I had just finished physical therapy for my hip today, when my phone rang. It was the vet, confirming what we had suspected: Ottoman-shaped dog, Thorbert, has diabetes. His excessive thirst, his need to be let out several times a night, his sudden loss of his normally prodigious girth: all the hallmarks were there. We had needed only the lab results to be certain.
The vet queried: "I need to ask: are you willing to treat the dog?"
How could I possibly say no?
I know it's likely that I will be asked about the cost of the insulin and his treatment. Really, that's like putting a price on his head: he's worth X dollars, but not Y dollars? I cannot get rid of a pet who has been with me for 8 years just because he has incurred additional expenditures. Yes, it'll cost money to treat him. Fortunately it's not prohibitively expensive, as far as I can tell; likely it won't cost much more than the regular heartworm tablets, or the pills for his sister-dog's kidneys.
I know there might come a point when treatment options for him -- or any one of the pets -- would be excessively expensive. I'm a sensible person (I think); I'm not going to break the bank to prolong a pet's life, particularly at the expense of pressing household needs. I also know I'm extremely fortunate in that the family has sufficient income to treat him.
I need to bear Thorbert's well-being in mind, too: I will not attempt to extend his life under the guise of "I want him to stay alive for me" if it's clear that his quality of life isn't good. That's cruel. We shall see how treatment goes.
I was told by an acquaintance, "Well, at least it's not one of the children." Well, YES, of course, I am incredibly grateful it is not one of the Offspring. Nevertheless, it is an unrealistic burden to require that I always have to be happy that things aren't worse. I think that I am allowed a moment to feel bad for my dog, who currently looks like Death Warmed Over, and for myself. Yes, things could be worse. They could also be better. I cannot be relentlessly cheerful all the time. Surely I can be upset on occasion? Or is that just selfish behavior on my part?
I was not sure that I would be able to give Thorbert a shot. The vet provided me with a crash course in the needles, the dosage, and the technique for injection. I felt faintly nauseated with the anticipation of having to poke my dog with the needle. I teared up just a tiny bit when it came time for me to make my first attempt, because... well, because I am human. (Pity party of one, your table is ready!)
I will say, the vet telling me at that point: "If you don't do this, he will die," was not particularly helpful. I am well aware that untreated diabetes is a death sentence. I just needed a moment to let go of my expectations of health and well-being of my dog, and become accustomed to the idea that he has a manageable, though life-threatening, medical condition.
Man Up Time. I pulled myself together and gave Thorbert a shot for the first time. It was not as dreadful as I'd feared.
Thorbert will receive injections twice a day for the rest of his life, along with special food (which Thorbert indicated was quite delicious). The vet said that as long as Thorbert does not go blind (cataracts are common with diabetes), and as long as we can maintain a good weight, that is all we can do.
Thorbert, you are a faithful dog, a constant companion, a cheerful and devoted soul. You deserve every effort to make your life, however much or little remains, as pleasant and healthy as possible.
I will do the very best I can for you.
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