Post-Surgical Recovery

by Sharon Arkoff

My kerry, Bits had surgery yesterday to remove a couple of lumps. The vet assured me that I could call to check on her every half hour if I wanted, but I managed to hold it to one call! "She's just sitting there looking at me," said the technician. "Does not my dog have the cutest nose in the world?" I demand. There is a moment of silence from the technician. Then, "Yes, Mrs. Arkoff."

I go to pick up Bits. I have been told that she'll be a little groggy and wobbly. I blast the heat in the car so that Bits' blankie in the back seat will be warm for her. I run over several old people, babies, and luxury SUVs to get a parking spot directly in front of the vet's, so Bits won't have to
walk or be carried far. I enter the vets', and prepare for the sight of my dog, disoriented and fearful, cowering on a stretcher.

I hear the door down the hall open.

I hear a flurry of paws, tags, etc., and someone yelling, "Stay! Stay!"

I see Bits emerge at a full gallop, tail a blur, tongue already in action, more or less dragging the 6-foot technician down the hall. Totally oblivious of the 3-inch incision in her thigh and a 2-inch incision on a front leg, Bits launches herself at me making happy snorting noises.

We go home. I have been warned that Bits will probably not be hungry. Bits goes to her bowl and stands there wagging expectantly. I have been told to only feed 1/4 the normal amount. I do so. Bits inhales it and resumes wagging. We wait half an hour to assess. Bits is still starving. We feed another small amount. Bits is still starving. Bits helps us with our salmon steaks. The only evidence of her having had surgery is that hardwood floors are rather a challenge for her.

We prepare for bedtime. I busy myself clearing a few items out of the way so that if Bits has trouble on the stairs, in her infirmity, she won't hit anything. While I am doing so, Bits takes the half-flight of stairs in one massive leap and gallops into the bedroom. We find her standing in full kerry alert in the exact center of the bed. We turn our backs to brush our teeth, etc. We turn around. Bits has passed out, and is racked out in such a way as to take up as much of the bed as possible. We do not move her because, after all, she just had surgery and is so delicate.

This morning, we assess Bits. Her incisions are cool to the touch, no oozing, etc. Bits remains asleep for the examination. We call her name softly. The tail wags, eyes remain closed. We make encouraging noises. More tail-wagging, and a change in position to make a tummy-rub more possible. Eyes remain closed. I give up on Bits, and ask my husband if he wants breakfast. At the word "breakfast," Bits rolls to her feet.

I have been told to limit exercise and protect Bits from other dogs, as she will likely not be up to any of rough dog games. We head out for our morning walk. It's still dark. Bits immediately identifies a 110-pound black lab in the bushes (whom she knows) and joyously charges him. Clyde stands there looking pained while Bits does backflips, etc. around him. Clyde's owner
regards Bits. "Nice shave," he comments.

I look forward to the vet calling today to find out whether Bits is on her feet yet. :-)

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