Story and photos by Nancy Gallimore
I glanced down at my phone as the call came in. It was 10:56 a.m. It was entirely too soon for this to be good news.
I answered to hear the tone of a heart monitor beep-beep-beeping rhythmically in the background. That meant this was a midsurgery call. The ever calm voice of one of my trusted veterinarians, Dr. Dennis Henson, returned my greeting.
“Hey, Nancy, we’ve run into a little problem.” From there the news wasn’t great, but also not entirely unexpected.
About a year earlier, I had had a very similar conversation with Dr. Henson. Precious, ironically named to offset the American bully dog’s stocky, tough-looking exterior, had had a tumor removed from her back right knee. It was a tricky spot for the surgery, but things had gone well. Dr. Henson was able to get the tumor excised with decent, though narrow, margins.
The tissue was then sent to the lab for testing. The report detailed findings of soft-tissue sarcoma, a type of cancer that isn’t famous for metastasizing but is notorious for returning to the original scene of the crime. At that moment, however, our little speckled chunk of a dog was healing nicely and was hopefully cancer free. We were optimistic about our spunky girl’s prognosis.
Making an Inevitable Decision
Fast forward about 14 months, however, and history unfortunately repeated itself. This time the tumor appeared to be more aggressive and was obviously causing Precious some discomfort. As is often the case with this type of cancer, we had to head back into surgery to debulk the tumor to try to keep it in check.
I dropped my always wagging dog off at 8:30 in the morning for her preoperation prep. True to her name, she greeted everyone with a big tongue-lolling smile, oblivious that this was anything but a social call. I knew there was one surgery scheduled ahead of Precious, so I thought I would probably get a recap call around 11:30 or 12:00. But when the phone rang at 10:56, I knew things weren’t going as planned.
The tumor, Dr. Henson explained, was very invasive. To successfully remove enough of the mass to give Precious some relief and improved mobility, there was a real possibility of causing nerve damage, perhaps compromising Precious’ ability to use her leg at all.
As we talked through options, the answer became obvious. “Do you think we just need to move forward with the amputation?” I asked, not wanting to leave Precious with a leg that might end up in worse shape than when we started.
I had known amputation was a possibility and, in fact, an eventuality. I just always thought it would be something to consider in the future, and I questioned whether Precious was even a candidate for life as a three-legged dog. As mentioned, she’s not a petite little flower, and I harbored doubts surrounding one stubby rear leg trying to support her hippoesque physique. “I think she’ll surprise you,” Dr. Henson assured me. “I think she can handle this.”
His confidence bolstered my spirits, though it did not completely override my concern. But what choice did we have? We’d figure out how to help her through it. I gave the OK to go forward with complete amputations of Precious’ back leg.
While waiting for the she-did-great call signaling a successful surgery, my brain was envisioning what life would look like for my physically handicapped dog. I pictured myself lugging her from place to place. I even started searching online for dog wheelchairs that might fit a short, stout canine frame. Maybe we could modify a skateboard for her.
Soon the call came that Precious was in recovery and doing fine. She would be ready to leave the hospital around 4:00 p.m. Jim, my partner in life and in dog toting, would join me to pick her up — literally, I thought.
Displaying Amazing Adaptability
We arrived at the hospital and received very thorough care instructions for Precious’ leg … or lack thereof. Then we waited anxiously in the lobby for them to bring her out. Would someone carry her? Would she be on a stretcher?
And then I heard it. “Come on, Precious! Let’s go, girl!”
Slowly but surely, and with a lot of cheerleading by the hospital staff, my still groggy bully girl walked to the lobby.
Jim and I were shocked. And that’s when the thought hit me for about the millionth time in my caninecentric life.
Dogs are so amazing.
I don’t know why I was surprised that my tough little dog was able to walk unassisted mere hours after an amputation. Our home has been a haven for several special-needs dogs through the years. At present count, we have four deaf dogs and one blind dog.
And you know what? They are all not only surviving but thriving.
I think the key is that dogs don’t overthink things. Our deaf dogs don’t realize they are supposed to hear. We have taught them hand signals, and we all communicate just fine. Oh, sure, it might look as though I’m bringing a small plane in for a landing with my exaggerated gestures as I’m calling the dogs in from the yard, but it works for us. The bonus is that they are not afraid of popping fireworks or booming thunderstorms.
Our blind dog, Radar, lost his vision very early in puppyhood, so that’s just his reality. He has no idea that the rest of us can see. And as long as we don’t move the furniture around too much, you might not even notice his handicap. Radar uses the dog door with ease. He plays with toys. He wrestles with the other dogs. He cruises around the yard with confidence. He even navigates the stairs to the second story without missing a beat. I swear he counts the steps and knows exactly when he reaches the landing.
I’ll say it again — dogs are so very amazing.
Navigating the New Normal
And now our little house hippo is navigating her way through what a human might find to be a life-altering turn of events. She went to sleep with four sturdy legs. She woke up with only three.
Sure, maybe she stumbled a few times as she figured out her new normal, but there was no physical therapy, no prolonged recovery. There wasn’t even any downtime beyond a long nap following anesthesia. Precious just hopped to it and figured things out.
Now, instead of the former shuffle-shuffle-shuffle-shuffle sound of her footsteps, it’s a new trademark shuffle-shuffle-bounce. She has mastered the dog door. She even surprised us by making it up the stairs by herself.
Although the steps that lead up to the prized position on our bed are a bit too steep, she has perfected the art of putting her front paws up on the foot of the bed to do the stare-your-human-awake trick. Of course, one of us is always quick to help her secure prime mattress space.
And in a defining moment of glory, I even saw her race through the yard with the other dogs to bark at some unseen threat outside our fence. Oh, sure, she was at the back of the pack, but that’s where she came in with four stubby legs too. In her mind she took the gold — and in my mind too.
Keep hopping along, Precious. We can all learn a thing or two about resilience from you and our other handicapable dogs.
Have I mentioned that dogs are simply amazing?
