A Super Dog
A Super Dog
Meet an inspiring dog who can change your life.
I punched off the alarm and lingered in bed, feeling the warmth of our dachshund curled on top of the blanket.
Lance always slept on the bed when my husband, Caio, was away in Brazil on business. Four and a half years old, Lance was intelligent, playful, affectionate, with a slender tail that never stopped wagging.
But for Caio and me, he was more than just good company. We’d been unable to have kids, and Lance filled a big place in our lives.
I climbed out of bed and set him on the floor. “Maybe you’ll come to the office today,” I said. The ad agency where I worked was dog friendly. Halfway to the kitchen I realized there was no patter of paws behind me. I went back to the bedroom. Lance was in the same place.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk!” I said. Even this magic word failed to budge him. He stared at me with a strange pleading look in his brown eyes. I went to the kitchen and came back with a treat.
“Ground turkey, Lance!” He heaved himself up on his front legs and lurched toward me, dragging his rear legs. How had they suddenly become useless?
Frightened, I wrapped him in his blanket and took him to the animal hospital. The whole way there, Lance kept that imploring gaze on me. The vet made the diagnosis.
“It’s a ruptured disc pressing on the spinal cord,” he said. A common condition with dachshunds, usually correctable with surgery. “The sooner it’s done, the better his chances will be.”
The vet added that there was a 25 percent chance the operation would fail, but I was certain that between surgery and prayers, our dog would be healed.
I phoned my boss I wouldn’t be in and then reached Caio in Brazil. He cancelled his appointments and booked the next flight home, which wouldn’t get him here till the next day.
I was alone in the waiting room. Not a comforting space like the prayer corner I’d set up in our bedroom, but that wasn’t going to stop me from praying fervently for our Lance.
At last the surgery was over and I was allowed to see him. His back was shaved to bare skin, stitches closing a five-inch incision. With every breath came a moan of pain. The next three days Caio and I practically lived at the animal hospital. Lance was miserable, his eyes begging, Take me home !
“Soon you’ll be back in the park again, chasing your ball, making friends with all the kids,” I promised.
At home Lance had to be crated for 45 days. We found a mesh-sided box he could see out of and fitted it with cushions and his favorite toys. Within a few days the pain was gone and Lance was in his customary high spirits, flipping his red ball around with his nose.
But the weeks passed, and he didn’t seem to be regaining the use of his back legs.
I e-mailed other dachshund owners. One of them recommended an animal physical therapist, Dr. Martha Sanchez. She tried herbal medicine, acupuncture and water therapy–to no avail. Lance was still pulling himself forward with his front legs, dragging his hindquarters pathetically behind him.
Since he couldn’t wag his tail, he learned to express his feelings with his floppy ears, wiggling them to signal delight, hunching them back when he was anxious. Every day I knelt in the prayer corner of our bedroom, begging God to heal our dog.
Two months after surgery we learned of the veterinary school at the University of Florida in Gainesville. They had an MRI machine for small animals and a world-famous veterinary neurosurgeon, Dr. Roger Clemmons.
Through the friend of a friend we got an appointment and drove the five hours north.