This afternoon I scooped Bentley off the air mattress where we spend our days together and hoisted him up, preparing to place him into the crib next to the bed and he released an arch of pee, spraying the slatted wood sides of the crib, the bed, all the way across the bed to the table beside it, my book, the remote control for the television. As I placed him in the crib, my arm dripped and I saw that the keys of my laptop glistened with plump drops.
But unlike earlier in the month, his urine was now nearly clear. In the beginning, when he was peeing less frequently, the urine was deep yellow, almost amber, with a smell so loud it could fill a room. I dropped tissues on the keyboard and the moisture was instantly sucked up. I gathered up the Wee Wee pads on the bed, now sprayed all over, shoved them into the plastic trash bag I keep nearby. Then I set about cleaning the mattress-side table, re-dressing the bed. I cleaned Bentley with a pre-moistened Huggies towelette.
All the while, Bentley sat in his crib, his ears flattened back against his skull. A very human expression of gloom occupied his face and this made me reach over and scratch him behind the ear. He dipped his ear, pressing his head against my hand. He can no longer perform the basic dog acrobatics of scratching himself; like everything else, that’s something we have to do for him.
And this is pretty much how it’s been every day for the past month.
As it turns out, Bentley had a low-volume, high-velocity disk rupture. The result was that there was very little disk material within his spinal column to be cleaned out, very little debris compressing the spinal cord itself. Rather, his spinal cord experienced a massive concussion, from the great velocity of the rupture. Still, he underwent spinal surgery to clean out what debris there was. Though the doctor wasn’t optimistic about the prognosis. “Usually, dogs recover amazingly well from a ruptured disk,” she told us. “But in Bentley’s case, there wasn’t a compression, but a concussion. And often, these dogs don’t do as well.” But just a day after surgery, Bentley had deep pain sensation in his rear legs. The doctor knew this because when she pinches his flesh with her flesh pincher, his pupils dilated. After three weeks, sensation had returned to the point where Bentley would turn his head to face her if she touched his foot. All of this progress made us very excited because without deep pain sensation there can be no possibility of future motor function.
Today, a month after the incident, Bentley can’t walk because he can’t use his rear legs and he can’t control his bowels, but he can, to a degree, control his bladder and he can flex his rear legs, he can move them enough to reposition himself in the bed.
It’s been our job to keep him as motionless as possible, while he recovers from the surgery. This means, we’ve set up a bedroom downstairs in our basement media room. This room has thick carpet on the floor, a bathroom and direct access to the outdoors. There’s a large flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, with speakers all around. This is the last room in our home to be finished, and while we had plans, we hadn’t yet purchased any furniture. This turned out to be a great thing, because we were able to put an Aerobed down there, along with tables, Bentley’s crib, a large chest. It’s become a recovery room and one of us is in the room with Bentley at all times. We’ve worked it out so that I spend one night and two days down here, then Dennis comes down in the late afternoon of the second day to take over. I then go upstairs, take a shower and change clothes, then spend the evening with Cow.
Bentley has been thriving with all the attention. Toward the end of his two week hospital stay, he was really beginning to disintegrate, psychologically. He’d become extremely depressed and aggressive, threatening anybody who came near him. As it turns out, he’d regained bladder control, though he was still being catheterized. I figure, he had no way to tell people that the catheter hurt, that sensation and muscular control had returned and they needed to STOP. So he lashed out. But we were worried. What if he didn’t let us take care of him at home? What if he was aggressive with us, too? We would need full access to his little body if we were going to take care of him, what if he wouldn’t grant it? But he did. As soon as we got him home, as soon as I placed him on the air mattress and crawled right on it after him, he began to relax. Day after day, we lavished him with attention, calm praise, ice cream.
His spine has heeled, so soon we’ll be able to reunite him with Cow. Actually, soon is tomorrow. We just have to get some plastic and a painter’s tarp to protect the carpet, then we’ll be able to set him down on the floor and bring the Cow downstairs. All month in the basement, we’ve been careful to make sure the television is on, and the surround sound speakers turned on high volume to disguise the house-sounds from above. We made the mistake of silence in the beginning and Bentley heard the Cow barking, he heard him and became anxious, desperate to jump off the bed and see him. Jumping off the low air mattress could break his neck, so we had to hide the noise. And it’s worked, though they smell each other on my sweatpants. Cow, especially, is quite aware that someone, something is downstairs in the basement. And there are times when the Cow will pause and stare into space, his head cocked, a question in his eyes. I think he’s forgotten Bentley, but then I think sometimes, a smell comes back and makes him remember…something.
Bentley began his physical therapy this week. Twice a week, leading up to three times a week, we’ll drive him an hour away to the physical therapy place, where he walks on an underwater treadmill, wears a life jacket and “swims” and then gets a shampoo and shower. This is my favorite part, because for the first month he reeked of pee. There are little exercizes we can do between physical therapy sessions, encouraging him to stand when he eats, scratching his thighs when he begins to sink back down, encouraging him to sit, massaging the muscles of his rear legs.
The truth is, this is a full time job. It’s completely changed our life. It’s not so much the tasks, the endless Wee Wee pads, needing to carry him outside so he can pee instead of just snapping on his leash. It’s the fact that, there aren’t two French Bulldogs following us room from room, twenty-four hours a day. They aren’t tucked under the covers at night. They aren’t wrestling around together on the floor, running for the door when they hear the doorbell. It’s been a severe, profound change. And at first, I was a complete mess. Just try to imagine me at my alcoholic, drinking worse? And then imagine me worse than that, and there you have an accurate picture of what I was like. But once I found out that he was going to live, I felt euphoric in that stay-of-execution way. But gradually, sadness and depression has crept in. So although I’m so happy and grateful that he’s here with us, that he’s OK, I’m worried about the future. If he does remain paralyzed, I hope he’s happy. And I hope, too, that we adjust to the new routines. And I hope nothing happens to Cow. And, what can I say? I’m lucky. He’s here and he’s OK. Right this minute as I type these words, my legs are stretched out before me and Bentley is between them, his head toward my feet. He’s sleeping, thoroughly exhausted from his underwater treadmill session this afternoon. I guess in some ways, we’ve become even closer.
But it does seem like I am always covered with pee.
So listen, I want to thank you. I want to thank every one of you who has taken the time to send me a letter or an email. Your advise, encouragement and just, just your thoughts, have meant so much to me.
I’m busy working on my next book. That’s been another adjustment, actually -getting comfortable writing in bed, not at my desk. But it’s working. And I think soon, things will be a lot easier, once the dogs are reunited and Dennis and I aren’t split up all the time.
Thanks, everyone.
