By request:
Ophelia was old when I met her. So old, stiff, and broad, in fact, that it was hard to imagine how she must have looked in her youth. She was to the point that it was her size alone that kept her looking like a dane. Regardless, I was instantly in love. Ophelia didn't get excited about anything. She didn't pull or rush. She took her time and longed to be petted. But with her at the ripe old age of 11, everyone was sure she was running out of time. I, the permanent optimist, chose to disagree. But that was then.
Ophelia began having blood in her urine. Then a tumor developed that made her look like she had a set of balls. That eventually popped. She bled and bled. Not life threatening type bleeding, but bleeding none the less. Within a few days of that, she started vomitting her breakfast, pain meds included. Then, without those to aid her, she stopped being able to hoist her body up. She struggled hopelessly, and I tried to help her, but my efforts were also hopeless.
Shortly after that, I went on vacation, feeling fairly certain that the goodbye I said the day I left would be the last goodbye I said to her. She looked pained and embarrassed, but mostly, she just looked sad. I finally realized that maybe, just maybe, everyone had been right.
When I returned from my vacation, I asked about Ophelia, knowing what answer I would get. Yes, she'd made it thru her days of boarding, but when her owners saw her, they realized that anymore, her life was a burden. Her ashes returned the same day I did.
For a dane, 11 years is a life well lived, but it's still pretty hard when a good life comes to an end.
Unknown "Balls" Inspired - 16 years, 8 months, 10 days ago

WARNING: Sad story, with a touch of corny, lies ahead -
A couple of months ago, a great dane came into our clinic because she was limping and generally painful in her left front leg. We drew blood, took a couple of x-rays, and the unofficial diagnosis was bone cancer. The dane was 8, so no further diagnosis - no true, full gauntlet of testing style diagnosis, I guess - was made. She went home to her family so she could spend the rest of her days in their company, but before that, she tugged the ol heart strings a little. Maybe because of my soft spot for danes. Maybe because she was beautiful. Maybe it was her limp. Or maybe, and most likely, it was because she was so sweet I can't even think of a word strong enough to encompass her sweetness.
Last week, with her lower leg swollen to probably 3 or 4 times it's normal size, she came in to be euthanized. She limped slowly around the corner to the room where she lay on a towel at her owners command. The doctor explained the process to the owners, both teary, and they requested a sedation before the full strength sedative, the sleep away. By the way, depending on your tone when you say that, I believe it may or may not be an apt name. For example, it could mean no more sleep.. or it could be like a light, pleasant suggestion... either way. I stayed in the room while the doctor retrieved the first sedative. The man kneeled, his face buried in her neck, tears streaming. The woman, however, looked at me and said, "I don't know how you do your job." I had no answer. I don't do my job. Not that part. But I felt that the honesty of my approach may decrease my credibility, so I remained quiet. The truth of it is that I tend to be the one hugging the owners, trying not to cry until I walk away b/c I don't want to make their job harder.
I left before the dog was put down, telling my coworker that she'd have to help, because I couldn't. I couldn't watch her head droop as her body quit. I couldn't put her in a plastic bag. I couldn't carry her to the dumpster because her owners requested a "city burial." So I walked out, went to lunch on a list of I couldn'ts... but what killed is that I couldn't cry either. I just shut down. That's the second dane we've lost in less than a month. Both were old and sick beyond repair, and as corny as it sounds, I hope that Moxie, one day, might be the danes they were. If you have any desire to hear the story of the other lost dane, in an installment that will be considerably longer, you can feel free to request it, but I have to tell you, that story is a little more rough.
Unknown "Balls" Inspired - 16 years, 8 months, 12 days ago

Despite the fact that my first tale, punny and amazing as it is, has gone un-thumbs-upped, I'm going to post the urine story tonight. So here we go.
There's this dog that boards at my place of miniature business from time to time. We'll call her Molly, because that's her name. Molly is a schnauzer, and I'm not entirely sure what's wrong with her. After an arsenal of negative tests, the vets best guess is some sort of tick derived illness. It's given Molly quite a unique quality - she looks drunk when she walks, and she lacks a certain amount of control over her limbs, and bowels, for that matter. I find the whole thing sad, yet endearing, and am pretty much unable to get upset with her. In fact, despite her constant odor and dirtiness (from all the falling in inappropriate places, you know), I'm quite attached. You can't hate the handicapped - unless they cut you off in traffic, of course. Molly rarely does that.
Anyway, so taking Molly out to the bathroom is quite an ordeal, especially after a recent rain because she very rarely plans where she'll fall, which often leads to excessive amounts of mud. I take a towel, perhaps a lead, and tend to stay close. I also usually take her out last. Maybe I care more at the end. Who knows. So here it is, 5 o'clock on Tuesday, and Molly's up to bat. I forgot to grab a towel before I got her, so I just kind of held her under the arms until I could get to a towel. I never got to a towel. About two steps past her cage, I feel a warm sensation running down my leg. Oddly, it was the outside of my leg. A hand across the forehead on that one - at least my body was still functioning - as was Molly's, of course, but hers was functioning a touch soon, and it was functioning all down my left leg. My pocket was so soaked that I could have wrung out my underwear. It went all the way down my leg. There was a puddled line from in front of her cage to the very spot where we stopped. I just stood there, unsure of what my next move was supposed to be. Luckily, my coworker was sympathetic. "Dammit, Shannon, now I'm going to have to mop the kitchen."
Unknown "Balls" Inspired - 16 years, 8 months, 15 days ago

Being a kennel worker and vet tech, I feel that I'm of just the right caliber to write a "blog" for the tales section... or perhaps the "tails" section, as I like to think of it. To start, I'd like to share a story of my first day back at work after my 10 day Christmas/New Years vacation.
I was sick. Sick like I yo-yo'd between blowing snot from my brain (via my nose, of course), feeling dizzy, and burning up. Sometimes I did all 3 at once.
So a fella comes in with his dog for a nail trim. I don't remember their names. Doesn't matter. He usually does the nail trims at home, he tells, but the dog was getting a little too crazy. He explained to me also that he didn't like the way she was walking, or how she yelped when he tried to trim the nails on one particular foot. In my head I thought, "Maybe you should have said foot looked at, douche bag." Again, I was sick. Douche bag just felt right to think. Whatever. It panned out into nothing, really. The foot deal that is. Except that she yelped excessively while the nails on that foot were being trimmed, just as he'd promised. The point is that foot number 1 went great. On foot number 2, she started to freak, and by freak I mean she started flailing (sp?) and shitting excessively. Everywhere. I was unaware at first, seeing as I was focused on her and my nose function was MIA. Then, I saw it, a ring of shit surrounding me. I couldn't move without hitting it. I was trapped. Then I noticed that it was not just around me. It was on me. And after that was cleaned up, just as the nail trimming began again, she dropped another twosie. It was horrific. We called in back-up in the form of another worker to help distract the dog. Of course, it was ineffective, but the job did get finished. I stood up, shaking the bit of poo from my pant leg (again, this is her poo, not mine). Horror music began to play. Maybe just in my head. I don't know, but it was definitely there. My right pant leg was covered in shit. Huge, streaking masses so powerful that even my nose could pick up the odor. My coworker took her up front for me. Thank God for baby wipes. (read: they're great for removing both the appearance and odor of feces from clothing).

Tune in tomorrow (or whenever I get around to it), for a dazzling tail (punny!) of the next day's urine.
Unknown "Balls" Inspired - 16 years, 8 months, 16 days ago