The struggle is real. We've got problems. It's official, we have a diabetic dog. I'm not sure that I've ever heard of a diabetic dog, but sure enough, we own one. So, I know they exist.
I should preface this story by saying that Tippy (the dog) is thirteen-years-old. That makes her elderly in terms of dogs, but not that elderly compared to the lifespan of animals we had when I was a young boy. I'll get to that later. Lately, she exhibited some very strange behavior.
"Mom, Tip peed on my bedroom floor!!!" Ryan bellowed from the far reaches of our home.
"Well, wipe it up for heaven's sake!" came the equally firm bellow from another corner of our home. Asking Ryan to wipe dog urine from his floor is like asking a skydiver to jump without a parachute. It's not happening. The boy simply doesn't do pee or poop, especially of the canine variety.
"Oh alright! I'll get it!" Kristi barked as she stomped down the hall and into Ryan's bedroom.
"Mom! Tippy peed on the bathroom rug!" Sidney whined, while hiding behind the bathroom door, covered in a towel.
Kristi appeared in the hallway, cloth in hand and smirked. "How do you know it's dog pee? It is a bathroom rug after all?"
"Oh it's pee! Don't worry about that!" Sidney exclaimed as Kristi brushed past her to retrieve the saturated rug.
This behavior continued to happen for several more weeks. Finally 'ol Tip seemed to gain a fondness for doing her business on the kitchen floor, in the same spot. So, each night before bedtime, we placed several old towels in that spot for her peeing pleasure.
We also noticed that she was guzzling water not unlike the way a camel would before a long desert journey. "I've never seen such a small dog drink so much water! Good grief, I think she's a hydroholic!" Ryan said, as the fuzzy shih tzu lapped away at her water bow.
Kristi, who by that point was exceedingly worried about her pet, looked at me with sad eyes. "Do you think she's dying?"
"Nah, she's thirsty. Probably all those bacon treats you,re giving her. Bacon makes me thirsty too!" I said, trying hard to make light of the situation.
"You haven't peed in the floor that I know of. Actually, there was that one time... Well, nevermind." Both of our children craned their necks to hear a story about dear old dad peeing on the floor. Thankfully Kristi brought that little nugget to a screeching halt. "She needs to go to the vet. I mean, she has no appetite either."
Kristi make the appointment and with much sadness, told the kids to prepare themselves for bad news just in case. "Oh my gosh, I don't want Tip to die. I've never known anything but Tip. I mean, we're the same age!" Sidney whined, while stroking the little fuzz ball.
"Oh, don't worry. Maybe dad will have her mounted. We can set her on the mantle. Maybe the taxidermist can put her in a pose that she'd never have pulled of while she was living, like one with her holding a pheasant in her mouth or something," Ryan said. The kid never disappoints. I giggled, while the women gritted on the boy.
The day of the vet appointment came, and I loaded the pitiful animal into my car and made the short drive to the animal hospital. "What seems to be the problem?" the cheery young veterinarian asked.
"Um, she's drinking lots of water and hardly eating at all. Very lethargic, barely moves, except to pee on the floor," I answered with a hint of irritation while thinking of how many times I'd mopped up dog urine in the last month. To be completely candid, I'm not an inside of the house pet kind of guy. I feel like that if God wanted animals in the house, he would have given them the ability to build their own and stay out of mine. But, I'm always overruled, so I've simply learned to live with what I can't control.
The vet began feeling around the dog's abdomen, looked at her teeth and complimented me on how nice her teeth looked. "Wow, I see you've had her teeth cleaned on a regular basis!"
"Uh, no. I guess she just has nice teeth." I had no idea that dogs could have their teeth cleaned.
"We'll need to run some tests, which require blood work, so sit tight and we'll be back in a few minutes."
Directly, Kristi and the kids popped into the exam room. "Where's Tip?!" Kristi asked, exasperatedly.
"Back for blood work. Did you know that there's pet dentists?" I asked with a scrunched up forehead.
"Of course, I thought about taking Tippy, but just never did." I was glad she never did. I'm old school and dog dentists are not people that real men take dogs to. Dog dentists... Really?
Suddenly, and without warning, the vet and our dog burst through the door. "I have good news and bad news. There's nothing wrong with her heart, liver, pancreas, kidneys or lungs. She does however have diabetes. I stared at my wife. I pivoted my stare to the veterinarian. "Do you have questions Mr. Fix?"
"Dog dentists, diabetes? What's next hemorrhoids?" I quipped, without thinking.
"Why don't you and Ryan head home, and I'll finish up here," Kristi interjected, sensing my displeasure with our incredibly weak, spoiled dog. Ryan chuckled and shook his head. We stood and exited the exam room and drove home.
Soon, Kristi and Sidney along with our diabetic dog, strode through the kitchen door. "Oh, I'm sooooo glad that she's just a diabetic. I can't imagine life without her," my overjoyed wife exclaimed as she stroked the fur of Tippy. "Now, we will have to give her insulin shots twice a day for the rest of her life. We already gave her the first one, so I'll show you how tomorrow morning."
"You know, back in my day, a dog made one trip to the doctor and that was to be spayed or neutered. After that, it was outside city. Our little beagle (which was named Tippy as well) lived to be sixteen-years-old and never spent one day in our house. She had maybe five baths that I can remember and that was because dad threw her into the river. She ate table scraps, chicken bones, ham bones, potato chips, and dead animals. She drank from mud puddles, had fleas, and ticks nearly sucked her dry. But, she always bounced back. She was tough from living outside. Dogs today are so spoiled that they can barely live ten years! If they do live that long, there diabetics, and have all sorts of other ailments. A good drink from a mud puddle with a sheen of motor oil floating on it would do her some good! A dog dentist? I've never heard of such nonsense! Good grief!" I whined.
Ryan stared at me with sympathetic eyes and spoke. "Um dad, mom's not in here now. But, I hear you. Tippy's a first world dog and first world dogs have real problems. You know the U.S. has a weight problem when even the dogs are diabetic," the boy said as he exited the room laughing.
So there you have it. We own a diabetic dog with clean teeth. I still say that gnawing on a chicken bone and a swig of stagnant water could have prevented this.
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