Playing His Cards Close to His Chest

So . . . we found out yesterday that Spackle does not have Leptospirosis, which is good news for me and my upcoming surgery--since there's really no chance I was out eating wild animal scat on my own, and now there's no chance I picked up the bacteria from Spackle.

Unfortunately, that diagnosis only slightly narrows the gap of what could, possibly, be wrong with our dog, and also unfortunately, something still really is.

Yesterday afternoon his eyes went all buggy and painful again, even with the increased frequency of both steroidal and non-steroidal anti-inflamatory eyedrops, which meant that by midnight he was panting with distress and I poked Ian awake and we rushed Spackle off to yet another vet, in yet another emergency room.

This new clinic has a dog internist instead of just the general practitioners we have been seeing in Seattle, which should help us figure out what is going on. Everyone who looks at Spackle's tests and bloodwork and whatnot says "Wow--this is crazy stuff! I have no idea what this means!", which is not unlike everyone looking at my tests last year and wondering why I was still alive, let alone functional.

Current possibilities for what's really wrong include: reaction to Atropine, an eye ointment that causes dilation and reduces the pain of uveitis; lymphoma or some other cancerous condition; a fungal infection; or some type of autoimmune disorder--or any previously unknown combination of the above.

Exhausted and hungry from the roller-coaster of care, we stopped at Dick's at 1:45am, on our way home, for much-appreciated burgers and fries. While we were waiting for new fries to be fried, we watched some guy in a little white coupe try to start his car. The engine turned over and over and over, without catching, and the guy stopped trying for a bit. As we drove away, we saw him start his engine successfully and drive away, too.

"He just needed to eat more Dick's," said Ian reflectively.