Weebsclaw: The conclusion

When last we left our snickety girl, she was hobbled (well, not really --- that I would have noticed) by an ingrown dewclaw.

We got her to the vet accompanied by the oh-so-not-soothing soundtrack of her most passionate diva-wailing during the car ride. I don't know about your cats, but mine have a predisposition to yowl as though you're about to throw them down a well during the entire car ride, only to succumb to utter muteness once they cross the threshold of the veterinary office. As we waited for our room to open up, you'd have thought we came in alone. And yes, for the record, both the spouse and I go to vet appointments if possible. Just part of the beauty that makes us, us.

We got lucky and drew Dr. Holland for the day's event. I have yet to get overly excited or gushy about most of the vets I've encountered since moving here eight years ago, but in this case I think we got exactly the right guy. Friendly, polite, and quick with a hemostat, Dr. Holland was able to pop out the chunk of claw with one good tug.

It was a pretty decent-sized piece, which made me even happier that I didn't do it myself. I considered taking a picture for the blog, but then I'd have to explain to the doctor and the tech why I was taking the picture and I didn't want the "weirdo" moniker on my chart so soon after finding someone who was so nice to Weebs, so I opted out. I will say it was substantial enough that the doctor joked that we might be able to wear it on a chain around our neck, should we be inclined.

Once safely at home, Weebs decided that since she was feeling better, it was time to play up her injury for all it was worth. She begged for everything. Seriously. I think in another life she may have been one of those cats who lives behind restaurants eating out of dumpsters, because it's the rare piece of food that holds no interest for her. So, after good doses of Stella & Chewy's, freeze-dried salmon, crunchy treats and a shot at a piece of macaroni and cheese (where she finally decided to act cat-like and turn her nose up at something), she was sated. 

 

Worst.cat.mom.ever.

Who, you may ask, is deserving of such a lofty title? Why, that'd be me.

And how might I have earned such a unique place in my own blog? Well, for starters, I'm supposed to be a fairly observant pet owner (or she-servant, as I think the pets refer to me behind my back). Theoretically I keep a reasonable eye on them for signs of illness or distress, and to this day I'm still delusional enough to believe that I do a pretty good job of it.

So how did I miss seeing that Weeble's dewclaw had grown into her foot until this weekend? 

Mom done me wrong!

 
There she was, dozing on the bed, just like she pretty much always does in the mornings, what with her twelfth birthday just a few months away. I went in to rub her sleepy head and as she stretched out her leg  realized I was seeing an awfully large swath of claw on her left leg. It took another fifteen seconds or so to realize that the reason I was seeing so much was because her nail was completely exposed as it rounded back over her pad and disappeared into her skin.

Seeing her foot, I felt two inches tall.

How long did it take for this to happen? Why hadn't she complained more, or done more limping? Geez, try to stay in bed for ten minutes past 5 a.m. and she'll act like the house is on fire, but have a claw work its way back into her body and not a peep.

We tried to clip it on Saturday, in an effort to relieve the pressure of it all being attached, but the Weebs is a hideous patient and the claw is really pressed against her leg, so I only got about halfway through. On Sunday, we gave it another go. This time I was able to clip the claw itself, but when it came time to try and pull out the part that is embedded I chickened out, for lack of decent enough tools and hearing the conviction of her yowls as I put any real pressure on her foot. I decided I'd rather pay someone else than to further be the first-hand inflicter of pain --- someone who might actually know what they are doing and has access to drugs should they decide it's not good marketing if the folks in the waiting room think they've decided to reduce the cost of surgery by not using anesthesia.


She heads to the vet Tuesday afternoon, which will be a highly traumatic event for her (and apparently for me as well). Thus far, just for trying to clip the nail she has refused to sleep in her normal spot for the past two nights, such is her delicate little psyche.

By the time she gets home from the vet, she'll probably move into Darby's bedroom with him.

Wordless Wednesday /National Puppy Day!

It's National Puppy Day! Show us your puppies!

 

Presenting puppy Darby!

The Doodle and the mystery bones

I’ve never thought much the pool guy bringing Darby a treat every week when he arrives to perform the weekly maintenance on our cement pond. I’m guessing there are several houses on his route where he encounters dogs, so keeping treats in his pocket just makes sense. Darby adores Mr. Cantu with an unreserved abandon, going into complete “OMG OMG OMG!!!!! He’s Baaaacccccckkkkkk!! Hurry so we don’t miss him!!” meltdown when the truck pulls up on Fridays, flipping donuts on the carpet until his dad lets him out into the backyard to fawn all over his friend (and collect his weekly treat allowance). If there was ever a non-family member whom I’d consider to look after the Doodle, it would be Mr. Cantu. The two of them are quite besotted with each other, which is a pretty big deal for a dog who is easily stressed by strangers.

Lately, though, it appears that Mr. Cantu may have a rival for Darby’s affections. A couple of weeks ago I noticed the occasional Milk-Bone in the house. Knowing this is something we never purchase, I thought perhaps the neighbors (whom Darby has yet to love the way he loves Mr. Cantu) were trying to feed their way into his heart. I typically only notice the treats as I walk in the door at night and they tend to leave my train of thought as quickly as they leave my sight-line.

Eventually I got around to asking my husband about the mysterious Milk-Bones and their sudden, random appearance in our home.

“Where are these Milk-Bones coming from?”

“The mail carrier. She leaves them in the mailbox with our mail a couple of times a week.”  

“The mail carrier? Why is the mail-lady leaving dog treats in our mailbox?”

“I have no idea,” he replied. “Maybe she likes seeing Darby at the window. She can definitely hear him.”

See, I’d get it if we had one of the mailboxes that’s hanging right outside the door, where the mail carrier would come up close and personal-like to Darby every day, what with him stationing himself at the window every afternoon, just waiting for her truck to roll by so he can flip out (as is his wont to do). But you can literally park three cars end-to-end in our driveway before you get to where the mailbox is located. There’s no tactical advantage to leaving love treats for a pup who will never know you brought them.

Which leaves only one explanation: She likes him. Somehow the combination of floppiness, bark-howl and dedication to mail patrol makes Darby someone who appeals to her sensibilities, and in turn she’s appealed to the one thing that truly matters in his world: his stomach.

Newly aware that the Doodle has a new fan, we did the only thing that seemed right. We made some brownies and left a couple for her. In the mailbox, of course.

Paws for Japan

Bloggers throughout the Internet are asking people to help support animal rescue efforts in Japan in the wake of the devastation from the earthquake and tsunami.

Please take a moment to check out some of the terrific blogs associated with this cause and consider a donation to  World Vets, who have people on the ground in Japan to help provide relief.