I just wanted to finish the email, but the barking wouldn’t stop. That shrill yipping morphed into a spear that pierced my left eardrum and drilled into my brain. The vibrations made thinking nearly impossible. I closed my eyes and lowered my head, trying to block out the noise, but it was impossible. I closed my door, but that only muffled the sound. Why doesn’t the owner do something?! How can they sit there and endure that?
That Sunday morning, my first appointment was with a mom and her newly paralyzed young miniature poodle. Eight weeks prior and just days before they were scheduled to move across the country, PJ went down with a ruptured disc. He was unable to walk, became incontinent, and was understandably confused and frustrated by his new mobility challenges.
As I walked toward the mobility room, my nerves were jangled. I didn’t know what to expect, but it was nothing like what I saw when I entered the room. PJ was in a dog stroller, screeching as he scratched the mesh of his zipped enclosure. His mom was sitting in a chair ten feet away, body curled into a protective posture against the unrelenting waves of sound, hands on her head, nearing tears. She was the epitome of wits’ end. My anxiety and exasperation melted into empathy and compassion.
I strode over to PJ, feeding his hunger for attention. He settled momentarily — the silence was a welcome change. I rolled his buggy over toward his mom and sat next to her. She looked at me pleadingly, “He just won’t stop barking. How do I make him stop barking!?”
In a word, acknowledgment. And more than just providing attention and love. As a pet parent of a newly mobility-challenged dog, you must acknowledge that your dog has changed, his needs have changed, and how he interacts with you has changed. This is a difficult transition. One day, your dog is following you around the house, bouncing from side to side, excited for the next adventure. The next day, he’s anxious, confused, painful, and stripped of his independence.
The subtleties of your communication are suddenly gone. There’s no more nose poke on the back of your calf to let you know he’s there. That perfect sit to show he’s a good boy who deserves a treat? It’s no longer possible. However, things get easier once you acknowledge that your shared language has a new dialect. He learns to announce his needs in ways that you understand. Perhaps he’ll lift a front paw a few times and lean toward the cushion to tell you he wants on the couch. Maybe he’ll take a page out of Half Moon’s playbook, shimmy to the end of the bed, and chirp a few times to let you know he wants to get down. You learn together how his needs have changed and how you can meet those needs.
After an hour of tissues and talking, we decided that PJ would benefit from the freedom a cart would offer. As a young poodle, PJ has an insatiable desire to move and play and wiggle. The cart gave him that. He didn’t stop barking, but the sound changed. It was joyful — more fun and less frustration. And so much easier on the ears. PJ’s rollin’ like SpeedRacer, taking corners fast and straightaways faster. He’s a happy boy, and his mom’s happier, too.
