It’s a Good Thing I Have M.S.!

 Oboe and his new favorite nurse! Read below to learn about “Doggie Trauma in the Snow storm”…..

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Note to readers: All stories here in the Sunshine are completely true.  Even I couldn’t write fiction this good; every story here is a true depiction of our crazy and sometimes hysterical lives.  Sure, I sometimes embellish slightly, for poetic license or for dramatic effect.  But overall, every story here is 100% true including this one.  

On Saturday afternoon, in the midst of the blizzard of the century, the hubby was helping my middle step-child Kimmy to get her car unstuck from the four feet of snow in the driveway. The three of us were battling and arguing because Kimmy wanted to drive to Buffalo in the blizzard.  Oboe and I were outside, pretending to help but we were really just playing “find the snowball in the snow pile” together.  When it became too cold for my feet and his paws, we headed for the house.  Kimmy followed right behind, as the hubby began two hours of snow blowing.  Kerri Elizabeth, the youngest asked, “Kim, what’s wrong with Oboe?”

I looked over my shoulder and he was standing right behind me, seemingly just fine.  “Nothing,” I said.  “Then why is he bleeding all over the place?” she replied.  Bleeding?  Oh my goodness.  It looked like we gutted a deer in the family room (OK, that was for dramatic effect – but there really was blood everywhere – in the snow, in the mud room, all over the carpet, and all over the kitchen floor).

I’m not the best in crisis mode, so I threw him down on the floor to look for the source of the blood while simultaneously screaming, “Go get your father!! (But do it calmly so you don’t upset the dog)!”  We determined that Oboe had broken one of his claws, almost to the quick, and it was still half-attached.  Blood was gushing.  We contemplated taking him to the emergency room (the only one open in the city) but it was a 45-minute drive in good weather and of course we were in the heart of the storm of the century. The police had issued bulletins to stay off the roads, especially the highways (and Kimmy wanted to drive to Buffalo)! Instead, I called the emergency hotline and frantically explained what was going on.  I felt like we were in a bad episode of “Rescue 9-1-1” and I was the four-year-old trying to explain that someone at home just had a heart attack.

The nurse on the other end of the phone was amazing.  “The first thing you need to do, Kim, is CALM DOWN!” she said.  I tried.  I relayed her instructions to the hubby, who was covered head-to-toe in snow and bent over the dog on the floor.  We put flour into the wound to try to halt the bleeding and then started to put pressure on the cut with a towel.  Tom left us three girls to handle the crisis while he continued to battle the feet of snow outside. “Flour and pressure, flour and pressure,” he said. As he walked away, he looked at me as if to ask, “Are you going to be OK?”  I replied with a look that was reminiscent of George Lopez’s famous answer for everything: “I Got This!” What a sight we were.  Kimmy, with one, pink rubber glove on her hand, washing the carpets with Oxi-Clean (man does that stuff work), Kerri playing nurse-assistant, handing me flour and towels and other repair utensils, and me, on the floor with the dog trying to stop the bleeding.

At one point I became distracted and then turned back around and started tending to the wound again.  Ever so gently, Kerri said, “Um, Kim, I think you are flouring the wrong paw.”  I shook my head and told her I knew exactly what I was doing.  “Then we have another problem, because he’s bleeding from this paw, too.”  Another paw? Another wound?  I stopped what I was doing and examined the floured paw and it was just fine.  “Darn M.S. brain”, I said.  We all stopped, laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, Kimmy said, “Here comes another Blog article,” and I began to tend to the truly injured foot instead.

Now, take a moment’s pause here and picture the scene.  There is a trail of blood from our mudroom, through the family room (puddles) and into the kitchen where Kerri and I were tending to Oboe.  Kimmy’s scrubbing the carpet.  Tom’s outside buried in feet of snow.  I’m on my hands and knees, covered in flour and blood, some of which had come together in a pasty-pink mixture.  Kerri is sitting on a footstool prepared to hand surgical instruments to me (dramatic effect again – she had scissors, gauze, and tape).  And, then there’s Oboe.  Both front paws, covered in flour.  At this time, so was his nose and mouth.  For each tablespoon I poured into the wound, he licked half of it away. Blood framed some of the flour on his face and chin. Flour was everywhere.  We looked like we were in the middle of a cocaine party gone wrong in Soho. When you add in my syringes that were laying on the countertop, mid way through the transfer from fridge to medicine cabinet before the crisis, it was truly a sight.  I was waiting for the D.E.A. to raid us through the sliding glass doors.  It was a good thing there was four feet of snow on the deck blocking the entrance.

Using gauze, I tried to wrap up the hurt toe on the bad paw.  Part of the gauze snagged the hanging claw and Oboe went ballistic.  He screamed in a way I’ve never heard before (and never want to hear again) and lightly nipped my hand as if to ask, “What the hell are you doing to me?!”  Blood squirted, flour went flying, my heart was racing and I was trying to hold it all together.  I couldn’t even look down at his paw because of how bad it looked during my last glance. Before I could say anything, Kerri was on her feet, and said, “I’m getting him!”  She ran outside, again, for her dad, who this time returned looking like the abominable snowman.  His goatee was frozen solid.  I couldn’t tell if he had a hat on his head or just a helmet of snow.  He ran onto the scene, ever so calm, dripping water and mud, and a little motor oil onto the blood/flour mixtures all over the floor.  He calmed Oboe down and proceeded to wrap his paw completely.  We put one of his little Cabela’s winter doggie boots on the wounded paw and left him to relax a little. 

It was then that it dawned on me.  Thank goodness I have M.S.  You may ask why.  Before M.S., the only medical supplies found in my house were Band-Aids – and usually only the leftovers, the tiny little ones that no one else wanted.  Once I was diagnosed with M.S., we stocked up on everything.  But the critical elements of Oboe’s emergency treatment kit — gauze pads, antibiotic cream, and medical tape, came from my home healthcare nurse after she taught me how to personally infuse my IV with Solumedrol.  Thank goodness I have M.S.! Otherwise, Oboe likely would have been wrapped with a kitchen towel that was secured by duct tape.

A few hours later, after we let Oboe out one more time before bedtime, we thought we should check the dressing on the wound.  His boot, while outside, filled up with ice and when we removed it, we saw that the dressing had to be changed.  This time, I lay down on the floor behind him and held him in a big bear hug.  Tom spoke so soothingly that both of the girls and me were in a trance.  Oboe allowed Tom to remove the wrapping, clean out the wound, treat it with cream and then we wrapped it up again.  We made the decision then that no matter the weather on Sunday, we needed to take him to the E.R.  The claw was still hanging there, and it was unbearably painful for the pup.  It wasn’t going to heal on its own and we surmised that the vet would need to cut the rest of the claw away.

Oboe slept on the bed most of the night, with the wounded paw (covered with his bright, orange winter boot) hanging off the edge.  I know this because I woke hour upon hour to check on him.  I was worried he would have sepsis, or that the wrapping would cut off his circulation, or that he’d bleed all over another carpet.  Early in the morning, we loaded him in the car and headed off on the unpaved roads. 

We arrived at the E.R. where I was told there was a baseline $80 emergency charge just to breathe the air in the waiting room.  Oboe hobbled in and when we got into his exam room, he promptly kicked his boot and the wrapping right off of his foot.  And “clink”, so too came the claw.  On its own, it fell right off on the floor. Tom and I looked at him and said, “Oboe! We could have done that at home for free!” 

It was good that we took him in though.  They trimmed up the damaged claw and the others, gave him a shot to ward off infection and wrapped his poor, wounded foot better than we could have in our wildest dreams.  And, of course, now he looks adorable with his right paw wrapped from knee to toe in a big, blue bandage.  He’s not so cute; however, when we have to cover that bandage with a special plastic bag to keep it dry (reminiscent of my days with a Saran-wrapped arm as I protected my IV port from getting wet in the shower). We then have to place an old sock over the bag, taped at the knee – all so he can go outside.  Apparently, you can’t walk on the ice and snow with plastic wrap on the bottoms of your feet.  He went flying down the back stairs on his first attempt.  The old sock at least allows him to make it outside, ever so briefly, without wiping out.

Our deepest gratitude goes out to the terrific staff at the Northwest Pennsylvania Pet Emergency Center. Just like with Humpty Dumpty, they put our Oboe back together again and turned him into a Dr. Seuss story:

One foot, Two foot, Oboe, Blue foot.  Haven’t you read it?