The Death of Me

Last Friday Todd took Oliver to the vet.  He wasn't acting like himself, he wasn't getting up to follow us from room to room and he'd stopped trying to come to the basement for "family time" in the evenings.  He was hobbling around, something was wrong with one of his front legs.  We were both very nervous.  Todd texted me from the vets office and I sat on pins and needles, just waiting for the call that would send me running to the vet to say goodbye.

Oliver's prognosis?
A variation on pulled muscle.  He was prescribed some anti-inflammatory medication and limited activity for 4 weeks.  Aside from that, he's healthy as a horse.

Of COURSE he is.

Here's the thing about Oliver:  he's been trying to give me a heart attack for at least 10 years.

I was 23 when I got Oliver.  I was single, living alone in a one bedroom apartment in North Carolina.  I wasn't sure I was ready for the responsibility of a puppy, but if I didn't take him, he was going to the pound.  So -- I figured I had to give it a shot. 

He fit in the palm of my hand the day I brought him home.  We had some trials and tribulations with potty training, and Oliver chewed up everything: blankets, shoes, and later, once I had a roommate - many many of her bras and -- on at least one occasion -- a plate piled high with leftover pizza.  He was your average, run of the mill puppy, and we were making it work.

Then, one day, we were enjoying a leisurely ride home from a friends house, the car windows half rolled down to enjoy the night air.  We were rounding the corner, approximately 30 feet from my apartment when Oliver spotted a cat.  The dog lost his mind!  Before I even knew what had happened, he had thrown himself out the back window, catching his back legs on the window and coming down hard on his side.  I slammed on the brakes and sat there, completely stunned, SURE that I had just killed my dog.  And then, there he was, trotting around to the drivers side door, a completely bewildered look on his face, tail wagging slightly -- totally fine. 

That was the beginning.  After that, there was the time he stepped on the window button while his head was out the window, and raised the window on his neck.  Once again, I slammed on the brakes, pulled over to the side of the road.  My heart was racing as I tried to remove his paw from the button pushing the window and pried my dogs head out of its self imposed vise. He, of course, was just fine.

Another time, I was walking him at a cabin resort while on vacation with my family "up north".  A car was coming up behind us, so I tugged to pull him over to the side of the road and and bucked and jerked himself out of his collar, stumbling backwards and causing the slowest car accident I've ever seen in my life.  That is, a car traveling 3 miles per hour -- hit my dog.  It was like a slow motion nightmare wherein the car literally tapped my dog and knocked him over. I was a wreck. Oliver?  Totally fine.

Shortly after I met Todd, Todd and Oliver were playing fetch at my parent's house when Oliver let out a yelp and began hobbling on 3 legs.  He'd torn his ACL and required surgery.  Less than 2 weeks post-surgery, the other ACL went out.  I was so sure that he was never going to recover, that I was going to have to make some really tough decisions.  He was only 5.  I cried and cried.  That was six years ago, and Oliver - of course - is fine.

I know that he's getting older.  He's 11 now.  Given his track record, he's already lived longer than I ever expected him to, and someday I really am going to have to make some tough decisions.  In the meantime, he seems to enjoy being our resident drama queen (well, one of them) and he is, apparently, as healthy as ever.  He still plays fetch until he falls over from exhaustion, and still gives big slobbery dog kisses every chance he gets.

He may be older, slower, but he's still keeping us on our toes!