Tag Archives: golden retriever

Old Dog Vestibular Disease

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Divot 14 Years

Divot 14 Years

Old Dog Vestibular Disease. Ever heard of it? Me neither.

I suppose it’s because few dogs get really old. Our vet said at our last check-up that she rarely sees Golden Retrievers older than ten or twelve years old.

Divot is 14.

A few days ago she suddenly turned into a mad cow. You’ve seen the images of those poor creatures stumbling and bobbing their heads. That’s what Divot looked like and it was heart-wrenching.

She had a good walk in the morning. In the afternoon Hubby pulled a slice of roast beef from the fridge. Her usual reaction would be to dash over and hope that a crumb would drop or Hubby would save a scrap for her. (He always does!)

She didn’t budge.

We left her, thinking it a temporary numbness, perhaps like when you lie on one side and your arm “falls asleep”.

Suppertime rolled around and she refused to get up. We helped her. She attempted to walk the five feet to her food dish.

It was then that she looked like the mad cow. The way she gingerly picked at her food like her mouth was frozen convinced me she had had a stroke.

The looming ugly decision tormented me. I knew the day would come. But I’m not ready to let go.

Next morning, at book club, the host made the mistake of asking me how I am and I couldn’t keep it together. Good thing: every member of my “tribe” hugged me and commiserated and told me of her own experiences losing her best “furiends”. That made it better.

One told me not to grieve yet, but to love Divot until the end. Then grieve. She said it could be my gift to Divot. I liked that.

So I cheered up and resolved to investigate Divot’s sudden ailment. That’s when I learned about Old Dog or Geriatric Vestibular Disease.

Vestibular refers to a nerve that connects the ear and the brain. It can be inflamed but there is no definitive cause for the condition.

The symptoms seem stroke-like. They include, a cocked head, instability in walking, tending to veer to one side, affecting appetite (hard to eat when you’re dizzy!)

I learned that pet owners often hastily euthanize, believing the dog has had a stroke, when the dog can recover from Old Dog Vestibular Disease.

Divot didn’t seem to have the severe effects of stroke, which are the same as Vestibular Disease, but can also include blindness and permanent paralysis. Apparently strokes are rare in dogs.

After a few days, we visited the vet. Amazingly, Divot was considerably better that morning. She still wobbled but she seemed more stable. By the time we got to the clinic she was walking only slightly off-kilter. The vet marveled. She said three days was very fast to show such recovery; it can take weeks.

The vet said we can expect Divot to recover except for having a cocked head, a perpetually inquisitive stance, which does add to her charm.

The vet also suggested that many people do MRI but in her opinion it wouldn’t benefit Divot. We appreciated that.

Divot in 2007

Divot in 2007

She prescribed good care.

“Including walks?”

Divot LOVES her walks more than anything. I know that not walking would surely hasten the aging process. I was relieved when the vet agreed short walks are fine.

We took a stroll that afternoon. Divot wobbled only a few times in three blocks. She had a good snow bath (rolling with glee on a patch of snow) and even trotted a couple times.

It seems she is recovering. We will have to face the ugly decision one day, but not today.

I am more determined to cherish each moment and fully drink in the splendor of our walks together so she will never really be gone.

 

Sources: Google: “Dog stroke” or “Vestibular Disease”

Divot the Dog Celebrates her 14th Birthday in a Big Way!

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photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Health Lessons from an Old Dog

Last week our Golden Retriever, Divot, turned 14 and she had a wild and crazy birthday.

It began with a lunchtime party with the Grandtoys, who simply love to have dog parties. I barbecued chicken legs. The wind blew the aluminum foil cover off the pan and Divot gobbled down a chunk of the chicken-skin-flavoured foil before I could stop her.

Peanut butter on rice cakes is her usual birthday fare but this year it was leftover blueberry pancakes with peanut butter. And my Grandtoy had put so much peanut butter on the pancake it stuck to the roof of Divot’s mouth. So funny as she struggled to suck it off! See video of Divot’s party. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSPwqV3D8V8&feature=youtu.be

Finally, Divot and my husband went to see an old friend, Betty, who fed Divot most of a bag of popcorn. Later while hubby was sitting at the table with Betty he heard a slurping sound from the living room. There he found Divot’s nose in a box of chocolates. He dug some out of her mouth and deduced she may have swallowed one or two. Not the end of the world.

As you can see Divot still behaves like a puppy. She has slowed down in some ways: our walks are often strolls. She can no longer jump into the truck; in fact, she can’t even put her paws up to boost herself. She sleeps most of the day.

But the tiniest sign that we’re ready to walk: I brush my teeth, get my phone, ensure I have my Epi-Pen, put on my shoes, any one of those signs gets her excited about our walk. She bounds off the back porch like a puppy. Divot loves people and is happy to greet others as we walk around our neighbourhood, canines less enthusiastically than humans. Her pace going is faster than coming home, something she’s always done, anything to prolong the walk.

We are privileged to have Divot in our lives for 14 healthy years.  Divot is our living experiment. When she was ten weeks old we decided to feed her a diet that was more in keeping with her nature. As a descendent of wolves, we knew she would thrive on a wolf-like diet.

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Divot’s Supper – photo belongs to
www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Since then she has eaten almost all raw food. Her typical meal consists of ½ cup raw meat, ½ cup cooked brown rice, ½ cup raw veggies like carrot or cucumber. She gets garlic and parsley; she gets fish, olive and coconut oils and some other supplements. An integral part of her diet is the raw beef soup bones she has two or three times each week. They keep her mouth healthy and her teeth cleaned. She has all her teeth and they’re not black, as is expected by this age.

Despite losing most of her hearing and some of her sight, Divot has had few health issues. Apart from some antibiotics for ear infections from swimming in the Bow River, she has taken no medications. At two years old we removed a large wart from her paw. No diabetes, epilepsy or other modern dog ailments. She is not obese and she has never stunk, like most dogs do.

Divot has lived two years longer, so far, than the long range for her breed. We think it’s her diet and lifestyle. If it works for a dog, it should work for humans.

So here is what I recommend based on Divot’s fine example. Eat whole, real food, suitable to your species as much as possible. Not too much. Drink plenty of water. Exercise everyday. Sleep lots. Play whenever you can. Surround yourself with people you love and choose to be happy.

If Divot were a human she’d be pushing 100. And I’ve just shared the secrets to her longevity!

Yellow

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yellowrose

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

My grandma’s favourite colour was yellow. (Being Canadian I spell both favourite and colour with “our”).

Her kitchen was yellow.

I loved her kitchen, despite not loving yellow.

She created good things in that kitchen.

The sun always seemed so bright in Grandma’s kitchen.

Perhaps it was the yellow walls. Perhaps it was the sunshine.   Perhaps, and this is what I suspect, it was Grandma.

When my grandpa was dying, over 40 years ago, he dreamed that he painted the outside of their farmhouse yellow. He inferred that he defied conventional wisdom because Grandma liked yellow. It was the perfect metaphor for his devotion, devotion that would otherwise remain unspoken in their Germanic, one-must-not-show-emotion home.

She told me that story several times, always with a catch in her voice, so I knew the impact it had on her.

As a child I had yellow hair. Perhaps that’s why Grandma cherished me so lavishly. (Or not!) I still have yellow hair thanks to Brian, with his roll of tin foil and a purple paste down at the Phoenician Salon.

My grandma had yellow flecks in her eyes. Officially, she called her eyes green, but they were actually yellow. That trait popped up in one of my daughters and one of my granddaughters; they have yellow undertones in their irises. The effect is that their eyes look like they’re the same colour as their strawberry blond hair. It’s weird. Beautiful, exotic, but strange.

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Mustard is yellow. It is my favourite condiment, in my opinion, a must-have for the complete enjoyment of a burger. Perhaps that’s where they got the name. I like the plain stuff. No Dijon, Honey or Horseradish; just plain mustard.

There are other good yellow foods. Nobody exposed me to squash as a child but my yellow-irised daughter shared the secret about the great flavour of butternut squash. I saute it in butter and maple syrup. Mmm!

I used to love Grandma’s pickled yellow beans.   Yellow beans are very tasty, fresh from the garden too. Canned yellow beans are gross; they certainly don’t deserve the title “vegetables”.

There is nothing more heavenly than a homemade lemon pie. Grandma used to make them.   A crust made of real lard, not hydrogenated vegetable oil, a sweet and sour sunshine filling, topped with a cloud of meringue, delicately kissed golden in the oven.   Mmm again!

When I was young I thought it was weird to declare yellow as one’s favourite colour. I preferred purple (my dad’s chosen hue, also unconventional) and blue. Even pink, red, and certain shades of green but not yellow!

I don’t know that I ever saw Grandma wearing yellow. It’s not a flattering colour for many people. Some shades of it make ME look green.

Grandpa always said Grandma looked best in white (good thing she was a nurse) and blue, but that was HIS favourite colour, so he was biased there, don’t you think?

Why would someone select a colour that one cannot wear?

I know blue makes my eyes look bluer than they are (actually they’re a blue-grey-green, depending on the weather and what I’m wearing). I guess I got some of Grandma’s yellow iris DNA too.

Most of the clothing in which I feel most comfortable is blue, like jeans and faded denim shirts, and the fabulous turquoise dress I got for $13 at a dress shop in Phoenix.

See. I know the fun of wearing MY favourite colour!

I wore yellow to Grandma’s funeral. In fact my declaration that I intended to do so inspired other family members to dig out or borrow or buy yellow articles of clothing to wear.

One of the most touching things my husband ever did was show up at my sister’s before Grandma’s funeral, wearing a crisp new yellow dress shirt. He proved he actually listens!

He looked great in that shirt with his dark hair and brown eyes, and miraculously it was exactly the same shade as my yellow jacket. We looked like we had actually coordinated our wardrobe. Quite the feat! Do you have any idea how many shades of yellow there are?

My brother in law’s tie was the same yellow as my sister’s blouse, both of which were totally different from and clashed with our yellow.

In the weeks after Grandma’s funeral I would find myself weeping, often while walking our Golden Retriever, Divot, (our yellow dog), in our local dog park.

One day I felt like I was tapped on the shoulder.

There before me was a meadow of mostly yellow wildflowers, waving at me. My eye was drawn to the buffalo beans. Grandma taught me the name of buffalo beans. As a child, I picked them in the meadow immediately behind her farmhouse.

And there were some Brown-eyed Susans and others whose names I don’t yet know.

The flowers danced while the breeze whispered in my ear, something I didn’t quite catch. It felt like “I’m okay”.   Or maybe, “I’m here”.   Or, “I was here; now it’s your turn!”

At the very least, the message that comforted me was that whenever I see a yellow wildflower I can think of Grandma. And I do.

I think of the many things she taught me.

I remember of the warmth of her unconditional love.

Before her decline in the last few years, we would compare stories about the wonder of being a grandma. I remember laughing with her about the cute things my grandkids would say. And she would repeat the cute things I said when I was her little Grandtoy.

Come to think of it, that was one of the “yellow” moments of my life.

Thanks, again, Grandma!

Happy Birthday, Betty!

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Betty's 90th Birthday

Betty’s 90th Birthday

A new old friend, Betty recently celebrated her 90th Birthday by inviting 20 people to a buffet dinner in a local hotel. There were representatives from almost every decade in the last century, literally from 9 to 90!

Betty has endured so many hip surgeries over the years that she has only one hip. As a result she is unable to walk or do much for herself. Caregivers come to her home three times a day to get her meals and help her in and out of bed.

You might think Betty is sad or depressed. You might think she would feel sorry for herself. But not Betty! She may not be able to walk but she is a walking example of how to enjoy life.

Betty has lived in her inner city home for 50 years.  Her oldest neighbour, Mary was taken to a nursing home on the day of the party. That was sad for Betty. Part of her purpose lately has been watching out for Mary, who has steadily deteriorated over the past few years. First her hearing; now her, mind. She’s been showing up at Betty’s at 10:30 at night, thinking it’s morning and scaring the Dickens out of Betty.

After five decades as neighbours, Betty and Mary are more like sisters than friends. Sadly Mary’s mental decline is ending their relationship. When Betty and Mary are both gone, their old homes will be dozed to make way for duplexes or mansions. Their decades of memories will be wiped out.

Betty’s kitchen is like Grand Central Station. I pop in to water her flowers or bring Divot, our 14-yr-old Golden Retriever, whom Betty loves, for a visit. Invariably I meet a different person every time, having tea with Betty!

Betty is determined to stay in her home until she dies. I hope she makes it. No matter how well meaning the “homes” are, they’re not the same as Home. The parade of visitors will slow to a trickle and eventually dry up. The staff is so harried and thinly spread, they have little time to interact on a human level. And the food is dreadful, almost completely void of nutrition and therefore, taste. No wonder people are dying to get out of there!

At her party the guests inquire with each other about our connection to Betty. One woman said her parents lived two doors down the street. For years Betty drove them to the grocery store. “Knowing my parents,” she laughed, “they didn’t buy one drop of Betty’s gas, so this is payback for me!” In her tone, shone love for Betty and the honour she has in paying back Betty’s kindnesses.

I know why Betty came into my life a few years ago: since my grandma’s been gone, I need old ladies in my life. They help connect me to “the good old days”, when I was eight and Grandma was my best friend. Much of what I learned from Grandma, I see again in Betty. They’re both tenacious old birds with a love for their people. I continue learning from Betty:

Have friends of all ages. And celebrate with them. Friendships take effort. It isn’t called “cultivating” friendships for nothing! I doubt Betty was thinking about being 90 when she was driving her old neighbours to the grocery store. Pay it forward is not just a cute slogan. It really works. One day when I’m old I hope to have younger friends who are willing to lend me a hand or an ear from time to time. I’m counting on good deeds being like stocks, paying me dividends in the future.

Happy Birthday, and thank you, Betty, for your friendship, for your never-give-in spirit and for reminding me that longevity depends on friends.

Old Dogs, Children, and Watermelon Wine

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Divot eyes her traditional “rice cake with peanut butter” birthday cake Photo owned by www.shelleygoldbeck.com

The 1970’s Tom T Hall song Old Dogs, Children and Watermelon Wine runs through my head frequently lately.

I expect that’s because our Golden Retriever, Divot turned 13 yesterday, an amazing feat for her breed.

She is very healthy and active but her age has most recently declared itself.

The vet has warned us her cataracts continue to cloud her vision. She doesnt always see her hand signals for Sit Speak Down Side.

Her formerly fine-tuned hair-trigger hearing has faded gradually these past six months, resulting in more instances where she’s startled when we walk into a room.

A few months ago, she started having what looked like petit mals (mini epileptic seizures). She shuddered for no apparent reason, for less than a second. She was having six or more each day. After two weeks of adding coconut oil to her food the seizures are almost gone.

But it’s a reminder that she’s not immortal.

She has started having difficulty getting up from lying down on our slippery laminated floors so we bought six cheap ugly mats to put in all her places on the floor. It seems to help. The vet recommended glucosamine. Not sure if it helps but it can’t hurt.

Where she used to bound into and out of vehicles she’s now unsure about exiting and often waits for a boost into the truck.

Our walks deteriorate to mere strolls. My attempts to hurry her are often met with stubborn resistance that makes me smile rather than annoys me. I respect her right to be a bit crotchety. She has paid her dues. She deserves to have her own way here and there. Some days she moves along at a nice clip.

Divot’s naps grow longer. She seems to sleep 23 hours a day. She has more trouble sleeping through the night, not atypical, I think considering her human-equivalent age of 91 years.

Bladders seem to be among the first organs to lose functionality. Getting up in the night to let her out used to bug me but now I often have to get up myself so I can’t really grouse about her condition, can I?

Sometimes she doesn’t need to go. She just wants to be outside taking in the wonder of the early early morning with its cool air and soft light. I don’t blame her. It is peaceful.

In the song, Tom says, “Old dogs care about you even when you make mistakes/God bless little children while they’re still too young to hate.”

Great wisdom in both lines.

There is nothing so pure as a dog’s knack to love unconditionally.

When I come home Divot acts as though I am the most important person in the world. She can’t get close enough, smile widely enough or “sing” loudly enough.

It’s not just me. She treats every guest in our home with exuberant attention, leaving no doubt she’s thrilled to see them, even if they come everyday.

Divot is a sure cure for feeling blue. It’s impossible not to laugh at her antics and marvel at her undying devotion to her pack.

Divot is content to just be. She doesn’t need to do or have anything. She quite happily lies for hours at my feet or just outside my office door.

If I go outside to putter in the garden, she’s out there with me. If I sit inside to read, she sleeps on the floor or on her leather loveseat.

I find myself cherishing my time with Divot. She has no pain and still fools people with bursts of puppy-energy but in my heart I know she can’t live forever.

I am tempted to begin grieving, at least preparing for the day I don’t have my hiking partner poking through the long grass and wildflowers with me at the bark park.

But then I remind myself to enjoy the present. She could live another year or two. As long as she has no pain.

I hope she dies in her sleep in her favorite dugout near the house foundation like my childhood family dog, Lassie did one warm summer day.

Will you get another dog? I wave off the well-meaning question. I am not going to borrow worry.

I am going to be like an old dog and just be. And make everybody believe they are the most important person in the world.

Happy Birthday, Divot!

Thanks for teaching me the secret to your perpetual smile.

See more about Divot: http://divotthedog.wordpress.com/

August 22: I dedicate this post to my mom’s dog Muffin, who gave Mom 14 years and seven months of joy. She passed on this week.

read related article here: One dog owner’s feelings about her dog’s last days.

I’m Alive Because a Skunk Sprayed my Dog

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HornetThe last few days the world has looked a little rosier to me. I notice I’m taking more time to marvel at natural wonders.

Near death experiences tend to have that effect.

Here is the story of how a skunk spraying my dog last week saved my life. It’s one of my silver lining stories.

Hubby, Doug and I were on vacation last week and our daughter was babysitting our 13 year-old Golden Retriever, Divot.

Two days after an emergency vet visit, Divot encountered a skunk. Despite numerous baths she still emits a faint “eau de skunk”.

Our first day back Divot had a playdate with Betty, an elderly customer of Doug’s. Betty loves Divot.

I had an hour of found time. What will I do?

Read my book? Or weed my flower garden?

Lazy Shelley voted for reading. Responsible Shelley opted for weeding.  Responsible Shelley won by a hair.

My, how the weeds have grown in just ten days! There is a big one there.

Ouch! Something just stung my left calf. Oh! There are prickles up my right side! What is happening? Insect! Bees! Run!

I dash for the front door, tear into the bathroom and tear off my shirt to survey the damage. One of the attackers is in here with me!

I bolt for the kitchen, slamming the door behind me.

Baking soda! I make a paste of baking soda and cold water and smear it on the stings on my side and in my armpit. Soothing.

I feel light-headed. Something is happening. Where is my cell phone? I have to sit down. My phone in hand I head towards the couch.

Divot and Doug walk in the front door.

“I’ve been stung several times and I don’t feel well.”

I sit down, relieved to see Doug. I know he will take care of me.

“What can I get you?”

My lips begin to tingle.

My throat feels tight.

Anaphylaxis!

“Call 911.”

While he dials I have the sudden urge to scratch myself. All over! It doesn’t help.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah. A bucket. I’m going to throw up.”

I wake up on the floor. Doug is holding me, saving me from aspirating my own vomit. He is on speakerphone with 911. I obviously missed the pail. I am confused. When did that happen?

EMS arrives.

They ask a lot of questions. I know the answers but some of my answers are too long. I don’t have the energy!

Epi-pen in thigh. That hurts!

We need to get your blood pressure up. That’s why you passed out. How is your breathing?

Amazingly, I had all the symptoms of anaphylactic shock except the trouble breathing.

After six hours in Emergency, they release me, a prescription for an Epi-Pen in hand and strict instructions to avoid bees for 72 hours. Seriously? They need to tell people that?

Doug found and destroyed a hornet’s nest behind the weed I plucked. (Now I am The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest!)

So what does all this have to do with the dog being sprayed?

When Divot got to Betty’s, Betty wasn’t feeling well and she was put off by Divot’s skunk smell so Doug decided to cut the visit short.

If he hadn’t walked in the door when he did, I’m not sure I could have called 911 for myself. I could have choked on my own vomit. Without immediate attention, I could have experienced cardiac arrest or had severe breathing issues.

So the way I see it, I’m alive because a skunk sprayed my dog.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.