Posts Tagged ‘furkid’

A year later, Sasha was surprisingly still with us. Her tumour had grown to twice its size, slowing her movements down somewhat.

We decided to get a second, professional opinion. From the moment we stepped through the front door, we had a really good vibe we didn’t feel with the first vet. This vet told us that we could do a simple blood test first, ensuring that her heart could withstand the surgery (something that the first vet NEVER told us – but that was another rant). With that in mind, we booked our baby girl for surgery, waiting impatiently by the phone for every little updates.

One thing I have to say is that our fur kid was a real trooper. Groggy as she was from the anaesthetic, she made it through the surgery, her spirit was only slightly dampened by the fact that we had to put a cone around her head to prevent her from licking, or worse, shred open the stitches with her teeth. For a while, we nicknamed her ‘Little Miss Cone Head’.

'Mummy, get this thing off me!'

But once the stitches had been taken out, and the memory of the surgery was well behind her, the girl thought she was an equivalent to a ‘Supergirl’, the only thing missing was her red cape. She still strived to launch off the edge of the couch (to both my and my husband’s mortification), still do laps around the house as soon as we let her in. And even though her hearing has gone, it didn’t deter me from turning into a Mad Mother, screaming at her to stop running and save her energy.

I realised I’ve digressed considerably from my main point. With our overseas trip looming, we had been racking our brains as to what arrangement we would put in place for someone to look after Sasha for three-and-a-half weeks. We had a friend who lived just around the corner from us who was willing to come over each day and feed her. But still, we worry about her for several reasons. For one, we are leaving her during what would arguably be one of the hottest period in summer. Two, we have put PVC blinds to cover our whole patio, and the hot air would be trapped inside the patio, where my baby is. Three, well… the baby, in dog years, is actually 107 years old! More and more, she fills her present days strolling around the patio, trying to get our attention by sniffing so loudly near the door, and sleeping inside her dog house. And the last thing we want, if we could avoid it, is coming home to a dead dog 😦

So we had to think of an alternative. Last weekend, we brought her to my husband’s brother’s house and tested how she behaved with his brother’s dog. The last time Sasha and my husband’s brother’s dog laid eyes on each other, many moons ago (I’m talking about… 10 or so years), they growled and showed their fangs; the other dog nipped Sasha, so unexpectedly it scared the shit out of Sasha. All this, coming from a dog whom had been Sasha’s partner-in-crime for three years whilst Sasha was living at my husband’s brother’s house.

With Sasha’s hearing completely gone, and her strength almost non-existent, she couldn’t be bothered to retaliate. As the other dog growled and nipped her, Sasha strolled past without a care in the world; a factor, I think, that contributed greatly to the fact that the other dog gave up after about 30 minutes. And you know how, for Mothers out there, when you feel immense pride when your child does something ordinary? When s/he gets teased/provoked and they stand their ground without getting themselves into trouble? Well, I felt like that when Sasha casually strode past the other dog; a feeling of overwhelming pride of my cutest, most wonderful (not-so) little girl, who has learnt all the life’s lessons and realise that fighting back isn’t always the best course of action.

All's well in the world 🙂

Read Full Post »

No, this is not a gushing post about my husband, despite me loving him so dearly. This time, my utmost affection is being solely directed to the other, most important creature in my life; my beautiful 15-year-old Jack Russell, Sasha.

Our poser Fur-Baby

To say she’s ‘mine’ was also not entirely correct (though my husband would beg to differ for the reason I’m about to disclose). He was the one who spotted and fell in love with her first, when he was working  in a mining town in another state, a few years before he met me. But from the moment I came into the picture, and caught her mid-air as she bounded and leapt to me, I was completely smitten with (back then) the precocious, cutest three-year-old puppy.

From that first, memorable meeting, a special ‘Mother-daughter’ bond was formed. I remember those days I didn’t have to go to University to attend lectures or meet up somewhere for group assignments; I would let my baby inside the house, and let her curl beside me whilst I read my textbooks, did my homework, or watched daytime soaps. Over time, she had extended this tradition by sitting on my lap, pressing the length of her little body either in-between my stretched-out legs or moulding the curve of her body perfectly to that my folded leg(s), her sigh indicating that all was well in her world.

It was a habit she carried on in the frequent occasions we let her sleep with us on our queen-, and later on king-sized bed. You’d think that she’d appreciate the space, happy to choose a corner spot, and sprawl herself silly? Apparently not! To our furkid, the most ideal sleeping arrangement was to press her back right up against one of our legs. There were many times that she had ‘kicked’ me inadvertently with her paws to stretch. And there were equally many times that both my husband and I ‘retaliated’ and bumped her purposely with our legs, or pushed her to where there was an abundant of space (mind you to no avail – the cheeky girl would always shuffle back to press herself against one of us).

Just like any other baby, the furkid grew up. Whereas in her prime, she loved to dig her way out of the backyard fence, happy to galavant and see the world far beyond what she witnessed when we took her on walks, as the years went by, she gradually lost interest in the outside world (thank goodness). Whereas before, she could last a whole day chasing after the much-worn out, much-loved tennis ball, the ageing doggie gradually lost the strength to run up and jump up on the bed. The times of playfully trying to devour other furkid’s head – something that at first horrified me – is now deemed as too much of an effort.

Slowly but surely, her hearing disappeared, and the opaque that affected her right eye grew larger. Shortly after her 13th birthday last year, she developed some kind of a breast tumour, which expanded the size of one of her nipples to… well, let’s just say unnaturally enormous. We went to one vet, who told us that given her age, putting her through surgery might mean she might never ever wake up again, and perhaps it would be best if we just make the rest of her short life as comfortably as we possibly could.

Read Full Post »