Entry # 353
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July 18, 2014
Hello Everyone, it’s me, Wimsey, the clubfooted wonder,
coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where I have been leading a
medically exciting life. For those of
you not following the highly fascinating Saga of My Toe, I had a benign growth
on one of my rear toes that periodically grew, bled, became infected, etc.
causing my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth no end of anxiety and vet
visits. The hope was to treat it via
drugs, compresses and ointments to avoid surgery. This was fine with me since I
became quite fond of the thing as it enabled me to extort belly rubs in return
for not licking it. Indeed, whenever I
felt in need of a belly rub, all I had to do was to park myself conspicuously
(although given my size, the conspicuousness probably goes without saying) in
front of one of my humans, lick it and wait for the “Wimsey stop licking your
toe” command and then roll over and wait for my reward.
Anyway, whilst Elizabeth was away disporting herself
shamelessly in Tuscany, the toe thing decided to undergo a major and bloody
growth spurt. This led to my visit last Thursday to the orthopedic surgeon at
Blue Pearl who usually sees me for phantom ailments that mysteriously vanish
when he examines me. But there are no flies growing on him and he didn’t get to
be a specialist orthopedic surgeon for nothing, so the minute he clapped eyes
on me he helpfully observed “Aha, I see that this time there really is
something the matter with Wimsey.” Fortunately, the thing was just confined to
the top layer of skin so the next morning I was unceremoniously hauled back
down to the hospital for its surgical excision.
But not before Elizabeth gave the vet her speech about how bloodhounds,
despite their robust appearance, have metabolisms that are akin to the delicate
ones of greyhounds and that we are actually quite easy to kill with a surfeit
of anesthesia. She also expounded upon
how I am a particularly poor metabolizer of drugs that are cleared through the
liver and that a slow titration of anesthesia drugs is crucial. I am sure that she was dying to give him a
lecture on the biochemistry of the cytochromes, but somehow she forbore. Elizabeth
is very popular among veterinarians because they always appreciate her helpful
suggestions that they try not to kill me.
But fortunately, I am not disposed of so easily, and before
I knew it I woke up with a giant bandage covering half my leg, which, to me
seemed a tad excessive. The surgery went very well and the vet commented how the
skin on my toe fell right back in place with no tension, so the healing should
be quick. My humans were very happy to
hear that all my excess skin for once served a purpose other than mulching the
carpet, depositing sharp pieces of kibble under the bedclothes, secreting
unwanted medication, serving as a reservoir for drool and growing copious crops
of yeast.
And as usual, there was a plan afoot (every pun intended) to
cut my nails whilst I was too incapacitated to resist. And as with all other
such plots, someone forgot (probably because they were too absorbed in the slow
titration of the anesthesia). So the
first thing my humans noticed was that 1) I was alive and the second thing they
noticed was 2) I was still in possession of my magnificent talons. I have
always believed that my nails are under the protection of The Universe since
even the most foolproof plans to cut them resulted in failure. Nails 10, Humans
0. If there were a World Cup of nails, mine would be the champions.
But on the subject of nails, I now have a clubfoot (or hoof,
depending on which human you ask) instead of my usual taloned appendage, which
makes having a scratch something of a challenge. The first time I tried, I kind
of looked at the thing with that “what the hell is this?” look so well known to
my humans. I also find that climbing up on beds and furniture and such with a
slippery bandage rather than with grippy claws is a bit difficult but this is
more than made up for by the alacrity with which my humans jump to my assistance.
I do regret, though, that it is not on my front foot because it would make an
excellent thwacking enhancement. Bigger, better, and larger bruises!
Anyway, my surgery was scheduled early in the morning last
Friday so I could go home by early evening the same day. After having Pet
Chauffeur take me home, the plan was for me to sleep off the rigors of the day
and for the ladies to drink Italian cocktails in the backyard and to order in a
vast amount of caloric take out food to celebrate my successful toe surgery.
However, like most of the plans that my humans make that involve me, it did not
work out. But first, they had to figure
out how to get the liquid buprenorphine pain killer down my gullet. In the end,
Elizabeth mixed it with organic vanilla yogurt and spoon-fed it to me the way
she does when I demand to share her pre-walk snack yogurt. The stuff didn’t
taste great, but as I have said many times, what I am being fed is less
important than the fact that I am being served it by my humans. (The next day,
Maria decided to try squirting the stuff down my throat and to say that this
was not happening was an understatement).
So you can see that my humans had every expectation that
after a busy day under the knife and then yogurted with pain meds, I would
drift off peacefully to sleep while they ate and drank unimpeded. But as usual, they underestimated The Power of
the Hound. (Although I will say that in my drugged stupor I might actually have
lain down on the kuranda bed; not to worry, it hasn’t happened again since I’ve
been off the drugs). So imagine their surprise when the cocktails and nuts appeared
and so did I! I assumed my usual position with my dripping muzzle over
Elizabeth’s lap and demanded my share of the mixed nuts at cocktail time and food
during dinnertime. And lest you think it
hasn’t been tried, if Elizabeth moves her lap, I move my dripping muzzle. This
forces her to return home looking like she has had an unfortunate accident of
the lavatorial kind. I also demanded to
be fed pita bread dipped in humus. My humans weren’t sure that hummus was good
for me but acceded to my demands for it anyway under the theory that if I
survived the anesthesia I would survive the hummus. It is one of the many
benefits of being basically gigantic that it takes a lot of anything to do me
harm.
I was not very interested in walking the first four days
after surgery and my humans couldn’t decide whether it was the hoof or the painkillers.
However, when I charged out of the apartment baying loudly the day after my
last dose of painkillers, they had their answer. Maria is relieved that she
doesn’t have to pretend to eat the drugged yogurt anymore. I will get the stiches out on Monday and until
then I am enjoying all the sympathy the giant bandage elicits—at least from
people other than my humans. I managed
to get the bandage wet once this week (saran wrap and plastic bags being no
match for a Hound), and had the toe rebandaged at my regular vet’s. The Hoof II is just as big as Hoof I and I
really think a bandage that goes half way up my leg is a bit much for a small
incision on my toe--but then again I get a lot of sympathy.
Well if there was ever any doubt that I am a talented fellow,
I think that writing 1300 words about my toe should put those doubts to rest.
Of course you’ve just read 1300 words about my toe….
In non-toe related news: you’ve heard me relate many times
that my humans consider me to be pretty horrible—probably it’s all those “Wretched
animal!” and “I hate him!” texts that fly between them on a regular basis. And here
is one small example from yesterday as to why:
2pm: I seem to be very gassy. Oh well, I’ll just take a nap
so I don’t have to smell it.
4:45pm: Elizabeth seems desperate for a 15-minute catnap on
the couch.
4:46: I now have an urgent need to arise from my afternoon
nap and engage in a noisy and prolonged drink of water.
4:48: Why is Elizabeth lying on the couch under a fluffy
blanket? Is she OK? I’ll go check.
4:49: Poked Elizabeth then noticed that my muzzle was
dripping so wiped it on the fluffy blanket.
Waved my tail at her to indicate that I would like a scratch.
4:50: Elizabeth declined to provide scratch so I have to sit
down and have a noisy, grunting scratching session by myself.
5:00: Scratching
complete. Elizabeth still on the couch. Is she OK? I’ll check.
5:01: I am bored. Think I’ll lie down next to the couch and
chew my bully stick.
5:10: Bully sticks always make me thirsty. Time for a drink.
5:11 My muzzle is wet. Fortunately there is that fluffy
blanket that Elizabeth is under on the couch.
5:12 Elizabeth up. She seems annoyed about something. I
know, let’s go for a walk! Perhaps it will help the gas problem I’ve had the
entire afternoon.
5:13: Elizabeth getting ready for our walk. Think I’ll eat a bowl of kibble.
5:15: Apparently I can’t go for a walk after eating
kibble. Just because I’ve never been
walked after eating a bowl of kibble doesn’t mean that it can’t happen. So I’ll
just keep asking to go for a walk anyway. You never know, right?
6:14: Elizabeth getting ready for the walk again. Time to
demand my share of the pre-walk yogurt.
6:16: We’re out! Think I’ll sit in this nice field and watch
the dogs play in the dog run and that nice lady feed the squirrels. Was there something else I was supposed to
be doing? Hmmm. Can’t remember. Anyway, it couldn’t have been that important.
6:17: Elizabeth texting. Again.
My humans are so easily annoyed, it’s hardly even a challenge!
But they are now both working hard on getting my art book ready to be published
on Amazon, so when they are done dealing with me in the flesh (or more
accurately the fur), they have to deal with me in pictures. I am desperately eager for these books to be
published (they will come out in four volumes) since the more of me the
merrier. Or the more annoying. Your choice.
Until next time,
Wimsey BigFoot (and mouth)
PS: Did I mention I was undergoing mid-summer shedding?
