Could this day get any worse?!

Taking Winston to the vet yesterday was a major ordeal, and yet we got through it with the kindness of the staff at the vet clinic.

I woke up with the bright idea of pulling the car to the curb so Winston could step inside without the challenge of having to go up a step. It sounded good in theory, but Dillon and I got in a fight about it after she parked her car at the curb in front of our house. A rim at the bottom of the doorway was still going to make it impossible for Winston to drag himself inside. Maybe my smaller car would be better? No. Maybe Winston would be able to move better if Dillon stopped yelling at me?

“Let’s just GO!”

With a huge effort, Dillon heaved Winston’s butt into her car and off we went. Later she told me that this trip is when it hit her how bad Winston’s health really is, bringing back unhappy memories of when I first needed a wheelchair. On the way to the vet, we were both thinking that we can’t take Winston to the vet twice a week for shots. We had reached our limit.

“I’ll go in and see if a tech can give him his shot in the car,” I offered.

“Good idea!” Finally Dillon and I were in agreement again.

The vet’s receptionist, a young pregnant woman, readily agreed to send a tech out.

“We can’t keep driving him here twice a week. Our dog weighs more than 100 pounds and he can’t get into the car on his own! Do you make house calls?” I asked in desperation.

The answer was yes -- but we would have to pay for the remaining three weeks of shots upfront.
I don't know what got into me, but here’s what I blurted out: “Will we get a refund if he dies before then?”

The receptionist focused on me in a new way, with a look of deep kindness.

“Is it really that bad?”

“Well, he can’t walk! When I tried to walk him a few days ago he dragged his foot until his toenail started bleeding”

She listened while I described more of the horror. Then she arranged for a tech to come to our house to give the injections, assured me that it was too soon to tell if the shots would help, promised a refund on unused shots if Winston died, and offered me stronger pain pills (Tramadol) for Winston at a discount. I was reluctant to accept the drugs.

“You seem upset,” she noted.

“Maybe I should take the pills.”

“You’ll feel better if your dog isn’t in pain.” True. I could always decided later whether to actually give Winston the drugs.

Pills in hand, I led the tech to the car. He was a big, jolly young Latino who had worked with Winston before. He introduced himself as Jose.

“Thank you SO much!” Dillon exclaimed when he came out to give Winston the shot. To our relief, Jose promised to come to our house for all future shots for a mere $20 per visit.

We all felt better on the ride home, but one obstacle remained. We still had to get Winston back out of the car.

Dillon pulled to the curb and opened the back door. Winston put his front feet on the grass and looked up at us, confused, as his hind end refused to follow. He was firmly seated on the floor of the car. Dillon tried to pull him out. No go.

Dillon brought some plywood boards from the garage to make a ramp for him. No amount of coaxing would even make him put his front paws on that contraption.

I went in the house to get some treats. Dillon reported later that she and Winston sank to a new emotional low while I was gone.

I returned with the treats and Dillon removed the boards, stepping in some other dog’s poop on our lawn in the process. Could this day get any worse?

Finally Dillon got in the car, pushing and lifting Winston from behind while I lured him forward with the treats. It worked. We were home free.

When we got back in the house, Winston and I both lay down to rest on the floor. He gave me a tragic look that I seemed to recognize from my own days in a wheelchair: “I don’t want to be a burden.”