By Melissa Bowersock
Many of you have followed the adventures of me and my Airedale, Annie, as we’ve explored Northern Arizona and Southern Utah. Here in the Southwest, we are blessed to have so many magnificent places right in our backyard, and Annie and I certainly tried to see as many as possible. What I didn’t write about were the medical challenges Annie was facing. It’s a long, convoluted tale, but one I think is worthy of telling.
Sometime last April, Annie began limping on her left front paw. We hadn’t seen her injure it, hadn’t seen anything that might have strained or sprained the leg, yet still she limped. After several days with no improvement, we took her to our traditional vet. They examined her, x-rayed the leg, and said there was no indication of a problem, so it was probably a soft-tissue sprain or strain. We came home with pain meds and were told to let her rest and put cool compresses on the leg.
After another week or two, the leg did finally heal up, and she was able to go hiking again. It wasn’t long, though, before she began limping again, but this time on her left rear. This worsened until we became alarmed, so back to the vet for more x-rays. As before, there was no indication of an injury, so pain pills, cold compresses, etc. The vet named it “shifting leg lameness.” Interestingly, a knowledgeable friend asked me if the vet did not think the two injuries were related, and I said no; they were just two separate soft-tissue problems.
For a couple of months, Annie was great. She would leap into the car to go for a hike, or happily walk with us just around the neighborhood. We put it all in the past and looked forward to many more explorations in the future.
In July, it started again. She began limping on her left front. I pulled out the pain meds and the cold compresses, and that one seemed to resolve fairly quickly, maybe within a week or two. Whew. Then it started in the left rear. This time, the leg swelled and felt very hard to the touch, the first time we’d seen those symptoms. Back to the vet, but by this time, I was sure they were missing the point.
My same good friend suggested we get her tested for Valley Fever, which could exhibit such symptoms. When I mentioned this to the vet, she scoffed, since Valley Fever is very rare in Southern Utah. However, Annie was born in Arizona, and lived there the first six years of her life. I even remembered that she’d had a similar incident—limping on a hind foot after no apparent injury—when we were still down in Arizona.
I insisted on the test, so the vet complied. Result: negative.
By this time, Annie was improving. The swelling went down, and she was using the leg, although still favoring it. We felt heartened that she was improving, but still, it was taking a long time. Longer than ever before.
Then it started on her right front. This leg also swelled, and even when lying down, she would not touch the foot to the floor. It seemed like it was super-sensitive, although when we checked the leg over (gently, to be sure) she never flinched, never jerked away, never made a sound. As before, we could not see anything to indicate an origin.
Almost in tears, I called the vet. She said we could bring Annie in for another x-ray, but by this time I had lost all confidence in that course of action. I asked about testing Annie for all tick diseases like Lyme disease, and the vet scoffed again and said they rarely had any cases of that in our area. She had nothing else to offer.
Luckily, I just happened to hear of a holistic vet in our area. I contacted her, and we took Annie in. She agreed with me and my friend that it seemed to be more of a systemic issue than several individual injuries. Yea! Finally! She took blood and ran a full baseline, plus she ran a full panel of tick diseases. Result: positive for Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.
All right. Not that I was happy to get that diagnosis, but at least now we had something we could fight. We had a name; we had a prognosis.
The vet laid out a plan of heavy-duty antibiotics, plus ozone therapy. I had never heard of that, but the vet said the ozone potentiated the other meds, killed off micro-organisms, was an anti-inflammatory, and generally made the dogs feel better. Sounded good to me. But before we could even take Annie in for the treatment, her right rear leg went out. Now she was compromised on three legs.
We started the treatment plan, but Annie was so weak, we had to help her outside to potty with the aid of a sling under her belly. She was a trooper and never complained.
The vet said with luck, we should see improvement in two to three days. And we did, sort of. After a couple of days, Annie began to eat a little. Her eyes looked brighter. We were very hopeful… until her left front went out. Now all four legs were compromised.
Taking her outside was impossible. She weighed 78 pounds, and we could not lift her, nor did we want to stress her more by dragging her with the sling. We set her up in the middle of the kitchen floor with towels all around, hand-fed her, brought her water. We kept up the treatments and hoped for a break.
It was not to be. Annie died that night. I was sitting with her, stroking her, telling her what a good girl she was. Her breathing turned labored, then slowed, slowed… stopped.
Annie was gone.
Most of you know the feeling of a dog-shaped hole in your heart. It’s devastation like nothing else. We talk about Annie and cry. We look at pictures of her and cry. We think of the what-ifs and ask why. None of it changes the reality. Annie is gone.
Hug your fur babies extra tightly tonight.
