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Health & Fitness

Doggy Dementia? Really?

Original post can be seen at: Can I Speak at Your Funeral?

My life was not supposed to turn out the way it did.  I had plans.  I had aspirations.  I was supposedto be a veterinarian.  I have always loved animals.  I have had a dog for my entire life.  And we have always seemed to understand one another.  When I just just a young boy and I experienced my first canine death, I remember setting up, in my bedroom, a shrine to Pella, the sweetest  and most loving Golden Retriever who ever lived.  

During my final year of high school I volunteered at a local veterinary clinic on the weekends.  I mostly did the grunt work, but the doctors and technicians allowed me to assist with a few minor veterinary tasks.  I observed surgery a few time.  And one of the techs once allowed me to draw blood from her own German Shepherd.  I wonder if that brave dog had any clue how scared I was.

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I began my college education as a declared biology major and planned to take on a course load that would help me get into veterinary school.  But fate a different plans for me.  In my first semester as a college freshman, I registered for organic chemistry.  Two-thirds into the semester I was clearly failing the class when the chair of the biology department advised me to drop the class and think of a different career path.  I honestly don’t remember if I was heartbroken, or just relieved to be dropping that cruel class.  Nevertheless, though my professional life took a sharp turn, I my love of animals never waned even one bit.

In 2001 I was living in Manhattan when Rachel and I decided to adopt our first dog as a couple.  We made the arrangements in July but Frankie didn’t enter our life until the end of September.  Coming from a breeder in Florida, Rachel and I hopped into a cab to LaGuardia and met Frankie in the baggage claim.  We soon discovered the Frankie was part of the New York City post-9/11 puppy boom.  Frankie met an enormous amount of puppies in our Upper West Side Manhattan neighborhood, many with patriotic names, like “Freedom” and “America.”  In no time at all, Frankie became part of the family.

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Fast forward 12 years and Frankie is now an old man.  His health and stamina have declined, and he’s no longer the spry Boston Terrier he was for the first 10 years of his life.  He suffers from arthritis and blinding cataracts, and each day he seems to have another growth somewhere on his 21 lb body.  He struggled to stand his aching body up and his clouded vision has him walking into doors and walls occasionally.  

Just a few weeks ago an email came from his vet reminding us to bring Frankie in for his “senior check up,” offering also some tips regarding care for “geriatric dogs.”  He has, indeed, become an old man.  He is definitely crankier than he has ever been before and, perhaps the one change that has most directly impacted our lives is that his bladder is not what it used to be.  Frankie has to go more often.  Fortunately he is still continent, but he can’t hold it through the night like he used to.  

When he was younger, Frankie had to be woken up in the mornings.  And even then we had to plead him to get out of bed and let out.  Now, come 4:30am, or 4, or 3:30, even 3am some mornings, Frankie stumbles his way into our bedroom, stands at Rachel’s side of the bed and just starts whining incessantly until he is taken out.  As if that’s not bad enough, he can often be coaxed back to bed for a few minutes, but now demands to be fed his breakfast well before the clock strikes 5.  I honestly cannot complain too much because I sleep like a lot and Rachel deals with Frankie 19 mornings out of 20.   

Rachel brought Frankie to the vet a couple of times to see if there was something we could do about this.  The doctor casually suggested several possible diagnoses without digging too deep: diabetes, “doggy dementia,” or just old age.

Doggy dementia?  Really?!  Did she just say that?  Yes, indeed, she did.  What exactly does that look like, we wondered.  What would it mean for his remaining years?  What would it mean for us, the family caregivers?  So we did what anyone would do when a doctor suggests a possibly significant diagnosis.  We googled it so we can get a better understanding of how this might impact Frankie’s health and our lives. (Dementia in Dogs)

It turns out that Frankie does NOT have doggy dementia.  In fact, we’re pretty certain that his cognitive function is still as sharp as a tack.  He’s just an old man.  We see shadows of his once youthful sprightliness every night before bed when we say, “Cheese!”  Inside the small corner of cheese we give him each night is hidden his daily dose of melatonin.  No, it doesn’t make his sleep any longer than he did without it.  But we hold out hope.

In the meantime, we’ve all acknowledged that we have a senior living in our home who has senior needs and a body that’s fighting the the blessing of a lot of years under his belt.  So we are a little more gentle, a lot more understanding and supportive and loving as always!

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