That whoosh you heard the night before Christmas Eve wasn’t snow sliding off your roof. Nor was it Santa firing up the afterburners to gain lift in the thin North Pole air. It was me, sighing in relief when the vet said those lumps on Buddy’s
Soon, my friend, we will be back in the chukar hills
abdominal X-ray were well, um, “processed” dog food, backed up by shards of shattered cow bones. Those jagged bits jumped off the light board, searing their individual shapes into my mind’s eye.
Thank God these were “before” images, followed by expert digital (as in fingers) manipulation which in turn freed up the blockage in a dramatic manner (maybe that was the whoosh!).
But how did we get to this point? And as important, how do you avoid it and the hours of soul-searching anxiety that accompany most veterinary emergencies? Because you haven’t experienced hell until your loyal canine companion is in pain, confused, and helpless. If you’ve been there, think back now. You know exactly what I’m talking about … don’t you? If not, steel yourself because it is inevitable.
The good news is Buddy’s fine, recovering and eating small bland meals now, working his way back to field-ready condition (I hope by next weekend and our next chukar hunt). But for now, I revel in the bright-eyed vigor he’s showing – a far cry from the tucked-tail mope of Thursday morning.
It’s an agonizing introspection when your dog is at the vet, tubes in his veins. You wish you’d done things differently … but what things, how differently? You swear you’ll never proffer a chew bone again, because that was the cause. You promise to share more quality time afield with him, because that’s what he loves (and so do you). Because you never know which hunt will be your last together.
And that, my friends, is the real lesson. So Buddy and I (and Manny) will see you in the field this weekend, if not sooner.
Scott Linden Outdoors 