It's a Dogs World

Italians love their dogs.  Most of the dogs you see in the streets are small dogs.  Maltese, Pekinese, Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, and an extraordinary number of beagles.    I don't know why so many beagles, makes me wonder if there's a Italian movie out there staring a particularly adorable beagle.  Perhaps one that doesn't bark at everything.  In general, I think portability plays a large role in the selection of dogs in Italy.  Not dog as accessory as is so popular with the young celebrity crowd, but the practicality of having a dog that can go on the bus with you, or the train, or in the restaurant.  Large dogs are a challenge on a crowded bus, but the little guys just slip under the seat or are carried by adoring owners.

The only place dogs aren't allowed is in the supermercato.

It's not that there aren't large dogs here.  I've seen more mastiffs in Genova than in any other city I've ever visited, in particular a family of what I believe are Neopolitan mastiffs that live in the centro storico.  Each of these dogs is the size of a small Fiat.

Sometimes this love of dogs takes an unusual turn. Several days ago while riding the bus, we stopped at San Nicolo'.  People get off, dog gets on.  Large, very large, mixed breed about the size of a tank with fur, climbs on the front of the bus unaccompanied by any human companion.  He walks slowly through the bus checking out all the interesting smells, then climbs out the back door while the bus driver waits patiently for him to descend.  Could this be a regular routine for our furry friend and can you imagine this happening anywhere else.

 Even mimes have dogs.

Other than my on-going fear that I'm going to step on one of the little guys, my biggest dog concern has been my sweet little dog Morgan.  Morgan is a champion Old English Sheepdog currently shaved down to spare us both the grief of having to groom him out every day.

 Hi.

I guess at 75 lbs it's not exactly accurate to call him little, but he's my baby nevertheless.  Morgan, who just celebrated his 7th birthday, came to Italy as a whole male.  I am a strong advocate of neutering all dogs, male and female, but because of a contractual obligation to his breeder, I did not neuter him when he finished his championship.  In fairness, that's not the only reason I didn't neuter him.  I'm also a coward. Having lost a dog to anesthesia, I was loathe to take the risk of losing another. What I was unprepared for, however, was Morgan's reaction to other male dogs when we arrived here.  Having been used for breeding, he was unhappy to find that Italians don't as a rule neuter their male dogs.  As a result, every time you encounter another dog on a walk, the first question asked of the owner is "maschio o femmina", male or female.  This is not good.   Neither he nor I were happy with our walks, so early in December I took Morgan to our new vet and told her I wanted him neutered.  After recovering from her shock that someone actually wanted to neuter a male dog, we agreed that I would return after the new year.  That's when the problems began.

Problem, I'm no problem.

Shortly before we were due to return to the vet, Morgan began to have blood in his urine.  Of course, this completely freaked me out, so off we went to visit Dottoressa Silvia and began our adventure into Italian veterinary medicine.  What was unanticipated is the degree of "do it yourself" in veterinary medicine here.  Case in point, the owner collects her own dog's urine.  Understand that this means standing on the sidewalk, avoiding other pedestrians and various motorized vehicles, not to mention watching out for other dogs, with a plastic cup in your hand trying to collect a urine sample without getting dog pee all over yourself.  Even with a rubber glove, this was a challenge I was not up to and required a mad dash back to our apartment to wash my hands.  Ollie, of course, stood by to give me encouragement. 

So, for the last several months, Morgan has taken a very expensive medication to deal with a prostate infection, undergone several tests including a sonogram from which we finally got a definitive diagnosis of hyperplastic prostatitis.  Remedy...castration.  At least we're headed in the right direction.

Last week, after months of waiting, it's finally time for surgery.

What???????  You're going to do what??

Surgery was scheduled at 7 pm on Thursday night, so around 6:30 pm we walked down to the vet's office for the procedure.  Around 7:30, the surgeon showed up on his motorcycle, poor Morgan got hoisted onto the table...and chango, presto, 30 minutes and the deed is done.  Except, and this is where the next DIY moment occurs,  they're sending me home with a 75 lb. semi-conscious dog.  I've had multiple dogs, cats, birds, horses and various rodents my entire life, but I have no idea how to care for a anesthetized animal, I've never needed to before.  We'd been told to bring a blanket for him, which I assumed was to keep him warm while he recovered.  But now, as he begins to stir, the real reason for the blanket becomes apparent.   It's going to be used as a sling to carry him in.  A quick call to a taxi and the vet and the surgeon are taking my dog, now nicely wrapped in the blanket/sling and putting him in the back of said taxi.  Before I realize it, motorcycle helmets are firmly in place, doctors are on their respective motorcycles and we're on our way home with a still, semi-conscious dog and we've still got a whopping challenge in front of us.   There are two flights of stairs, one small, one quite large from the entrance of our apartment building to the elevator.  How the hell are Ollie, who's already had 4 shoulder surgeries, and I going to get him up the stairs.  Fortunately, the taxi driver took pity on us, for an extra 5 euros, and helped us carry our still semi-conscious dog to the top of the stairs.  Now all I needed to do was to drag him on his blanket/sling/sled into the elevator and then into our apartment.  Except, Italian elevators are built for Italians, and not very many Italians at that.

Three Italians to be exact and even that is a snug fit.

There's no way that Ollie, I and a prostrate Morgan are going to be able to fit in this thing, which makes me a little nervous under the best of circumstances,  so, since Ollie can't use his shoulders without risking a new surgery, I shove Morgan into the elevator and climb in after him.  Except now I can't close the inside doors.  After a few minutes of maneuvering him around I finally get the doors shut enough so the elevator will run.  Of course I still have to get out of here,  pinned in the corner as I am.  But ultimately we reach our floor and with Ollie's help I'm able to open the elevator door enough so I can leap over Morgan onto solid ground.  (I'm really not fond of this elevator.)

Once again grabbing the blanket, which has remarkably survived this abuse, I drag poor Morgan across the landing into our apartment.  After one tentative attempt to get up, he sinks back into what is now "his" blanket and lapses into sleep...or possibly unconsciousness.

 Zzzzzz

For a few hours of watching to make sure he's still breathing, I collapse into my own bed, completely exhausted, but relatively confident he'll still be breathing in the morning.

Today, more than a week later, Morgan is happy and healthy, and no longer asking maschio o femmina?