Two years ago I was vacationing at my family's summer house in the North Woods Wisconsin when my husband (soon to be "ex") called. "Are you sitting down?" He always said that when it was something really big, for some reason.
I sat and he told me that our dog,
Contessa, was sick and "
Lis, they don't know what's wrong with her." I waited one more day up North for the news of our dog's condition to change to something good. You know, like she ate something bad but she was fine.
Nothing changed and seeing the worry on my face made my dad tell me to pack so he could bring me home. The five and a half hour trip never seemed longer. To make it worse, no dog to greet me when I walked into the house. Empty, quiet, lonely.
By the time I made it home Tessa had been in constant veterinary care for forty eight hours. My husband had to take her to a specialty hospital a forty five minute drive from our house because our regular vet and the hospitals close by didn't have anyone that could tell what, exactly, was going on with our dog. I drove up to see her right away and spoke to our regular vet on the way. "Go see her Lisa," she told me. "She's dying and she might not make it home." I was completely shocked to find a
lethargic dog with a swollen tummy and very little of the happy-girl-look she normally had in her eye. Her new doctor, a kidney specialist named Dr.
Thornhill, told me he had tapped her tummy to see why it had
swollen and found blood. They needed to open her up to let it out and find the source of the bleeding.
After surgery we had little more to go on. She still wasn't eating, her kidney function continued to drop and they found lesions in the stomach wall but no sign of what left them. Another day passed
before the Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever test came back positive and the hospital was able to start her on the proper antibiotics. My husband and I visited her daily, sometimes together and sometimes
separately. She was always happy to see us but too tired to show much enthusiasm. She swelled with water and grew bigger each day. She was admitted at ninety seven pounds and after eight days was one hundred and seventeen, but she hadn't eaten. Every part of her that could hold water was filled, her legs, her toes, her lips, her ears. Her neck hung with water weight so low that the feeding tube in her neck was being crushed by the overlapping skin. Temporary stitches were made behind her ears, like a hair clip, to hold the skin back and up behind her head. Her mouth was open constantly and her swollen tongue fell out of it from behind her swollen gums in a desperate attempt to cool her body and ease her nausea. After nine days my husband and I visited her together and Dr.
Thornhill greeted us for the first time with a long face. "We don't have many more options. If she doesn't eat she won't get better and the feeding tube isn't going to be able to give her everything she needs to help her body repair itself. She's taken on too much water so we're going to try to relieve her of some by giving her a diuretic. We'll know soon if she's going to pull through."
I cried the whole way home. My husband refused to give up on her and told me so. I think he was a little mad that I had begun to lose hope. I dug out my rosary and prayed to the God I was no longer sure existed but had prayed to in time of need before. I posted pleas on Craig's List for people who had more pull up in Heaven to please say a word for my dog. I emailed all my friends and asked them to do the same. I talked to the little girls next door and asked them to help with their precious prayers. I was desperate.
The next day I drove out to see her and the technicians told me that she was too weak to come to the visiting room, I would have to visit her at her bed. I brought with me a pillow from our couch and two t-shirts one that I had worn and one that my husband had worn. The three items smelled like us and I hoped it would help remind her that we were with her even when we weren't. The technicians were kind enough to let me hold my baby for over an hour while she slept. I talked to her almost the entire time.
"
Contessa, what are you doing in here? The sunflowers are filling with seeds and the squirrels are soon going to be raiding them without worry that you'll chase them away. A tick,
Contessa? A tiny tick did this to you? You're a
BULLMASTIFF! You are a strong defender of giant estates and you're going to let a tiny little tick take you down? Come on, now! Enough already, you have got to start showing this thing who you are. You are
Contessa Medici
Pookie Bear, Brindle
Bullmastiff extraordinaire. Get up and fight already!" I did not cry once with her. I laughed and sang her songs and told her everything that was going on at the house while she was gone. Finally the techs kicked me out.
The phone rang at 11:20 that night. My husband spoke and I waited to hear the news. "
Lis... that was Dr.
Thornhill." Well, duh... "He said he couldn't believe it but
Contessa is starting to look like she's getting a little better. She's lost some of the water weight and she ate something today." We hugged and cried.
A week later we brought our emaciated
Bullmastiff home. She was now only seventy two pounds and carried with her a box of
meds, another box of fluids to be administered subcutaneously three times a day, and a seventeen thousand dollar bill. (My knees went weak when I signed for it).
The
meds were unbelievable. Thirty six different pills to be given at five different intervals throughout the day to a dog that didn't even want to eat her food much less pills that were making her feel sick. We tried hamburger, baby food, peanut butter, tuna, salmon, ice cream, all of her former favorites were now making her turn her head away from us and gag. Some mornings she was too weak to climb the stairs outside to pee, the only good thing about being so thin was I could now carry her. Slowly, our dog began to eat again and gain her weight back. Slowly.
So a couple weeks ago when she started to show signs of lethargy again I began to worry. I thought maybe she was reacting to the changes in her pack. Her dad and I no longer sat on the couch together watching TV with her, we didn't even sleep in the same room. We didn't eat together and throw her scraps when we were done, we were all three rarely in the same room. I thought maybe that was effecting her. When I spoke to her dad about it he began to notice changes also so I took her in to the vet to be sure.
My gut was correct, her
blood work showed some weakness. Today I wait for the results but the vet feels she may have
Addison's disease. This is treatable with medication but I can't help but feel so sad for a dog that has been through so much already. I think, that her Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever actually brought my husband and I together while we struggled to keep a failing marriage whole. We bonded and stayed strong for her sake and I believe the ordeal kept us together another year. This time around, even our dog can't save us but she has managed to get us talking again. We are more easily able to discuss necessities and move toward beginning our new lives without being hurtful to each other.
She truly is a miraculous dog. The love of my life.
