Our little burg has a “town square” group on Facebook. Notices of dogs running loose, accompanied by blurry photos, is probably its most common theme. Often, follow-up posts report that the mystery dog’s owner has been found and that the dog has returned safely to its home. Very occasionally, as happened yesterday, someone reports a dead dog. A close-up of creamy and mocha short-haired fur, a Christmassy collar with little bells on it, and lots of small black and white-tipped porcupine barbs. No face or even an indication of breed. Not necessary. Someone’s beloved pet, judging by the remarkable collar. Most people who respond do so empathetically, posting a “sad” or “caring” emoji. Sometimes the keyboard commandos come out, though, as one did in this case, chiding the author of the post for not including a “better” photo of the whole dog. But when it comes to dogs, the better angels win and these j-holes get put in their place publicly. Which is gratifying in a way because people seem compelled to affirm that these creatures really are our best friends. You get it.
I was a cat-person, childless, until age 36. My first dog was Glenna, a backyard breeder’s last Brittany puppy out of a litter of ten. I think she cost me $300. After she passed at the early age of 10 from megaesophagus I tracked her life’s vet bills (I’m one of those organized OCD types): it was more than $10,000. If I’d never gotten another dog after her — the thought had settled in me for a while there — I wouldn’t be writing this. My time with her would have been written off as a failed experiment. Glenna was a good test for a first dog: headstrong, increasingly irritable as she aged and was overtaken by her discomfort from having an esophagus that went on strike: her food just piled up in her throat, created a lot of foam, and the bolus (a word I’d never heard of before this) would get coughed up spectacularly in stages, piles of sticky white foam surrounding still-dry kibble. Gruesome, and emotionally wretched. The pounds slid off her and I finally had to end her life.
Fortunately, we’d gotten Angus when Glenna was 7. If you’ve followed this blog, I don’t need to say anything else, but you might want to see Leslie’s post from 2019, “Saved by a Dog.” Then, later than we should have, we got Peat when Angus was 8. But if we hadn’t gotten him then, we wouldn’t have, and we might now be dogless. I was convinced Peat was the Devil. Initially. Well, for about three years. Now that we’ve had almost ten years to adjust to him (he hasn’t changed at all), he’s just adorable. At least we think so. Maybe our lack of friends has something to do with that. Peat. My nephew put it well when introducing Peat to a friend of his when we were all about to float the Missouri this summer: “He’s a 10-year-old that acts like a 2-year-old.”
Now we have Bloom, who’s 3. Bloom, Peat, and Angus all came from the same breeder. They each couldn’t be more different from the rest. Each has been the world. Bloom, by design, is more Leslie’s dog. I’ll let her write something much better than this about him. She has the knack, and he’s worth some buckets of words.
Peat and Bloom hunted with, for, us yesterday. It was hot. Early season, where there’s no water anywhere and we might as well have been in the Australian Outback. Within the first five minutes, Peat pointed a covey of Huns. Bloom pointed something else, closer to me, about 50 yards away. Peat’s covey went up and Leslie took one shot, killing two birds. Bloom’s birds didn’t materialize. Halfway through the hunt, both dogs started slowing down, hop-scotching from bitterbrush to sage in search of shade. We took a break, gave the dogs some treats to go with the mass quantities of water they’d been drinking, hoping they didn’t get hyponatremia. I ate a Payday. We did a 180, and the sun was, finally, at our back. Peat got a second wind and hunted hard all the way back to the truck. But we encountered no more birds.
I probably have a few more seasons with Peat, and each will be diminished somehow. If I’m lucky. I can’t really face it. Don’t want to. Yesterday tried to get me to glimpse the future. When Angus was a puppy, even before I started really hunting with him (I had to wait for Glenna to die, when he was 3), I’d begun grieving his death. It was stupid, but that’s what I was called to do with him. Peat guaranteed I wouldn’t do that, and before I knew it (he was a little more than 3) I was hopelessly in love with him. I’ve never experienced anything like it. He’s a cartoon. There’s nothing remotely noble about him, and he doesn’t give a shit. I suppose, then, he’s like me.
But I do give a shit. That’s what makes him better than me. I shouldn’t. Dogs do that: no matter what they’re like they make you wish you were better, wish you were more like you think they see you. If you give a shit, that means there’s something not quite right with you. Dogs don’t have that burden. They just want to connect. That’s all that matters. Thank god. Dog.
“God” spells “dog” backwards.
Dog is my co-pilot!
Has it been that long I’ve been reading your blog? Peat was the new guy, a devil. Now he’s getting up there. So are we.
Ain’t that the truth!
Thank you for writing – I am on my 5th bird dog and each one has been unique and cool. I went back and reread Leslie’s “Saved by a Dog” – I remember how insightful that post was, particularly the part about how our Dogs fill a need. And love the subtle(ish) cat references – Ill leave that at that. 🙂
Such an astute reader, Jeff! Very much appreciated. We’re working on our NV licenses. Will be in touch!
Nice post Bob. Cheers from Seattle!
Jeff, would love to reconnect sometime. If you ever fancy a trip down to these coordinates, let me know. Cheers!
I enjoyed this so much! We feel to same way about all the Goldens we’ve had through the years, each one unique. There’s always that crazy naughty “Peat” in the mix!
Thanks, Carrie! Glad you can relate. I think one of the perks of having dogs like Peat is the bond it creates between people who share that experience. There’s nothing like it!
Megaesophagus…..what a mouthful of a word, as well as a lifetime of committment and care…
My wife and I are closing in on 4 years with our gwp female. She was 1yo before we even got a correct diagnosis (at the univ of wa)
We are managing it pretty well, though the dark clouds of pnemonia are always present….
A classic point and retrieve on a wild rooster the other day with her felt oh so special…
I can relate to your challenges with Glenna.
Are you saying your GWP has had megaesophagus for four years now?! Wow, that’s impressive. We had to hold Glenna vertically and feed her liquid food (lots of goat’s milk), and shake her to get it to drop past her esophagus. She had other health issues at the same time, and at age 10 the vet said her quality of life was going to be very, very low. He waited for me to ask, but when I did, he said putting her down would be the best thing for her. Still heartbreaking, despite how challenging she was before she got sick. I wish you the best with your dog. Good for you for caring so well for her!
Yep…almost 4 years of something I had never heard of or planned on with my new hunting partner…
She came down with a severe case of pnemonia in both lungs just a day or 2 before I was going to take her down to oregon and give her a real taste of chukar hunting.
Local vet thought she had an obstruction in her esophagus so I asked him to refer me to the vet school in pullman wa( fantastic folks there)
In short order, they figured out she had mega e. It was congenital and explained why she was the runt of the litter and could not keep her mothers milk down.
The breeder, to his credit, offered to take her back and refund my purchase….but by then we had pretty well bonded with her and could not give her back, knowing she would be put down..these 4 legged things really do worm their way into our hearts….
We fought the battle with pnemonia several more times that first 18 months…but now have a pretty good routine/ strategy for dealing with her condition.
That routine is the only time she gets to eat….anything…is 2x a day, 10 minutes after getting dosed with a crushed up viagra tablet mixed with salmon oil. The viagra relaxes the esophogeal sphincter, thus allowing the food to make it down. She gets fed in an upright position and my wife really makes an effort to get a burp out of her.
You would not know she has this looking at her…she is the epitome of a lean mean hunting machine.
Looks are deceiving though….she can go downhill in the blink of an eye if she has aspirated something into her lungs like even water from drinking while we are hunting.
My lengthy road trips hunting birds across the western states has most definitely been impacted by all this….but like so many things in life I just adjust to and deal with whats in front of me..
I hope that others who might end up with a mega e dog find that with the right care and routine they can have healthy productive lives.
It’s not for everyone, but it can be done…
Cheers
Thank you for the detailed report, Vean. You and your wife deserve an award for giving this dog such a great shot at a great life. I had no idea this was possible, and I appreciate you sharing this information. Please update me on how she’s doing if you feel like it. Super interested. Thanks again, and best of luck!