[Dailydrool] Our Elsinore and young Charlie went to Arkansas

[Elizabeth Lindsey]

Many thanks to everyone who e-mailed me advice on over-the-counter  
medications and dosages to use to treat young Charlie's bumbly bowels  
problem!

On our way out of town I stopped at a drugstore to pick up some  
Immodium-AD, and right there in the parking lot I squirted what I  
could down Charlie's throat. He was extremely unhappy with me about  
this and sulked for miles afterwards. I'm pleased to report that  
during our first morning walk at my in-laws' house last Tuesday it  
became clear that young Charlie was no longer feeling troubled by  
soupy poops. He's been producing lovely firm poops ever since.

I was greatly relieved that the Immodium did the trick because my in- 
laws have very pale blue wall-to-wall carpeting, and the whole indoor- 
family-member dog culture that I embrace is quite foreign to them.  
Their two dogs live outside all year round (they have an Igloo dog  
house), and the human interaction they receive is minimal. I was  
saddened to see that their new little dog would love to be someone's  
lap dog. She snuggled right up every time I was out with her, almost  
purring with happiness in my arms on my lap. But sitting down and  
patting or cuddling a dog just isn't something my in-laws feel any  
desire to do.

Why do they have dogs? To sound an alarm if someone should venture  
down their quarter-of-a-mile-long gravel driveway and to provide  
guard dog services when my father-in-law is out working in his garden  
near the dirt road to their driveway. The dogs also accompany him on  
his three-mile morning walks. It's a country-dog culture, where dogs  
are owned more for utilitarian reasons than to be someone's close  
companion indoors as well as out.

When it comes to the subject of dogs, I do an awful lot of tongue  
biting whenever I'm there. I suspect my in-laws feel the same about  
me and my dogs. Neither of us really understand the dog-ownership  
beliefs of the other, but we try to be accepting and not say anything  
that would cause hard feelings. After all, we all have to live with  
each other for years to come.

It was a real stretch for them to extend their invitation to our  
Elsinore and young Charlie, who, fortunately, behaved very, very  
well. Except for the afternoon young Charlie took off after my mother- 
in-law's guinea hens and chickens. No one was hurt, thank goodness,  
and my mother-in-law was gracious about forgiving him (and me) for  
such indiscretion. And it was a one-time indiscretion. I made sure of  
that. To catch and kill one of their chickens is the ultimate sin  
that earns a dog eternal banishment. My in-laws have adopted and then  
returned I don't know how many dogs to the county pound because the  
dog killed a chicken.

Perhaps sensing that my life was in need of more stress after  
Charlie's bumbly bowels cleared up, Elsinore sustained an athletic  
injury the first day we were there. I'm calling it an athletic injury  
because that sounds so much more impressive than a sprain. Especially  
if the way she hurt herself is described as being a fall that  
happened while she was doing cross-country training in my in-laws'  
pasture. Actually, I'm not really sure how it happened. She was  
galloping along just fine one minute. I looked away for a mere  
second, and when I looked back again, she was limping. My guess is  
that she hit an uneven bit of ground the wrong way. Lately she's been  
stumbling now and then on walks, even when we're on a sidewalk. We'll  
be walking along, and I'll see a shoulder suddenly dip as she  
stumbles and then rights herself. So it makes sense that she'd do the  
same in a pasture.

We immediately headed back to the house, where Elsinore rested for an  
hour. When she got up again, though, she was reluctant to put any  
weight on her front left leg, and we could all see swelling in her  
shoulder. My first thought was that she'd dislocated it. So I loaded  
Elsinore and my mother-in-law (who came along to navigate) into the  
car and drove into town to the vet my in-laws take their dogs to. Our  
very long wait to be seen was made more interesting by the arrival of  
a former lieutenant governor (and then governor) of the state and his  
wife (with a chihuahua), both of whom my mother-in-law knows from  
when she and the former lieutenant governor taught at the same  
university. Perhaps if we'd had to wait even longer a former  
president might have walked in......

I was a bit concerned about taking Elsinore to a rural vet, making  
the assumption that anyone who deals with owners who think of their  
dogs as being pretty much like farm equipment probably isn't going to  
provide the level of care I expect my hounds to get. After all,  
that's what I experienced with our late Jane Basset when we lived in  
an Indiana farming community. But I was happy with the vet who saw  
Elsinore. By the time we got into the examining room, Elsinore was  
barely limping and the swelling was gone. Isn't that how it always  
goes? But the vet still went over her very carefully, feeling for  
broken bones, checking between her pads, and gently bending and  
flexing every joint. He decided it was a sprain and prescribed five  
days of an anti-inflammatory. Elsinore is pretty much back to rights  
now, though that leg still seems to be a bit sore because she  
grumbles when I move it the wrong way when I'm toweling her dry after  
she comes in from the rain.

On our way home, we stopped to visit with Menzie and her bassets, so  
now I have faces to put to all the names I've read about in her Drool  
posts. That Pippa the Long-Haired Basset is the most comical looking  
basset I've ever seen, with drowsy eyes that don't miss a thing,  
enormous fluffy paws that beg to be fondled, and a head of hair that  
stands straight up in a huge soft Afro-like cloud. She's adorably  
goofy and terribly sweet--and destined to be much caressed throughout  
her life because her unusual coat and appearance pull one in and  
demand that one experience her through touch and not just by sight  
alone.

I'd thought Ken and I had done well with our redesigned back entry  
that features room for two crates, an in-wall doggie door with a  
protective exterior dog house entrance, and an easy-to-clean vinyl  
tile floor, but Menzie and Noel have designed an entire house that's  
wonderfully basset-centric. I was mortified when young Charlie  
decided to see if the beautiful stained concrete floor really is as  
easy to mop pee off of as it looks. An entire bladder full. With a  
perfectly functional doggie door he knew about not ten feet away.  
That's what I get for driving around with a bumper sticker that  
proclaims "My Dog Behaves Better Than Your Kid." Thanks, Menzie, for  
inviting us to drop by, and I'll understand if next time you ask  
young Charlie to just stay out in the car. Heck, I may even beat you  
to it!

Elizabeth