Enter the Cone of Shame

No one likes getting surgery.  For most folks, it's uncomfortable, expensive, and requires days or weeks of convalescence and rehabilitation in order to get back to one's former self.  But for dogs, it has an added component to it.

It is quite the fashion disaster.

It's a week before Thanksgiving and since the whole family has the week off from work and school, we figured now would be a good time to take the pups in for a myriad of surgeries we had planned.  It's not like I am a fan of surgery, it's just that I wanted to have them go under anesthesia once and only once, so let's get the whole combo platter now.  We had always planned to have them spayed and neutered, but Bodie was also sporting an umbilical hernia that we opted to fix now rather than when he was younger (again, for the one-anesthesia reason).  Since they were both having a belly-slice in the process, we also decided to do a preventative measure called a gastropexy, an incision that adheres the stomach to the abdominal wall which helps prevent stomach torsion in the case of bloat (another big-dog malady).  Not a great way for a puppy to spend the day but let's get it out of the way and move on, shall we?

The pups love going to the vet's office, as the girls there make a such a great fuss over them they feel like royalty.  Never before have I seen a dog who bounds out of the truck and runs up to the vet's office door, scratching at the glass in order to gain entrance.  If only these two had any idea what was in store for them on this particular visit, they might not be so eager.  But with typical puppy frenzy they danced and leapt all over Alyssa at the front desk and bounced merrily to the back room where we waved goodbye and prepared to see them again at dinner time.

This was a very long day. I paced the floor and worried the entire time, waiting for the phone to ring and for them to tell me all was well.  The vet assured me that the procedures were all pretty routine but is there really such a thing?  Finally by late afternoon we got the call that everything had gone great and the pups were awake and ready to come home.  The only thing on life support at this point was my checkbook. 

When we go to the office we were expecting to see two groggily-staggering, wide-eyed puppies wobble out to greet us, but instead they high-stepped it to the front waiting area and broke into a run when they saw us.  I figured they were probably not supposed to do that post-surgery, but I was so thankful nonetheless.  But as with most dogs who have had surgery or other procedures, they were not only sporting a pink shaved belly that stood out like a beacon against their shiny black coats, but also the most dreaded of dog accessories that man has ever invented.

The Cone of Shame.

Oh sure, the gals at the vet's office dressed up the cone with a jaunty ribbon of cute patterned fleece, but they still looked a cheerleader that had been sucked down inside her megaphone.  The pups, still working to rid themselves of the last of the anesthesia, could not quite figure out where the heck their peripheral vision had gone to.  Had the vet removed that, too?  They could hear each other but not quite see them, so they swung their heads from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of their sibling and/or us.  It looked like a canine version of Marco Polo.  I asked how long they would have to wear the cones and was told "oh, about ten days to two weeks."  Riiiight!  Let's see how long that lasts!!  Apparently the cone manufacturer underestimated the fact that puppies, not unlike humans, really do not like looking like dorks.

We got them home and they immediately made their way to the family room where their favorite blanket was already laid out for them.  I noticed right off that walking with a cone on your head was a little like knitting while wearing boxing gloves: it's generally do-able, but comical in the process.  Bodie headed into the room first, cutting the corner a bit tightly and catching the edge of the cone on the couch, bringing him to a sudden halt and knocking him off his feet.  He looked in vain for the culprit who would dare do such a thing to him.  I laughed a little at his plight just as Leila, upon hearing my voice, rushes over to me and plows the cone edge into my shins.  Ouch!  Not laughing now, I tell you!  I turn to take care of her and Bodie turns to me as well, ramming his cone into the back of my knees causing me to crumple like a house of cards in a high wind.  By now my kids are in hysterics and I'm crawling to the freezer for ice packs.  This was one side effect that was not mentioned on the after-care form!  I suppose I am being paid back for giggling at their cheerleader wardrobe.  It is, in a sense, their way of saying "nuts to you!" (especially from Bodie!)

The rest of the night was a fruitless effort to get them to just lie on the blanket and chill so they didn't bust a seam.  My daughter attempted to lie with them which worked for about two minutes until one dog decided to sit bolt upright for no apparent reason and try to run to God-knows-where, usually to be stopped by the cone edge catching on something and spinning them around again.  What was a long day was shaping up to be a very long night.  I spent the night lying on couch cushions on the floor with them, trying in vain to get them to sleep.  The tranquilizers the vet gave me to give them did nothing at all (yes, I was tempted to take one myself so at least ONE of us could sleep!) and by the next day the pups were back to their crazy couch-jumping, puppy-wrestling selves: all the things the vet told me to have them avoid for two weeks.

My only saving grace, my only partner in crime to help keep them on the down-low was the same partner that had viciously attacked me on Day One: the dreaded Cone of Shame.  I would take it off the pups occasionally so they could eat, and that's when the silliness would commence.  They didn't seem to have a need to lick at their incisions so much as they just wanted to run.  But the minute that cone was shoved back on their heads and that jaunty fleece ribbon tied, all manner of self-respect went out the window and they embarrassingly moped to the blanket to plop down and glare at me.  It was like some kind of dignity-sucking contraption that even a four-month old puppy knows is worse than wearing white after Labor Day.  If they knew I was posting photos of them in it on the internet, they might never recover from the humiliation.

It has been a month and a half since their surgeries.  Their incisions have healed nicely, their hair has grown back and they are back to their crazy active puppy selves. Only now they weigh in at 50 pounds and when they come running at me and fly through the air to greet me, that cone-in-the-shin pain is the least of my worries!!  Sometimes I feel like climbing up into the attic and retrieving the cones just so I can get a moment of peace from these two!

But just like those paisley pants with the rainbow-striped shirt you wore in high school, some fashions are better left to quietly fade away.  I'm sure Bodie and Leila would agree.

Happy Holidays!

Happy Holidays!

from Bodie and Leila

and The Berner Life family

rip up presents and destroy tree in 3...2...1...

Operation Suds-A-Pup...The Sequel

So, the first time we gave the pups a bath, it was in the kitchen sink and took quite a bit of arm strength to hold them in.  The next time was in the sink again, and this time they were on to our evil ploy and fought back with all the wet wiggly maneuvering that only a wily puppy could manage.  This time it was obvious that there was no way these pups were going back into the sink.  The weather outside was not really conducive to trying the old turn-the-hose-on-them trick, so that really left only one alternative that I could think of: the bathtub.

Now, no dog worth their salt is going to stand happily and get doused with water in the bathtub, especially after they have made their opinion known about what they thought of the sink.  Furthermore, the bathtub is upstairs, and we have already established that mastering the climbing of stairs is a work in progress even when dry.  I figured that if they got up there and met the fate of being saturated and scrubbed and toweled, much to their dismay, maybe it would keep them from wanting to go up there anymore.  Hmmm, maybe I can turn this mission into a double bonus!  Clean dogs that stay downstairs!!!  This could be great!!!

Or not.

The kids and I made a big happy fuss about all the fun the dogs would encounter of they came upstairs with us, and they gladly obliged by bounding up the stairs (tripping only a few times) and happily bouncing into my bedroom.  They came into the bathroom and sniffed around.  I looked from the pups to the deep tub and realized I might have a bit of a logistical problem here.  If the pups decided they were not thrilled with the bath (hard to imagine, I know) and migrated to the back of the tub, I would not be able to reach them without climbing in.  Even if I did climb in, you know they would take advantage of my change in tactics to bob and weave their way to the front, over the edge and run dripping throughout the upper level of my house.  I was going to need some muscle on either side of the dog in the tub in order to pull this off.

Kids, get your swim suits on!  Mom has a job for you!

I for one am not a proponent of child labor in any form, but for as many times as I have slogged across the wet grass in the morning in my slippers and pajamas picking up steaming piles of dog doo while the kids watched me from the window (thanking their lucky stars it wasn't them, no doubt) I figured this time they can take one for the team.  They donned their suits, climbed in, got cups and dog shampoo at the ready, and happily called to the pups.  Smelling a trap, both dogs immediately turned tail and ran to the bedroom door, that luckily I had remembered to close.  I managed to herd them back towards the bathroom, where Bodie made the mistake of cautiously sneaking a peek over the bathtub edge to see what the kids were up to.  I came up behind him and scooped him up (no small task, believe me) and eased him over the granite ledge into the tub.  He popped back up like a jack-in-the-box, putting his front feet on the ledge and eyeballing his escape.  I barked to the kids to make their move, as time was fleeting.  They started pouring water on his back and working the shampoo through, making him slippery and even tougher to hold on to.  Finally Bodie just resigned himself to the fact that if he stood there and cooperated, the whole issue would be over much quicker, which it was.  In just a few more minutes he was rinsed off and "squeeged" by my seven-year-old slicking his hands along Bodie's back and tail, sending wet gobs of black hair flying all over the tub and walls.  Disgusting, but the least of my worries at the moment.  With great effort, I lifted Bodie out of the tub and tried to get a towel around him before he ran off but alas, was too slow.  He darted across the bathroom and danced all over my bedroom carpeting, leaving wet paw-prints trailing behind him which reminded me of the dance-step mats of yesteryear.  I finally body-slammed him to the floor and wrapped him in a beach towel, trying to wring out what little water was still on the dog and not in my carpet.  He was not thrilled, but that made two of us.

Make that three of us.

All this time, Leila had been watching this event play out like a Hitchcock movie.  When I finished with Bodie and turned to call Leila, her look said it all:  "Oh, HELL no!!!"  Her eyes wide, she backed away from me just far enough to get off the marble bathroom floor and onto the bedroom carpet where she promptly peed.  Lovely!  If she wasn't worthy of a bath before this, she definitely is NOW!!  She began running left and right with moves that would make an NFL quarterback envious, and after a merry chase I made my move, managing  to corner her and pick her up and plop her into the tub in one giant swooshing arc.  It's amazing how fast and flexible I can become when a.) I'm irritated by now and b.) I have a puddle of pee to clean up before it soaks into my carpet pad.

Now, you will notice that there are no photos of Leila in the tub with the kids. that is because unlike Bodie, she was not going to go down without a fight.  By "fight" I mean she was auditioning for the bucking bronco position at the Dog Wash Rodeo.  Flailing left and right, she managed to get both front feet on the granite ledge of the tub and one back foot before I could grab her and put her in a bear-hug so the kids could soap her up with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew.  Meanwhile, Bodie is jumping about and hollering as usual,  completely pissed that he is once again separated from his sister and yet hysterically pleased that it is her and not him again.  Leila manages to get one foot down the front of my shirt and into my bra, which was pretty much the game-ending move right there.  She is still slightly soapy but it's obvious that statute of limitations has officially expired, and I pull her out and extricate her from my sopping shirt and towel her off.  She darts away to join her brother who is fully engulfed into his "silly five minutes" that only wet dogs can enjoy.

I look back to my kids.  My daughter has scratches on her legs from Leila's madcap water ballet and my son looks like a Yeti, covered to the neck with black fur.  The ring around the bathtub could rival that of Saturn.  Troopers that they are, the kids clean out the tub while they are in it, then gingerly step out of there and directly into the shower where now it's their turn to wash away the dog grime.

I don't know how long it will be before I wash the dogs again, but it's obvious it won't be in my bathtub again!  I'm quickly running out of options.  The ridiculous amount of money the dog groomer charges to wash dogs is starting to look pretty damn cheap right about now.

I open the bedroom door and the dogs plummet down the stairs and run happily around the living room, chasing each other in celebration of their new found freedom.  I look back to the bathtub, where the descending water level had slowed thanks to a wad of dog hair blocking the drain, and no less than four beach towels lie in a soggy heap next to hair-covered swim suits.  I toss my Leila-soaked tee shirt on the pile and just chalk it up to another day in the life of two Bernese Mountain Dogs that occasionally need soap and water maintenance.  What other adventures could they have lying in wait for me in the future?

Forget I said that.

Stay tuned.....

Road Trip, Berner Style!

My dogs seem to think that they are the only dogs on the planet.  Their world up until now has consisted of a house that contains us and a couple of scrawny cats and that's it.  When we pass another dog on our walks, they perk up and stare dumbfounded, like they are viewing an alien spaceship landing.  When we walk past a fence that has a dog barking on the other side, their heads whip around and they search in vain for the phantom demon dog that is obviously out to get them.  Their ears go back and they quicken their pace in fear, with Bodie continuing  to frantically look over his shoulder like the soon-to-be victim in a Hitchcock movie.  I realize that they need some social interaction of the canine variety.  Now that they finally have all their puppy shots they are free to fully realize the  universe outside the laundry-room borders.

I figured that the local dog park might be a bit too much for these babes-in-the-woods, with the large and boisterous dogs that frequent there.  They somehow resemble convicts in the prison exercise yard, sidling up to newcomers with a sniff and a growl that says "Whaddaya in for?"  We may have to work up to that.  But they need to go somewhere where there are new dogs that are under control, and new people to make a fuss over them.

Time for a field trip to PetsMart!

The kids and I figured that would be a great place to start.  Pet-friendly, with dogs on leashes and lots to look at and new things to investigate.  Our local store here in town is usually not crowded and pretty laid-back.  I needed more dog food anyway, so it was the perfect plan.  What could go wrong?

Note to self: never say "what could possibly go wrong."

The kids and I loaded up the pups into the SUV (no small task, since the pups don't really have their sea legs yet) and off to the store we went. It was a Sunday afternoon and I figured there really wouldn't be too much going on there.  We pull up to the parking lot and the first thing I notice is cars.  Lots and lots of cars.  Uh oh.  Maybe I underestimated the number of shoppers who also uttered "what could possibly go wrong" before they left the house destined for the pet store as well.  Just getting the dogs out of the back of the SUV was an adventure, as they spooked and bucked at every passing car in the parking lot.  We managed to half walk/half drag them to the store entrance where the "whoosh" of the opening automatic doors turns Bodie to stone, refusing to move another inch.  When that dog decides he is not going, it's like trying to pull a barge across the desert.  Luckily Leila dances past him which  gave him the courage to at least stand up, which is all the break we needed to drag him forward.



Forward momentum turned out to not be a problem seconds later, when the throng of people in line at the checkout stand, combined with the pet adoption set-up right by the front doors with barking dogs and excited children sent both pups into overdrive and they bolted forward at a gallop, vaulting my kids behind them.  With ears back and eyes like saucers, Bodie charged down the main aisle, making a hard right at Parakeets and Goldfish, then cutting back through Hamsters and Lizard Goods.  My ten year old daughter was holding on for dear life. 

Meanwhile, Leila was burning a path through Cat Food and Kitty Litter, when my seven year old son finally brought her to a halt in front of the Martha Stewart Pet Accessories display (Really?  Martha Stewart??)  All this time, Mom Of The Year here was pushing the empty shopping cart and snapping pictures while my kids tried to wrestle the pups.  Shortly after, we were joined by my daughter and Bodie, the former trying to hold back tears where Bodie had wrenched her wrist in his Kentucky Derby qualifying run.  I sat her down on a 40 pound bag of Beneful so she could catch her breath and gave control of the cart to my son while I took the reins of these ridiculous racehorses.  I held them tight on short leashes to let them know we were not going to have a repeat performance of that little number, thank you very much. 

By now the dogs had figured out that not only was no one in the store trying to kill them, but there was some serious good-smelling stuff in here!  They investigated the rawhide bone display and marveled at the squeaky-toy aisle.  By now some shoppers had stopped to give them a pet and tell them how lovely they were, and the two of them ate it up.  They were officially rock stars now, and they knew it!  False modesty be damned!

By now I had secured more dog food into the cart and the kids had picked out some new dog toys to add to the 40 or so already at home and we made our way to the check stand.  That is when a store clerk told us to wait, she needed to get one of the store's dog trainers over here.  I paled for a minute...what had we done?  Okay, my dogs were both the canine equivalent of the Tasmanian Devil but hey, they are just puppies and this is their first field trip.  At least they didn't pee all over the place.  Then a pretty girl named Sarah appeared with a binder in her hand and was talking to another clerk about the difference between a couple of dog breeds.  She looked at Bodie and Leila and beamed.  "I've never seen them as puppies before!" she said and came over and made a big fuss over the pups who licked her furiously.  Bodie rolled over onto his back, exposing his boy-parts to the ladies (charming) and Leila peed all over everyone (charming times two!)  Then Sarah explained that she had a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog, which is the short-haired cousin of the Bernese.  From behind the counter emerged an enormous Bodie look-alike, who calmly sauntered over and sat down.  I was speechless.  Bodie and Leila looked up at this creature like he was a Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon.  It was amazing (and just the slightest bit daunting) to see what my two would someday look like.  This was Buddy, the three year old Greater Swiss.  My two kids couldn't get enough of him, scratching him behind the ears and under his chin.  Then Buddy lied and the floor and rolled over, legs akimbo just like Bodie had done moments before.  Good God, they ARE related!  Sarah explained that she had gotten Buddy as a rescue when he was two years old and already a mighty size.  We tried in vain to get a good photo of the three of them together, Buddy sitting patiently while my two danced a jig around him.  Seeing this wonderful fellow was worth the trip and all the hilarity that ensued.



The pups with Buddy



We made our way back to the SUV and heaved in a 40 pound bag of dog food and two 40 pound wiggly puppies.  We climbed into the car where my seven year old exclaimed with a giant exhale, "Well, that was an adventure!" 

That's putting it mildly, kid!