|My magic boy, Regall Azkaban ("Clowny")|
I let them out, I let our foster dog Mannie out, I fed the dogs...all went as it normally did. That evening Clowny had one of his more vacant episodes, but with him being almost 11 and that night there was a thunderstorm on the way, I didn't worry too much.
The next morning, last Thursday, I got up and went to work as normal. Hubs rang me on my way in to say that Clown had lost complete use of his back legs and it looked like he had experienced a stroke. I nearly crashed my car. Of course, I turned around and headed back home, trying to find an open vet practice as I went. The one we normally use, whom I will call Vet #1, had a voice mail message telling me to call the E-Vet. I did that, and the nice girl that answered told me that they don't take emergency clients after 0730 because the overnight vets had left. Sorry?
I then called Vet #2, whom I think will become Vet #1 in the future, and they were not only in the office but said to bring Clowny in right away. I got back home, assessed damage, cried some more, and Hubs and I rushed him off to the vet. Massive Steroid Jab number One happened and we took him back home.
That was Thursday. I worked from home that day, afraid to leave Clowny for too long. He was dead weight that day, passed out cold for most of it, probably from the massive steroid jab the vet gave him. I tried to help him move around because I can't lift him like Hubs can, and only resulted in both of us being frustrated and him almost biting me in my face. Thursday was a crappy day to say the least.
Then Friday happened. We took Clowny back to the vet for Massive Steroid Jab number Two, and by the time we got ready to leave the vet he was moving his back legs. He couldn't keep them under himself or stand, really, but he could move them.
I got them settled at home and headed off to work with my head ANYWHERE but in my office at Clemson. Hubs rang me around lunchtime to tell me that Clowny had RUN ACROSS THE YARD to investigate the men dumping the topsoil that Hubs had ordered. Run.Across.The.Yard. He said it wasn't pretty in the least but Clowny was MOVING ON HIS OWN.
Friday night was uneventful other than doing massive loads of laundry. Greyhounds, it seems, are like small children who have waited too long to tell someone they need to pee. When you pick either of them up and squeeze the bladder, you are going to get wet.
Saturday morning we checked in with the vet who said to keep him on 25mg of prednisone a day until Monday when we would re-assess. By Saturday evening, this happened:
That is Clowny, wobbly and stumbling and absolutely certain that he can make it across the yard WITHOUT YOUR HELP, THANK YOU VERY MUCH MOMMY. And me, in a squeaky voice, proud of his progress and terrified that he will hurt himself and in complete and utter AWE that the paralysed greyhound I'd seen on Thursday was now running, sort of, in the yard.
More leaps of faith to come. More progress to report. I have never been prouder to be Clowny's Mommy. Not ever. Watch this space.