A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down

This week heralded the quarterly administration of worming tablets. It is not a task that I relish as you will learn.

Mrs B generally is an easy going sort. She does not like going to the vet at all but usually behaves reasonably, especially when I’m not there as an audience to appeal to. Thanks to the various claws losses, skirmishes with cats & foxes and some rather unpleasant anal gland business, she has had to take various courses of antibiotics and anti inflammatory drugs, all of which she has swallowed without hesitation when the pills are cunningly wrapped in a piece of chicken.

All tablets that is, except worming tablets. For some reason, she will not take the bloody things. She suspiciously sniffs the doctored chicken parcel and refuses to eat it. Or sometimes she will eat the chicken then spit out the tablet. A variation is to hold it in her mouth and spit it out after a suitable juncture when she thinks that I’ve forgotten. I don’t forget.I spent too many working years of administering medication to people who didn’t want to take it and thus know all the concealing, spitting and regurge tricks.

Previous worming attempts have involved the use of more illicit treats such as tiny bits of milk chocolate or victoria sponge which do the trick of getting it down her albeit ruling out further use of the same disguise as she seems to remember when food has been doctored from one episode to the next.

Therefore you can imagine my delight when the vet recommended a swap of brand to 2 chewable meat flavoured tablets. One of the vet nurses, who Mrs B adores, gave her them in the surgery, and Mrs B actually sat and gave a paw before sitting up in an adorably cute begging pose for the second one, to great applause from the waiting room audience.

So this time around, I was quite nonchalant about the whole worming thing. Bad move. Clearly I do not have the magic touch as she refused point blank to chew them. She would not swallow them whole either and so the usual stalemate began.

In the end, a generous dollop of dairylea spread got the untouched one down Mrs B leaving me with no option other than to jettison the whole tub of the stuff after dipping the half chewed, spat on and licked tablet in it several times. A small sacrifice I know until I really fancied a bit of spread cheese on some toast. Thankfully I had some marmite at the back of the cupboard…

It’s ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it

Every time I look at my left knee, I have a reminder of when I fell over, aged 10, on the way to the school sports day. I can remember vividly my parents recoiling in horror when they saw the wound as it was deep and full of bits of grit. As it was clear that I was not going to allow my savlon wielding mother any nearer than arms length, I was dispatched to the local A&E department where I apparently allowed a doctor and several nurses poke and dig about for ages with swabs without making a sound other than to ask if I could see how much grit they’d removed. (Quite a lot I recall).

Mrs Bitey is very similar in that she will allow the vet to do virtually anything to her. Over the past week she has allowed the vet to do things that she’d bite my hand off if I dared to try. She hates her paws being touched and yet she has let them be examined and have assorted thistles removed from them. Today was the ultimate indignity- the quarterly anal gland emptying, a task so vile and disgusting that I thank Mrs B for not allowing me to take part in let alone do.

There is something about it being easier to trust someone who knows what they are doing and are in a position of authority when you need something difficult or unpleasant done. Maybe the unfamiliarity and professional aura reduces the embarassment a bit- but how does Mrs B know all this? It cannot just be getting treats- she has turned down roast chicken from me yet gladly woofed down low fat liver treats from the vet nurses before now- so maybe it is something else that she connects with?

In some ways I am quite relieved that I am spared some of these tasks, but I’m not sure that my bank balance agrees….

Sore paw

As you cannot fail to notice, Mrs Bitey likes to live life to the max. Unfortunately, this lifestyle of extremes inevitably leads to various injuries and trips to the vet to be patched up.

After an eventful year of ripped claws, fox fight wounds and resultant mange, a broken tooth, a hoppity knee and the season finale removal of dew claws, I was skint and Mrs B very pissed off. I can be forgiven I think for considering the claw removal as being the nadir and that things could only improve. It was looking hopeful for the future as we hadn’t needed to visit for a good 3 months, aside from the annual MOT and boosters visit at Christmas.

So, this week, just as the clinic team were forgetting what we looked like, Mrs Bitey developed a rather sore paw. For variation, this time it was a front one and she spent a good deal of time hopping and squealing when it accidentally got caught it in the harness as well as looking an exceedingly mournful and out of sorts doggy. When rest and a dab of cure-all sudocrem didn’t seem to help, it was time to go to the vet once more.

Despite being foiled in a spirited, but ultimately unsuccessful attempt at bolting out of the door and then being subjected to a thorough examination with bitey teeth muzzled for safety, Mrs B did manage to maintain a reasonable demeanour and indeed wangle a great deal of treats, take her first dose of steroids and generally look cutely hard done by. Her paw is very inflamed and appears to be a allergic reaction to something – probably cheap health service grass fertilizer – so it’s the joy of tablets for a week then back for a review.

Mrs B is not the only one that’s needed a trip to the vet lately. Earlier in the week, we saw lovely Sandie and soppy old Fang the Alsatian in the dog park. We’d not seen them since the Post Op Exile in the West, so it was really nice to see them both and quite touching to get such a heartfelt welcome back. Fang habitually likes to sit on my feet and look up at me until I tickle his ears – which I duly did whilst chatting to Sandie and keeping a jealous Bitey busy with playing ball. I noticed that Fang had a wound on his face which had swollen up a fair bit and it transpired that Tricky, one half of the dreaded Tricky and Dicky duo, was responsible. Fang had apparently poked his head through the gate and been set on by Tricky who’d been lying in the grass nearby.This didn’t surprise me. Tricky often pounces unexpectedly after eyeing his prey for a while. I’ve seen him do it and Mrs B has been on the receiving end enough times.

Sandie also told me that Tricky had almost been bitten in self-defence by an exasperated member of Liz Duke’s Fab Four who had been provoked, harassed and attacked endlessly by Tricky. Mr Crackberry had apparently remained true to form, fiddling with his phone, unaware of his dog’s antics and then when finally noticing the
melee, making a feeble whistling noise in a pathetic attempt to call Tricky away. Thankfully Liz waded in and separated the scrapping pair before any serious injury was done. I was aghast by this news as Liz’s dogs are so good-natured. I do feel that it illustrates just how persistently aggressive Tricky is though.

I took little comfort in my wariness of Tricky being justified, especially when a handsome boy like Fang got injured and the clone prejudice towards the fab four staffies reinforced but I did feel vindicated. Mr Crackberry has frequently implied that my response to Tricky pestering Mrs B has been disproportionate and indeed has been quick to assume that Mrs B is the problem. Certainly Mrs B is prone to using attack as a primary tactic for defence and can be extremely unpredictable with other dogs, but my gut feeling has always been that Tricky is the instigator and is far too dominant. However, an owner like Mr CB who cannot see any fault in his own dogs, surrounded by colluding clone cronies with a similar mindset, makes it very easy for me to doubt my judgement and assume that Mrs B is the problem.

Sandie’s news also explained the absence of Tricky and Dicky, who I’d not seen hide nor hair of since the return from exile. I briefly began to imagine a Tricky free dog park and harboured a glimpse of a reformed Mr CB finally ditching his phone, growing a pair and taking responsibility for his dogs. It was very short lived. The very next morning, Tricky and Dicky arrived in the park and Tricky immediately seized upon the sighting of Mrs B as a target for frenzied barking, chasing and posturing. We had to abandon playing ball and exit the park rapidly. Mr CB played with his sodding phone although did call Tricky back slightly more frequently than usual.

It will be interesting to see what happens next but it is quite reassuring to know that the Tricky problem is not solely of my making.

Tripod

Jack Russells are very hoppity little critters and Mrs B is no exception. Hopping around on 3 legs is a multifunctional act, that of party trick, sympathy act and also a hallmark of being a proper Jack.

Jack Russell hopping is often due to a congenital weakness in the knee joints, causing the knee to briefly dislocate then relocate. It doesn’t hurt and is very common, the technical term is ‘luxating patella’ fact fans.

But what to do when the hopping gets worse? Mrs B became very hoppy last year and often would not weight bear on one of her back legs. The hopping changed as she started to hold her paw up more and more. I began to doubt my diagnostic prowess of terrier orthopaedics and started to think that something else was going on.

Half of me guessed it was nothing sinister- the evidence of Mrs B tearing around the park like a pocket rocket seemed to prove that- but that soppy daft side took over and I found myself racked with guilt at the thought of Mrs B being in pain and not being able to tell me. It was a struggle between common sense and emotional ‘what ifs’ which left me unsure what to do.

In the end, I gave in and took her to the vet to be checked out. I think that it was the numerous well meaning passers by commenting on my ‘poor’ lame wee doggy that tipped me over the edge.

The local vet practice are extremely good, which is just as well as we spend half of our lives there for Mrs B to be patched up after fox fights, ripped claws and have the occasional indignity involving a rubber glove and her anal glands…. They are very good in terms of care and also flexible with paying off bills when I’m brassic.

Mrs B was checked out systematically. Assessment was difficult as Bitey steadfastly refused to demonstrate her new ‘hold the paw up’ hop and indeed seemed miracle cured Lourdes style each time she went back to the vet.

Nothing was unusual under examination and interestingly her patella would not luxate on demand when examined. A vet student learnt how to not to distract an uncooperative terrier with treats- he left the treat pot unattended for a nano second giving a golden opportunity for the Bitey snout to get in and scoff the lot and as it was the beginning of the exam, the blushing student had to repeatedly run and get more treats. Mrs B had a field day- and for once declined her dinner afterwards.

Rest was prescribed then anti inflamatories. Then a different anti inflamatory. Then the dreaded X ray under general anaesthetic. Then a specialist orthopaedic opinion of the X rays and presentation.

The result was an emphatic NAD- nothing abnormal detected- and a large bill which the insurance company briefly baulked at paying but did so eventually after a force nine strop from me.

And I am no nearer to understanding why Mrs Bitey hops. I think if I asked her, her answer would be “Because I can”.