Rupert, the wonder dog – part II

**This is Part II of my first post about Rupert’s health issues. You can read Part I here**

Reflections, seven(ish) months later.

I’m having a lazy day and writing this from bed, propped up by pillows with the laptop on my knees. Rupert is curled up, sleeping at the end of the bed. He snores like a person, sometimes punctuated by little whimpery barks if he’s having a particularly vivid dream. Posie is, of course, busy doing her ‘job’ of guarding the house – patrolling windows and French doors, watching for any wayward neighbourhood cats that dare enter our yard.

I have a theory about dogs, that they love having a job to do. A raison d’être. Just like people. I suppose it makes them feel important, or like they are contributing somehow. Nathan’s childhood dog Marshal would help bring the shopping inside, waiting by the car for someone to give him a bag to carry. My childhood dog, the million dollar globetrotting Xiao-Gui, was a bit of a Florence Nightingale – she would take up residence on the lap or bedside of whoever was sick, or in need of some comfort, and stay with them until they felt better. Posie looks like a bit of a princess, but she’s a fantastic watchdog. The barking can be annoying, but there have been times when I have been endlessly grateful for it. 

I’m not sure what Rupert’s job is, but today at least, he’s off duty. Or maybe he’s retired now. After everything he has been through, he’s earned it.

His eventual diagnosis was idiopathic pharyngeal dysphasia, which ultimately doesn’t say a lot. The veterinary team that cared for him at the hospital started with a long list of suspects, but ruled them out one by one, until we came to this – a condition without a name, a reason or a cure. The first few weeks after he came home from the intensive care unit were harrowing. Apart from twice-daily steam sessions, multiple rounds of tablets and constant supervision, Rupert required hand feeding three times a day, then being held in a sitting position for half an hour to ensure all the food went down. At first, he was so exhausted just from having pneumonia that he gave up after only a few morsels.

It was touch and go for a while, but eventually, things started to look better. Not all at once, of course, but a series of little moments that gradually gathered momentum. Rupert wagged his tail when my sister came to visit him. He got out of bed by himself to go searching for a teddy bear to snuggle. He started giving me his big-eyed, pathetic Oliver Twist tragic face again, when he’d eaten all of his dinner and was hopelessly full, but still wanted more.

It’s about seven months since his ordeal. He snores and coughs a lot, and still has to be hand fed (luckily, only once a day). We have to be vigilant about signs of pneumonia, but he hasn’t had a single relapse. He spends his days sunbathing on the lawn or napping on the sofa, but runs around like a madman and bucks like it’s a rodeo whenever he gets excited. And he’s still Posie’s BFF. Looking at the spirited, vibrant little dog he is after less than a year of recovery, I can’t believe how many people expected that we would just give up on him. It’s just a dog. He’s had a good life. He’s done his dash. It’s not like he’s a child. 

He is not disposable. And we will not give up on him. The vet staff have mentioned many times that Rupert is lucky to have been adopted by us, and that we were willing to do whatever we could for him. But we are the lucky ones. Rupert has done (and is still doing) his job – loving us – unconditionally, unwaveringly, without expectation. Dogs are so selfless and giving of themselves, and after everything Rupert has gone through in his life, it’s amazing that his love for us (and everyone he meets) just keeps coming and coming. The very least we can do for him is love him back.

supermodel documentary hour

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Sorrento, the day before Melbourne Cup.

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Styling’ up my porch with some petunias, geraniums and an old chair we found on a nature strip.

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Yours truly as some sort of terrifying drag queen/flamingo hybrid, for our goddaughter’s first birthday party.

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Nathan modelling some homemade walrus tusks.

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Posie obviously shares my literary tastes – Other People We Married by Emma Straub.

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Obligatory shoe shot (aren’t we 20-something creative types contractually required to take these sorts of shots?).

a while

This blog got lost for a while, under deadlines and handkerchiefs and empty boxes of panadol.

But it must become a habit. Like jogging. Or choosing steamed dumplings instead of fried. Or picking my socks off the floor without being asked. Even if I write about nothing, it’s better than writing nothing at all.

Must keep swimming. Must not be self-defeating whenever I make progress. Must stop deleting half-poems and half-stories. Must not get overwhelmed at the first test.

Rupert, the wonder dog – part I

**This was originally posted on tumblr, but I felt compelled to repost here. You can read Part II here.**

I don’t normally use tumblr like a journal or a diary, but I’m a bit miserable and needed to ‘write it out’.

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Little Rupert is in intensive care. The hospital sent this photo on Saturday night. He’s spending his time between a nebulizer, an oxygen tent, and having endless blood tests. If he’s well enough for anaesthetic, tomorrow he will have an MRI on his brain, a barium x-ray and they mentioned testing the fluid in his lungs and taking muscle biopsies. Apart from the pneumonia, he has a mystery auto-immune muscle wasting disease.. they originally thought it was masticatory muscle myositis, but it seems to be affecting his shoulders and his ability to breath and swallow, too. The vets are confident that it will be treatable, but he has to get past this pneumonia first.

It’s not a nice or reasonable way to feel, but I wish this was happening to some other dog. Rupert’s biggest ambition in life is just to be cuddled, or sit on someone’s lap. He is so gentle and spirited, and his favourite trick is throwing his body weight backwards in your arms so you have to hold him like a baby.

What we know of his history is so awful – before we adopted him (free to a good home, in the classifieds), he’d had two years of being passed around between people who weren’t prepared to or able to look after him. Before that, he had been in the pound. He was free because of his separation anxiety – he is so desperate to be loved, he would go to crazy lengths to prove how submissive he was.. like peeing on the couch. We’re working on that! He still has some scars from his past life – some strange grooves on the back of his canine teeth, possible from chewing on a cage; if he ever sees a plastic bag on the floor, he immediately claims it as his ‘bed’; he loves his little sister, Posie, but he gets incredibly agitated around other male dogs. We don’t know when his birthday is, we don’t know what his first name was, or where he was born.

It’s so cruel and unfair that this should happen to him after everything he’s already been through. But if it had to happen, I’m glad it’s happening now – because unlike everybody else who gave him away when it got tough, we’ll stick with him through this.

the moral of the story is…

My main intention with this blog is to force myself to write. I find myself paralysed, all the time, when faced with blank spaces. Or having an idea that is so unusual, and feeling completely incapable of getting it down without destroying it. Like catching a goldfish only to smash it between overeager hands. Expect drivel and spelling mistakes!

Another intention (an easier one) is to collect all the bits and pieces of my life (and everything outside of my life) that inspire something. Memories have holes and vested interests, and they are very good at constructing lies and distorting things. So, this will provide a little time capsule for me.

Currently, I am working on a couple of pieces involving fairy tales. For uni. One of them is a fairy tale of my own design, the other piece is a school essay in which I tear a tale apart – Hansel and Gretel. It’s amazing that everybody knows this story, yet everybody gave different answers when I asked on facebook what the moral or ‘lesson’ was.

Don’t eat people’s houses.
Don’t trust kids.
Don’t trust adults.
Don’t trust your parents.
Don’t trust witches.
Don’t let your parents name you Hansel or Gretel.

I can’t pinpoint one overall moral either. It’s incredibly ambiguous, especially when you try to consider it as an instructional tale for children in 1857. It’s especially concerning when you consider the stepmother dies at the same time as the witch. Perhaps they are the same person..