Lois & Clark Forums Forums General Discussion Off Topic The miracle of the little orange ball...

As some few of you already know, it hasn’t been the happiest start to the new year for us. It seemed almost certain that we were going to have to finally say goodbye to our beloved companion of fourteen years – Homer.

When Homer was two years old, he was diagnosed epileptic. Over the years, though, we were extraordinarily fortunate. His fits came roughly every eighteen months and were very mild, amounting to no more than five minutes of slight tremouring.

All that changed on the afternoon of Halloween when, out of nowhere, he had his first grand mal seizure. It was horrific. 45 minutes of violent spasms and other severe effects, followed by strange post-fit behaviour, the centrepiece of which was five hours of uncontrollable pacing in circles around the room. Yes, that wasn’t a typo. Five hours. We were terrified his heart was going to give out before he was done.

We phoned the emergency vet who said it may be a one off, that the behaviour typical and although dramatic and serious, wasn’t life-threatening in itself.

But, two weeks later, he had another.

We took him to our vet and he was put on the best possible medication which although it didn’t help with the frequency of the seizures – they were coming roughly every two weeks now – they did massively reduce the symptoms. We were down to just ten minutes of seizures and two hours pacing, among other things. And it was manageable. We could have wished for more time between fits, but two weeks we could cope with. We’d become a well-oiled response team, with towels and other necessities kept to hand, so it could be dealt with promptly and calmly. We knew what to expect, we could cope. Homer could cope.

All that changed on New Year’s Eve, when he had his next seizure – four days shy of the two week ‘limit’. Followed by another the very next day. Over the weekend, he was a shadow of the dog he had been, even just days previously.

Then, on Monday afternoon, he began to have mini fits. His face and jaw would twitch, he would shudder, fade out and then fall over. And it was happening every few minutes. Again and again. On and on and on.

Coupled with his accompanying deterioration, by the evening we had had a long and painful talk and decided that his quality of life had been so spectacularly reduced that we had no choice but to get an appointment with our vet today – the first day they opened after the holiday season – and have him put to sleep. The descent had been so swift, it was bewildering and heartbreaking.

He slept for most of the day. This wasn’t in itself unusual – he’s an old man now, he has his ‘quiet days’. At three pm, I decided to give him a treat of some biscuits and while in the cellar, my eye fell on a toy which had been a huge favourite: the ubiquitous orange rubber ball. We had put it away when he’d had serious dental surgery earlier in the year, in favour of softer toys, and somehow it had never come out of its box again.

“What the hell,” I thought. “Can’t do any harm to him, now.”

What a transformation! His eyes lit up. Suddenly, he was pouncing on the ball, making it squeak (to his usual irritating degree! <G>). He was pushing it with his nose along the floor, pretending it was escaping on its own, and chasing after it. Tail lashing furiously all the while. Like a dog half his age.

Stuart came home early from work a few minutes later and we began to notice other distinct changes. He wasn’t having as many mini fits. Oh they were there, but much fewer and he rarely fell over when they occurred. He just rode them out , keeping his feet, and went on playing. He was rock steady on his feet for 90% of the time, adapting, not stressed, not anxious, not even surprised. Not phased in the slightest.

Watching him, we knew we couldn’t possibly look at him and justify euthanasia on the basis of him being a dog who had lost his zest for life, who couldn’t stay on his feet more than a few seconds at a time. The dog of just one day ago. This was a dog who was enjoying every moment!

I felt sick to my stomach. If I hadn’t decided to treat him, if I hadn’t happened to glance at that ball, if I’d decided there was little point in bringing it out because he seemed to have no interest in any of his toys anymore – he might very well have stayed sleeping in his bed until he was taken to the vet and we would never have realised how much he’d recovered himself in just a few hours.

We’re by no means out of the woods, of course. Our vet says that this kind of onset of violent epilepsy in later life is often an indication that something else is underlying, the fits a symptom of some other disease rather than an illness themselves. Much depends on when his next grand mal arrives. If he’s allowed time to recuperate between the dreadful destruction the fits wreck on his brain and metabolism, he and we can cope. For the moment, his medication has been increased. We might get lucky. Who knows?

Who cares?

Does it matter that this joyous, unexpected reprieve might only last days? Weeks? That all too soon, we might be back to where we were over the weekend?

Of course not.

For now, all that matters is that when that vet visit was over...my baby came home.

A genuine, honest-to-goodness miracle.

And all thanks to one, small, orange, rubber ball.

LabRat

So sorry to hear about your sick little baby. Animals can surprise us - my dog was diagnosed with cancer and given 2 months to live. He wound up living an additional 2 1/2 years - just as happy and healthy as ever, until the very end.

I hope your Homer is able to recover well and be with you for a long time to come.

What a stressful, traumatic few months you all have had. Thank God that everything fell into place to give you this extra, quality time with Homer, however long it may last.

Thank you for sharing this with us.

Joy,
Lynn

I'll be thinking of Homer, thinking of you and your family, as these next days and weeks go by. What an amazing story--and what a joy that that little orange ball just happened to come out to play.

Thank you so much for sharing. You had me in tears, completely touched by Homer.

A little over a year ago my cat Bella died. She was only 10, healthy (or so I thought) one day, and the next, I was scheduling with the vet to let her go. Her kidneys were in complete failure--ironically 3 months prior she had been given a clean bill of health.

I know I made the right choice...I could see the pain written all over her face. But still...it's so hard to have that choice layed in front of you.

I found Lily at a shelter a few months ago. A little two year old carbon copy of Bella. She's been amazing--and has brought with her clarity that everything happens for a reason.

Thinking positive thoughts--enjoy that boy . And keep us posted!
Laura

Thank you for your support and good wishes – and for your understanding of how much of an emotional rollercoaster this has been for us. I’ll admit I was a little tentative about posting this one. I always have a concern about coming up against the attitude of “Oh, for pity’s sake, get over it, it’s just a dog. Children are out there starving in the world!”, you know? So that you guys ‘get it’, means a lot.

Nancy, how wonderful that your diagnosis turned out to be so shy of the mark and that you were able to enjoy your friend for so long. I agree that sometimes we underestimate our animal friends and their resilience. I’m also a great believer in James Herriot’s theory of the healing power of sleep. I think, often, just blanking out the stress and worry over the condition can help enormously. So perhaps that was a factor in Homer’s recovery that day.

I’m so sorry you lost Bella, Laura. One of our earlier dogs went that way, so I know just how brutal and rapid a decline it causes. Patch was the great friend of my teenage years and I took him with us when I got married. He was 13 when he died, but looked and acted like a dog a fraction of that. To the extent that the first response of strangers we met out on our walks was always “Oh, look at the cute puppy!” I always got a kick out of the shock on their faces when I said, “Well, actually...” And then in the blink of an eye he was gone.

But I’m so happy to know that little Lily is healing your heart. The astonishing capacity they have to do that is miraculous. And I completely understand that feeling of clarity of fate. Our dog before Homer, Max, was quite simply the handsomest, most intelligent, most affectionate dog we’d ever known. And then he began acting strangely. Started attacking me one minute then being affectionate the next. Like a switch being flicked on and off. We finally had to put him down when he was just two. Turned out he had a massive brain tumour. We were devastated, of course, but then came Homer. And I’ve often mused over the years on the fact that if we hadn’t lost Max just when we did we’d never have known this bundle of delight and mischief, packed full of character who’s given us so much joy and laughter over the years.

As for Homer- he’s back to his old self. It may be coincidence, but almost immediately we upped the dose of his medication the mini-fits began to lessen. He now has maybe five or six a day and they are nothing more than a faint head nodding. He almost never falls over.

I was making lunch on Wednesday when I heard a clatter – a sound which, of course, is worrysome these days. Had he fallen over? Was he having a grand mal? Nope – he was merrily chasing his ball up and down the living room. He’s also recovered his sense of mischief. I spent 10 minutes upstairs while putting the washing away trying to figure out why I’d somehow ended up with just one sock of a pair...until I realised the culprit was sitting right next to me with a studied look of innocence on his face. He’s playing fetch again with his soft toys, including teasing us by returning them and holding them just precisely out of reach. In short...he’s our Homer, through and through.

And, of course, every day we tick off without a grand mal is a major victory. Day by day...

LabRat

Pets become a part of the family, and it hurts when they die (and when they suffer). Maybe for some people animals are just objects, but for those of us who get to know them and love them, they're friends and family, and losing them is hard.

Thanks for the update, LabRat. I've been wondering how he was doing .

Agreed--pets are such an important part of the family.

Continuing to think positive!
Laura

And please keep us posted...

We're not "canine parents" but our dogs are members of our family. Having them has enriched our lives. Regardless of how good the vet is, we know our dogs better than anyone else. That relationship gives us the power and responsibility to give them the best life we can. To choose the best diet or medication, or figure out that "thing" that they've needed.

I'm glad for both you and for Homer that you found the "thing". It's amazing how much a simple thing can make such a big change. If he could tell you "Thanks" I'm sure he would--then again maybe he would just hide a sock or two to see you smile.

So glad to read that Homer is doing well!

And what a great story about how the orange ball made all the difference.

Definitely a Happy New Year story!

Sadly, we had to finally say goodbye to Homer on Monday.

Although the Pexion was having limited success with helping reduce the symptoms of the grand mal fits, it wasn’t helping to improve the time between them. In fact, they began to become more frequent and he simply wasn’t getting enough time between them to recover fully before he was knocked back to square one.

Finally, last week, he had two back to back within twenty four hours. It soon became clear that this was the event we’d been dreading, the one that had been inevitable since that first grand mal back at Halloween. The one that would knock him back so hard that he wouldn’t recover. Over the next few days, rather than recovering, he sank deeper by the day.

By Sunday he was miserable. On Monday morning, just before we took him to the vet, we noticed that his left eye was drooping and he was tending to list to his left side. The vet said these were classic symptoms of either a brain lesion caused by the last fit or a pre-existing brain tumour that was the source of the onset of the grand mals.

We miss him dreadfully, but we’re at peace with the decision. It was simply time.
We were blessed every day we had him in our lives and we will always be grateful for the extra time we had with him, beyond all expectation. He was always on borrowed time from the first grand mal and we knew it, but he packed a lot of joy and laughter into those last few weeks. As was always his gift to us.

He was cherished from the moment we picked him up out of the litter at the kennels and he snuggled into my chest and Stuart suggested we called him Homer – because he was yellow and fat. And he returned that love in spades. Our world will be duller without him but he was also our first truly digital dog. We have a huge library of memories on disk that will keep us in smiles for years to come. He’ll never be forgotten.

Sleep well, old friend. “Happy waggy tail dreams.”

So sorry to hear about Homer's passing. I was just thinking about him and the orange ball over this last weekend wondering how he was doing. We all grow so attached to them and then because their lifespan is not nearly what ours is we lose them. Every time I keep saying that I don't think I want to go through that again and decide not to get another one and every time one finds me. I guess the blessing of having them will always be worth more than the pain of losing them.

Hopefully you find your next 'never again' one as we don't seem to do well without our friends.

Mike

I'm so sorry to hear about the passing of Homer. I so enjoyed your story of the miracle little orange ball. I'm glad you were able to share a few more months of love and the joy of playing ball before the end. I wish you and your husband all the best.

So sorry to hear about your dog's passing. Saying goodbye to a family member is never easy. I'm glad you got a few more precious months with him.

I'm so sorry to hear about Homer. I'm glad you had some bonus happy time with him, and that you have a digital library.

Losing a family member is never easy, and my heart goes out to you and your family.

I'm so sorry to hear about Homer, LabRat...

I've thought of him multiple times, wondering how you all were doing together. Hoping he was doing well. Definitely brought tears to my eyes finding out what had happened.

Thinking a lot about you. That first week--that's the hardest. Keep those amazing pictures close, and your memories even closer . Talking about them helps, at least it did for me.

I'm so happy that you received the blessing of a few more months together--and also, the foresight to know how precious it was. He gave you the gift of peace, in knowing you did the right thing at the right time.

He'll always be with you ...
Laura

...and I have to agree with Mike--sometimes a new friend finds us and we are all the better for it (I say this as our 2 year old 'kitten' runs frantically around the house chasing after a toy). Life has gotten pretty interesting around here thanks to her .