The Dog

A Close Run Thing

The apple of her master's eye.
The apple of her master’s eye.

After an extremely long and difficult weekend fraught with stress, I find myself looking down at the daft-headed labrador at my feet with a sense a real relief. About ten days ago, she started to behave a little strangely. She would run ahead on our walks, but sit suddenly down with a bump as if her bottom was giving her grief. Assuming that she was getting wormy, I made a mental note to drop a pill into her next meal. This sitting became more and more frequent over the next day or two, until it reached the point at which she could hardly walk twenty yards without sitting. Her facial expression seemed to convey a pretty serious level of discomfort, and on the few occasions when she was able to lay an egg, it was covered in blood.

Feeling very fretful, I took her in to see a vet friend who suspected that she had eaten something that had become stuck in the pipes. I was given some medicated food and told to keep a close eye on her as we waited for whatever had become lodged to emerge. By Saturday, it was clear that nothing was going to come out. A short walk in Dumfries revealed that she was so weak that she could hardly stand, let alone travel. Something was seriously wrong, and I rang my friend again for advice. Mercifully, he dropped what he was doing and saw her then and there.

Immediately, he spotted that she was seriously dehydrated – infact, so dehydrated that her body had started to shut down. Unless something was done quickly, the dog was done. She was knocked out and X-rayed, but the fascinating black and white image revealed nothing obvious. As he prodded and massaged her guts, he became quite grave and told me that she would need to be operated on without delay. A nurse was called, and I left them to it, feeling extremely weak at the knees.

Scoop will be well known to many readers of this blog, and she has featured in the background of almost everything I have written in the past two years. The thought of losing her without warning was enough to make my head swim. I hadn’t realised what the significance of her death would have really meant, and I still don’t think I have. The sound of this dog’s yawn wakes me up every morning, and she has been on hand to help me shoot everything from grouse and snipe to teal and pinkfoot geese.

I thought of that long retrieve on a fallen wigeon over an icy estuary in January and tried to come to terms with the possibility of losing her that same year. That was one of the proudest moments of my career as a dog owner, and other glowing retrieves on grouse, woodcock and hares began to swim into my memory as competing triumphs. Equally, my recollections of past misdeeds faded, so that I totally overlooked the day she noisily slayed a myxi bunny during a grouse drive and that awful moment at a woodcock shoot when she chased a hare through a free-range chicken farm. As the door of the operating theatre closed, I told myself that she was going to be alright because the alternative was so inconceivable. Scoop is shy with strangers and often seems aloof with many of my friends, by the rose tinted spectacles of her owner mark her out as quite the finest gundog that ever lived.

When the phone rang an hour later, I was surprised to hear that  there had been no intestinal obstruction. I was prepared to hear that half a sheep’s fleece had been pulled out of her guts, but the truth was altogether more surprising. She had suffered a cecal intussusception, a rare condition in which the appendix turns inside out. Untreated, it would have become inflamed and, without a doubt, would have killed her. The exploratory operation had turned into a removal of the appendix.

Almost three days later, Scoop is nearly back to 100%. As soon as she walked in the front door, she began begging for food. With a labrador’s ability to manipulate kindness, she rolls her eyes and groans periodically, and my girlfriend showers her with love and attention. It was a very close thing, and it all could have turned out very differently. As she groans and farts luxuriously on my feet as I type this, I am smiling from ear to ear; appreciating every misdeed and theft with a new indulgence, because there is no dog in the world as valuable as your own.

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