Asymmetrical Information

From the desk of Jane Galt:

Happy Thanksgiving

At this time of year, I like to cast around and pick up something I feel thankful for to bear in mind while I'm rolling pie crus and basting turkey.

Today, it's my dog.

I haven't blogged about it because I have an engineer's superstitious fear of predicting a good outcome for any operation, but we're out of the danger zone now.

My dog almost died this year.

He had a slipped disk. We didn't know what it was, of course; all we knew was that every time he got up he gave a scream of agony that broke your heart every time you heard it. Unfortunately, the vet we had thought it was his elbow dysplasia, so we screwed around for three months treating that. Towards the end, we realized that if we didn't treat it soon, we were going to have to put him down. He had no life; couldn't go to the park or run or even enjoy sitting with his family because of his constant pain. It had to end one way or the other.

The first time the vet brought it up I started sobbing and didn't stop for six hours.

We tried a last ditch effort: massive doses of steroids. The transformation was miraculous. So miraculous that we decided to take him to another vet, since the swift effect of steroids seemed to indicate a neurological problem rather than a joint problem, but his vet, an orthopedist, seemed disinclined to treat. Our new vet had us up to Westchester for an MRI the next day. The MRI confirmed it -- he had a massive disk rupture below his spinal column, almost on his tail.

The doctor told us surgery had a 95% chance of total success. We gladly forked over the massive sums they wanted to perform it and agreed to leave him overnight so he could have surgery the following morning. We visited him for a little while, and he seemed fine -- still couldn't get up, but he's a sweet dog and he seemed to bear us no ill will for handing him over to strangers.

Two days later, we were allowed to visit again. He was on morphine, and not himself -- unresponsive to stimuli, and seemingly in pain. He had a T shaved into his back for his incision, which seemed large and ominous with those black stitches everywhere. We fed him his dinner and left, with a little hope -- but not too much, because when you've suffered with your dog for three months and come to the end, it feels dangerous to hope.

Well, he came home the next day, and he's been getting better ever since. It's been like a miracle -- he runs, prances, rolls on his back, just like he used to. No pain at all. Lately he's taken to climbing back on the sofas, and we're so glad to see him moving again that even laundering slipcovers is a joy.

No, really. If you have a pet you know what I mean. The mute suffering of an animal is probably the worst thing on earth next to the suffering of a child, because they don't understand, and they wait, so patiently, for you to make it all better. And if the love of an animal is not human love, it is perfect nonetheless.

So I am very, very thankful that Finnegan has more years to run and play and drool on the furniture. And I offer, for your maudlin Thanksgiving pleasure, the following tribute to that noble creature, The Dog:

Tribute to a dog

It is claimed that this is a speech George Vest, a lawyer, made defending a client in 1870, when a man's foxhound named Drum was shot. Drum's owner sued the man who shot Drum. Although there was no evidence, after Senator Vest finished speaking, the jury was in tears. They fined the man $500, even though the maximum fine was $150.

"Gentlemen of the Jury," The best friend a man has in this world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name, may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has, he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it most. A man's reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us, may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads. The one absolutely unselfish friend that a man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him and the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous is his dog."

"Gentlemen of the Jury," A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounters with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens. If fortune drives the master forth, an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard against danger, to fight against his enemies, and when the last scene of all comes, and death takes the master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by his graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even to death."

Posted by Jane Galt at November 28, 2002 8:48 AM | TrackBack | Technorati inbound links"); ?>