Purebred Danes surprise me at shelter

This is one of the Great Danes who cheered me up at the shelter

I had an amazing experience in the animal shelter right after the Pet Loss Support Group meeting. I walked among the cages, visiting the dogs. I went there many times in the months after Winston died, always hoping to find another Great Dane or Dane mix. Nothing.

But this time I turned the last corner, expecting to see more Pit Bulls, and there stood two gorgeous two-year-old purebred Great Danes! One was a Harlequin female, and her mate was a mantle male. They had been turned in by their owner.

I fell in love with them and spent a long time looking at them and talking to them. I tried to imagine my new pup full-grown and as big as they were. The staff said that the Danes were “too much dog” for the owner, and that the owner couldn’t afford to feed them anymore. I longed to adopt the pair of them, and couldn’t imagine how anybody could give them up. Yes, I know it’s irrational, when I had my own half-grown Dane pup at home that I was struggling to handle. But that was my true feeling, and it renewed my spirit. I returned home with a heart full of love for my new pup, and new resolve to love him for exactly who HE is.

I found out from the staff that both Danes were already reserved for new homes, so they are having a happy ending, too.

Colossal Dane-size dog crate

Midwest Metals Big Dog Crate

I’ve been trying to wrap my mind around the idea of a dog crate big enough for a new Great Dane puppy that we hope to get.

There’s one “Colossal” crate that’s big enough for a full-grown Dane. It’s 45 inches tall -- that’s almost 4 feet! The length is 54 inches -- almost five feet. It’s three feet wide.

I kept walking around our bedroom with a yardstick, trying to imagine this massive crate in our space. It blew my mind. I just could not imagine it.

Our previous Dane had curled up happily under a table by the bed, no problem. But he came to us when he was a year old -- housebroken and well past the chewing stage when a puppy can be a danger to himself.

They call it a crate, but it’s actually a CAGE made of wires. Dillon and I didn’t like the idea of a cage, even though it’s for the safely of the pup. When people said “crate,” I had visualized a plastic box with a wire door like our cat carrier. But the biggest of these plastic crates is only (!) three feet high. I read that a Dane can be 33 inches at the shoulder at just six months old.

The plastic crates look more comfortable for the dog. Who wants to lie against wires? And doggie “accidents” can spray right through the wires of the Colossal crate, while the plastic crate contains it.

We figured that we don’t need a crate big enough to hold our Dane when he’s full grown. We can keep him in the hallway if necessary, and we’d like him to have the run of the house.

Finally we called our favorite Great Dane breeder with our concerns. She said the 3-foot plastic crate is big enough if we just want to keep our puppy in a crate until he is housebroken and done teething. She estimated that to be age 4 to 6 months.

What a relief! These 3-foot-high crates are cheaper, easier to find, and will fit into the bedroom without rearranging ALL the furniture.

P.S. on Oct. 16, 2008

OK, OK, I was wrong and all of you whose comments told me to buy the colossal crate were right. We DID end up buying this exact same crate recently and it’s working well for our Dane puppy. He outgrew the three-foot-high crate about a month ago. He was almost 5 months old -- still in the midst of teething and not safe to have the run of the bedroom. Now at almost 6 months old, he likes this colossal crate better than the old plastic one -- not only because it’s bigger, but because it allows greater air circulation and he can see what what’s happening in the room around him.

It definitely was more work to set up than the plastic type of crate. I had to hire a handyman to help. He laughed when he read the instructions, which never call it a cage or even a crate, but instead refer to it as a “pet home.”

All jokes aside, my Great Dane puppy does seem to consider it a peaceful, relaxing home of his own.

Remembering the good times

Life since Winston died is sad and lonely beyond words. Dillon and I keep watching this old video of him over and over. It shows Winston running and playing in his prime back in 2006.

Extra-large dog diapers

Winston has completely lost control over his bladder. He drips urine almost constantly, then looks ashamed and tries to lick it up. Dillon and I were at our wit’s end after trying to put newspapers under him to absorb his pee every time he changed position. My muscles ached and I got in touch with the anger stage of the grief process.

We knew that we could not go on like that. With heavy hearts, we called Dr. Beasley to discuss our options, including euthanasia.

She was sorry to hear that Winston could no longer walk or control his urination, and amazed to hear that he was otherwise cheerful and healthy. “Usually something else is bad. It’s unusual when it’s just the legs,” she said.

I don’t even know how we managed to bring up the topic of euthanasia.

“I’d hate to euthanize a dog just for incontinence,” she said. “If he was my dog, I’d put him in a cart and in a dog diaper for a while. But he’s not my dog…”

Dog diapers?

But did Dr. Beasley actually know anyone who had done this with a 100-pound dog like Winston?

Well, no. But she did know people who had done it for their 80-pound pit bull. The dog pulled himself around on his front legs and they kept him alive for three more years. “Of course, there’s a big difference between 80 pounds and 100 pounds,” she admitted.

Well, Dillon and I decided that dog diapers were worth a try.

I called the local pet store and found out that they do make extra-large dog diapers that are big enough for Winston. The fact that they existed was encouraging. Dillon and I drove over and bought the “male diaper wrap garment” and some diaper pads.

Winston surprised me by welcoming this new device. He didn’t try to get out of his diaper. Instead, he seemed relieved to not be soiling the house anymore. He still looked pretty sharp in his navy-blue denim wrap, too.

The wrap fits well, but the pads seem to be designed for 10-pound dogs. They are way, way too small for Winston’s needs. We’re having to load his wrap with wads of towels. I’ll be looking into diapers and pads designed for adult human incontinence.

Sometimes it seems extreme and eccentric to go to such lengths to care for a dog, to give a dog the type of elder care that is usually reserved for humans. But then I think about who helped me and Dillon when I was mostly housebound. People knew, but rarely visited or offered help. My family did what they could, but they live too far away to come more than once or twice a year. We got the best help from paid assistants -- and Winston, who was far more humane than most humans.

Dealing with Winston’s health challenges is very draining, and sometimes I don't know how much of myself to keep giving. Exiling him to the yard for incontinence would probably be worse than death for Winston. His only wish is to be near us.

True tales from life with an incontinent Dane

Dillon and I got in a fight early this morning over how to get Winston across our patio without scraping his knees and thighs against the cement. Our goal was to get him to the grass to poop. It took a path patched together from yoga mats and cardboard. We motivated Winston to drag his butt across it by putting his breakfast on a chaise longue out on the grass.

It all had to be done quickly as soon as we got up, before Winston pooped in the house. This method worked, but left me and Dillon frazzled.

I asked Dillon to rearrange the yoga mats for Winston’s return trip, then I was dissatisfied and redid it again myself. She was outraged.

“I’m never going to ask you what to do any more,” she snapped. “I’m just going to do it myself!”

“Fine! You two just stay out here.” I went back inside and hurried into the bathroom. Winston wasn’t the only one who needed to pee.

Within less than a minute, Dillon was yelling at me again. “Lynnie, should I bring Winston back in the house? What should I do?”

After that I called in a subscription to the daily LA Times today so we would have a constant supply of newspapers to clean up after Winston’s messes in the house. Hey, I might actually enjoy reading it, too!

Back in the saddle

Jose, the vet tech, has started making house calls twice a week to give Winston his Adequan shots. He’s a big guy, and he says he can identify with how Winston feels. “I’m on my feet all day, and sometimes my bones just begin to ache.” This will continue for 3 weeks.

On his second visit he brought Winston’s new “Walk About” harness for his hips. Jose said he uses this type of equipment all the time to walk dogs after surgery. He was quite adept at putting it on and using it to hold Winston’s rear end up while he walked. Winston was thrilled when it enabled him to up and down our front porch steps again.

Winston was NOT thrilled that night when Dillon tried to use it with him. It’s going to take practice to make it work. Also, they ordered extra large size. Winston does seem larger than life, but it’s a bit too big.

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.”