable laws. I could not stop the neutering.
I gave up seeing my son, because of my stance. No longer could me and Bungee join my husband on his gigs and stay with his friends and their three fixed dogs. What if they became aggressive and attacked Bungee?
I gave up a lot for this dog that was never mine…that was foisted on me, because I couldn’t bear to let my son down.
Forget the feel-good, slightly lecture-y social media posts about dog rescues, no one would help me, there was always a good reason for them to turn me down. I raised this dog on my own. I was essentially stuck at home, forced to watch other people go on trips.
I read up on neutering, fully planning to do it when we moved into our new home build in Idaho two years ago. But I knew this dog, even at five months, when he had his first surgery to remove 17 quills. I knew he would not take it well, least of all a cone.
I knew the after-care would be impossible alone. I can no longer lift heavy objects anymore. I’ve tried. The best I can do is a 25-pound bag of flour, or my entire body goes into spasms. I’d watch old ladies in their wheelchairs leading their well-behaved little dogs around the neighborhood and marvel. I tried to train mine over and over again, but failed every time.
I did everything I could — until I couldn’t fight the world anymore.
Everything I feared about neutering happened, of course. But that and 10 cents will get you nothing.
Everything I worried about happened the day we picked up Bungee from the vet yesterday, with his gigantic cone. Most dogs disoriented from the anesthesia, according to Google, stop whining after 30 minutes of going home. Not mine.
He whined in that piercing pitch constantly, well into the night, which set my husband off. Ed has sensitive hearing as a musician and probably on the spectrum. He will become enraged beyond reason at the slightest annoying sound, like Bungee barking at the flashing lights from my sun catchers in the car on a sunny day.
When my husband started stressing out about the whining, then the panic attack kicked in. I cannot describe what it’s like.
I suffer from severe panic attacks. It looks like I’m fine, but there’s a war inside. I have many sleep disorders I keep at bay, barely. It only takes a small disturbance to set it off.
Because I’m also empathic, anything out of the ordinary can set it off. Even nothing at all. I can pick up on disturbances from strangers passing on the street all the way over to Russia.
It’s not my fault. It’s something I was born with. It’s why I, too, exhibited symptoms of autism, or social phobias, at an early age. I can’t deal with people coming at me, in twos and threes and especially clucking old grandma groups…the smells, the sights, the hovering smothering blackness of it all makes me want to go screaming into the night.
We hadn’t slept well the night before Bungee’s surgery, so, you can imagine the turmoil that contributed to.
I didn’t think we could come up with a solution that allowed us to keep an eye on our dog and sleep soundly. He couldn’t even make it into his safe haven, his crate…the cone was too big. He couldn’t get on our bed but once or twice (sorry, no jumping), and even then, he couldn’t calm down and wouldn’t allow himself a moment to sit or lay down except two separate times on my lap for about five-10 minutes before whining, standing, shaking, bleeding again.
Oh yeah, his scrotum was swollen with blood and fluid, which is normal for older dogs. The vet checked him twice and said it was okay and would go away in three-five days once the body realizes the testicles are gone. I tried to apply a cold compress on it about two times, leaving blood on the washcloth.
This dog was in misery, and so was I. He’s kind of autistic too; he needs everything and everyone in their place, or he spirals. Nothing was where it should be, least of all him.
We tried to put him in our bathroom for the night, but could still hear him whining loudly. Ed was about to lose his mind, and I could feel myself sinking into a dark place, hating everyone…wondering why nobody ever warns you about these things and acts like neutering a dog is no big deal…why these same people don’t have a solution and leave you holding the bag, while they go home scott-free.
I even looked up animal hospitals who can keep dogs for 14 days until they’re fully healed. LOL. No such animal.
This is the theme of my life. Over-researching, asking too many questions, trying to get it all right, resisting, and then giving in, blindly trusting “the experts,” only to have them leave out a few crucial details and really, not give a rat’s ass if you have to deal with it yourself.
It’s your problem, not theirs.
I’ve been through this with my own surgeries. Will this fifth hemorrhoid removal really stop the prolapse? Oh yeah, sure, just eat more fiber, blah blah…only to be back under the knife. The last surgeon blithely remarked that I won’t have much sphincter strength left if she takes out one more hemorrhoid.
You know what that means: shitting my pants every time I eat or drink, while everywhere around me are “No restroom” signs.
As my dog continued to stand and bleed and whine, I frantically thought of another room to put him in when logic came to the rescue and said: “You can’t check if your dog rips his cone off if you’re sleeping.”
I could put him farther back in the house, in the mud room. He can bleed on the floor. Last resort, the carpeted guest bedroom, farther away. I’ll figure out how to get on my arthritic knees and hand-wash all the bloody spots out. I’ll figure it out…I have no choice, Bungee needs me.
If all else fails, my dying thought was to give up sleep for 14 days.
I spent some time petting, holding, and talking to Bungee before leading him to the mudroom. I set up his bed and towels, removed a broom and stool, turned on a nearby closet light, and closed the doors.
I didn’t have to put him in the guest room, after all.
We turned on our sound machine, and I tried to get my heart to stop racing. Soon, I dreamed of picking up people’s strewn clothes on the floor, glimpsed one or two of them waving goodbye outside.
When I woke up, it was 10 a.m. I asked my husband how Bungee did. He said much better. Bungee stopped whining and looked like he slept. Even better, his scrotum shrank quite a bit.
His appetite was never affected. No diarrhea, no vomiting.
He’s able to pee in our backyard, but so far, no poop. He can’t run, jump, play, or go for walks, not even to poo, at least for one more day.
But the cone is still on.
Thirteen more days of this, until his stitches heal.
What’s done is done. Right now, I’m in survival mode — a familiar feeling I’ve come to expect and dread.
Sorry if this reads a bit rambling. I’m still in the middle of a prolonged, if a bit subdued, working panic attack, trying to ignore the pain in my lower right groin, and start eating cleaner (when all I want is whiskey and cake) after falling off the wagon so many times.
I have to check on Bungee now, see if he can’t go poo in our backyard. He’s on painkillers for a week. Getting him to eat those has been a barrel of laughs…