Last week, my 13-year-old golden retriever had surgery to amputate a toe. He’s always been a healthy dog, aside from allergies, and this was only his second time to go under anesthetic. That’s always a serious issue, especially with an older dog, but the surgery was not optional.
He injured his toe several years ago, tearing the nail, probably on the bottom of my neighbor’s chain link fence. That time, it healed up on its own with the aid of a little liquid bandage. The next time, now almost two months ago, we weren’t so lucky. My veterinarian concluded that we could give Winston antibiotics forever, and the nail would likely still not heal. It had split all the way up into the bone. The only answer was amputation. I had no choice.
It’s normal to be concerned when your dog goes in for surgery, but I know for sure that crying and moping doesn’t accomplish anything. Your nervousness can’t help your dog. In fact, there’s a good chance that an overtly upset owner will only make things worse for the canine patient. You can vent to friends, and you can certainly fall apart somewhere away from the dog, but you will both be much better off if instead you concentrate on ways to make the post-surgical recovery as successful as possible.
I won’t keep you in suspense: my dog’s procedure went well and he’s recovering at home. He goes in for a second post-op check and bandage change at the end of the week. (He’ll wear a bandage for about two weeks total.) The bandage—and the healing incision under it—cannot get wet, so he has to wear a “boot” over the bandage when he goes outside. He’s handling it all beautifully and I’m very proud of him. Believe me, his cooperation counts as one big reason things have gone so well—that, and the work of a great veterinarian and clinic. We expect a full recovery.
In the week since his surgery, I’ve noticed how the many behaviors Winston knows have helped during his recovery. These behaviors and the “cues” that elicit them include many of the actions that any dog would learn in a first training class. The basics of “obedience”—like Sit, Down, Stand, Stay, and Come—are ways for an owner to let the dog know what he wants the dog to do and where he wants the dog to be. Beyond those basics, though, my 13-year-old dog knows many cued behaviors that are much less formal; for example, Hop Up, which means he should jump up on the bed, or Wait, which means stop here and wait here until I tell you what to do next.
Another cue that Winston knows—although I have no specific memory of having formally taught it to him—is Whoa. When I touch his flank as he walks by me, Whoa means I want him to stop right there and hold still while I do something to him. Usually, I use Whoa for on-the-fly grooming. He might be walking past me when I see a weed stuck in his tail fur and I want to remove it. I say Whoa, and he stops and stands still. I also use Whoa to head him off when he comes in from outside wet or snowy or muddy, and I need to towel him off. I say Whoa, he stops; I throw the towel over him and dry him off. When I’m done, I release him with “Okay!”
Keeping Winston’s bandage dry in wet and snowy weather—both of which we’ve had in the last week—is a matter of covering it with a plastic “boot” that was given to me at the veterinary clinic. The first day after his surgery, though, I could tell that the vet’s boot alone was not adequate protection—icy snow could still slide down inside it. So I fashioned a more waterproof seal by first covering Winston’s bandaged foot in three plastic bags, held on securely by an almost endless wrap of a wide ace bandage, then the vet’s boot over that. It works!
Winston must be “booted” every time he goes outside, and the boot cannot be left on for more than 20 minutes at a time. That means booting and unbooting are mandatory at least eight times a day, sometimes more. He doesn’t stay outside for long because the weather’s dreadful, so most of this booting and unbooting is done for five-minute trips, no longer, each time. It’s a hassle, no matter how easy Winston’s cooperation makes it . . . but imagine how awful it would be if he didn’t cooperate! Whoa works really well.
One thing I had fully expected to be saying often during Winston’s recovery was Leave It (whatever you’re interacting with or going for, dog, don’t!). Leave It means, “Don’t chase the cat!” or “Don’t go for that steak on the counter!” or even “Don’t lick the baby!” It’s a fairly all-purpose cue to tell your dog that what he’s about to interact with—or already is interacting with—is off limits. His response should be an immediate withdrawal from whatever “it” is, preferably followed by running to you for praise and reward. Teaching this cue to your dog is strongly recommended!
When my veterinarian had explained Winston’s surgery, he’d emphasized that the most important thing about the recovery would be keeping Winston from messing with his bandages and bothering his healing incision. I could understand why. I’d had experience with dogs chewing out their stitches. My very first golden retriever had to return to the veterinarian several times after his neuter surgery. Unless I could stop him chewing out his stitches, the vet told me, he would have to go back under anesthesia to get staples instead of stitches. Staples!
I avoided staples for that dear dog by keeping him beside me for several days, even when we were sleeping. I’d put my arm around him, fall asleep, and be wakened by his movement as he started to snorkel the stitching. Luckily, he knew Leave It very well, and the dreaded staples were ultimately not needed.
Winston, too, learned Leave It in puppyhood, and has been well rewarded all his life for an immediate response to that particular cue. It may be the one he’s heard most often!
I haven’t had to use Leave It to cue Winston to leave his bandage alone. Yet. (He’s got some weeks to go in his recovery, and it still could be needed.)
In addition, I bought a new soft “cone of shame” for Winston to wear if it seemed necessary. I didn’t want to chance any disruption of his bandages and I had no idea that he would so completely ignore them.
I also set up a big crate with a new orthopedic pet bed in it just for him, in case I needed to confine him. He normally sleeps on my bed or in the front hall on a dog bed but, with surgery, you just never know. He hasn’t been in the cozy crate with the new bedding yet, but that doesn’t mean he won’t need it later.
Any surgery can mean crate rest for a dog, even if it’s just for the few days that simple spays and neuters normally require. The longer the dog must remain inactive, the more challenging it is to keep him contented with no exercise. It wasn’t necessary to keep Winston from normal movement around the house and yard, but if it had been, I would’ve definitely planned some “mental” stimulation and crate-rest enrichments for him—for example, frozen KONGs filled with goodies in his kennel, or quiet food puzzle games in a confined area. Should you ever need to find ways to keep a confined dog from boredom, check YouTube for the many videos on that subject. There are some great ideas.
I prepared, as well, to assist Winston if his mobility was impaired, either by drugs he got during surgery or by discomfort from the incision itself. In the days before the procedure, we practiced with me holding a towel under his belly, bearing a slight bit of his weight with it as he walked. When I could see he was fine with walking on the flat, we practiced the stairs—unavoidable obstacles in my house—to both the bedrooms and the back yard. He became more comfortable with the process each time we tried. I think he liked having the weight off his “sore” toe.
When he came home from surgery, I did lift him out of the car, but he managed the stairs by himself. I used the towel the first few times up and down to our home’s second storey, but I soon could tell that Winston was ready to dispense with my help. Within a day, he was hopping up on the bed by himself, too. But that towel training is now “in there”—in his repertoire—where, if we ever need it, it will be there to refresh.
Winston is a golden retriever, so giving him pills is simply a matter of covering them with something edible that he will swallow whole. He’s easy! I did stock up on peanut butter and string cheese, both perfect mediums for hiding pills. With the peanut butter, I simply cover the pill completely with a fairly large glop of peanut butter. Once he swallows the peanut-butter–covered pill, I give him a biscuit to follow up. With the string cheese, I split a small section and squish the pill inside so that none of it sticks out. I give him a few small pieces of cheese without the pill, then the piece with the pill, then another few pieces or a biscuit to follow up. If your dog is not so easily pilled, you might find the variety of “pill pockets” on the market for pets might be helpful. In our case, homemade works.
What I hoped for this surgery was to make Winston okay again.
What I expected was needing to help him a lot with his recovery.
What I got was even better. Yes, it appears that he will recover completely—plus he’s had a chance to show me what a tough guy he is, physically and emotionally. He’s come through like a champ.
Your dog may surprise you. Give him or her a chance. Make it easy on yourself—practice now the behaviors that can aid you both later. Train the puppy with the grown dog in mind. You may be lucky, as I have been with Winston, to have an old dog who’s lived a long and happy life. Think about what you can do to make your dog’s life the best that it can be, no matter how long he lives. Enjoy!
