corgi – Corgi and a Cuppa Tea

We have been away from home for five days but it’s Day 2 of our Road Scholar experience. Does that make sense to anyone but me?

It seemed like the best choice of some terrible options

I will begin with last night’s dinner – which was honestly appalling. It’s my own fault for ordering it, but I so wanted flavor don’t you know….

The item in question was a “Korean Chicken Burger” – and it consisted of a chilly whole wheat bun (I promptly discarded the top half), a cascade of brown gravy with a mild brown curry tang, some cooked onion strips, some chilli jam and a lightly breaded chicken breast.

The chicken was oh so dry which maybe explained the curry flood. The flavors….well, point 1 is that there were flavors. Point 2 for the not unpleasant presence of cooked onions. Minus 1 for a very dull butter knife that sent chunks of chicken and bun skittering across the plate. Plus 3 for actual American catsup for the chips. Plus 1 that I didn’t get terrible indigestion. Plus 1 more for the entertainment value.

In all fairness I wanted fish and chips but the pub was out (Royal Ascot week). My sandwich was weird. It was fusion. I was an American eating a millenial brown gooey mess with a knife and fork.

Travel broadens the palate.

I’ve read a lot of Britain-set mysteries and at least one character always refers to an historic home as a “pile” as in “Yes, it’s the family pile”. I decide that Windsor Castle is a splendid pile. It has satisfying round turrets, double wall defenses, sturdy architecture. Not a lot of embellishment. It is lovely and tidy and if you have to live in a castle…it’s not a bad choice. Our local guide is a knowledgeable gent named Mike and he keeps us entertained as we wait in line to enter.

(BTW, this is my travel journal, not a compendium of history, so what you’ll read from here on out are my impressions. Check the interweb if you want facts. I’m on vacation.)

Named for the dearly departed husband of Queen Victoria

Henry VIII lived here as did some of his wives and children. He’s buried with his third wife in St. George’s. The current Queen will likely join her parents and grandparents there. It’s all quite civilized; living near your final resting place among the ancestors.

I’m very amused by the knitted/crocheted tableau atop the post office box. It depicts her majesty on a throne, her majesty in riding garb with a horse, a scepter, a tiny crocheted tea set and a few corgis. It is ridiculous and hand crafted and quite satisfying to see.

We witness the changing of the guard – it’s the Irish Guards this week – and I let Les jockey for position to get photos while I take a break in the shade. I can’t imagine standing around in wool uniforms in the blazing sun. They are disciplined and they carry modern weaponry over their shoulders. I think the castle is pretty well defended. The new guard is announced with a marching band that gathers in formation and plays a selection of music. They’re all in the sun and I’m drooping in the shade. I hope Les is getting good pics.

After this we queue up to see the state departments and we are no sooner inside than I see a cafe sign and peel off in search of water. It feels good to sit for a bit in a cool room. Our guide winks at us as he sits down with a coffee and snack. Refreshed, we head up the stairs.

The state departments are sumptuous and grand – lots of gilt and ornamentation and a few astonishingly preserved old masters. The colors are deep and well lit; they glow like they were painted yesterday. I’m beginning to pick out symbolism and note postures and garments (all tell a tale). There is a portrait of a previous queen holding a lamb. She looks very motherly. The lamb is the size of a Maine Coon cat. I am entertained.

We find a little Greek restaurant down the street from the castle and have a tasty lunch and a beer. It’s hot, but there’s a tiny breeze from the river. After, we trek back up the hill and get some souvenirs – postcards, a Jubilee tea towel, stamps, some British money from an ATM. We then decide to trek down a side street in hopes of some interesting local sites on the way back to our hotel. There are a number of backyards, garages, a park….no sign of High Street….oh dear….hot, so hot. After many, many steps we find the right road and exit into the hotel for some packing. Tonight is a no host dinner at the Duchess of Cambridge pub and tomorrow we leave for Stratford on Avon.

It is so easy to be judgy when you have no skin in the game. Easy to have scruples, follow the rules, sit in judgement of decisions that someone else has made.

She is our fifth corgi, rescued from a neglectful family. We call her our “feral one” because she was a yard dog who escaped an coyote attack

And then, if you are lucky, you find yourself in a parallel situation and suddenly life and death decisions have to be made in the blink of an eye.

And then, you get to sit in judgement of your own decisions, your own choices, your own outcomes.

“Never judge lest you be judged” said Matthew in his book. And yet, humans do. I do. My brain runs in all kinds of judgement. I try to keep it to myself but I know it leaks out.

For years, YEARS, I have judged pet owners. When I am waiting at the PT place with my dog Fiona I see dogs in slings, dogs in carts, paralyzed dogs, injured dogs, owners of every stripe and kind. I look at the aged German Shephard dangling from a sling and think “oh, put that poor dog out of its misery.” I assumed that a damaged dog was better off dead. What was the quality of life for for an aging, disabled pet?

In the blink of an eye, I faced that decision. My 12 year old corgi, whose been getting physical therapy for at least two years, lost control of her hindquarters and couldn’t stand. She tripped coming into the house and her legs slipped to the left while she drank some water. In an instant we had to decide on a course of action.

Our vet was overbooked and the PT place was closed “due to Covid” and, with Fiona on ice, we started typing and texting whoever we could. One of our former vets got back to us and told us the first 24 hours is critical and we should take her to one of three hospitals for a workup.

We hung out in the car while our little girl was taken inside by a stranger.

The first hospital had a broken MRI machine. We went to a second hospital and waited over an hour in their parking lot, perspiring, filled with nervous energy and a very quiet corgi. Another stranger reached for our pup and we gently removed her harness and collar. Then we waited.

They recommended an MRI in the morning immediately followed by surgery if, as expected, the scan showed a disk problem. And there was our stake – had we just said goodbye to Fiona and let a stranger take her into a foreign building, never to be seen again? What if she needed surgery? We were on the cusp of becoming the people who spend extravagant amounts on our aging dog.

We are a frugal family and can afford to pay a large vet bill without going into debt. So money was not at the root of the decision. But our values were front and center. What kind of animal parents are we? Would the surgery afford Fiona a good quality of life? Or would she be on pain meds and steroids for a few years before dying. How willing are we to roll the dice with her life?

She passed an uneventful night and the MRI started around noon. Then the call “As we expected, her disk is damaged and is putting pressure on the spinal nerve. We also found a large cyst on her bladder. There’s no way to tell if it’s cancerous and she might have had it since birth so we think it should be left alone. Do you want us to do the spinal surgery?”

An agony of decisions. My husband texted Fiona’s rehab veterinarian. I listened numbly to the neurosurgeon’s prognoses – 50-50 chance of regaining 80% of her mobility. Rehab Vet was cautiously optimistic and that Fiona might “walk like a drunk, but have a good quality of life.” What to do?

If we had learned of the cyst because of bathroom issues, we wouldn’t have operated. Our feeling has always been “no heroic measures.” We wouldn’t consent to abdominal surgery – at 12 we’d feel she’d had a good life and we’d let her go when she showed signs of distress.

But this had happened in an instant – and it’s an insidious slope. We looked at each other, eyes pleading for a decision. “Go ahead,” I said. “Do the operation. Be careful.”

The surgeon signed off and I asked the question “How will we feel if she’s crippled and needs a sling? How will we feel about owning a damaged dog? What if she’s in pain for the rest of her life?”

There’s the crux of it. The nub. Is a damaged dog worth less? Is our love for Fiona predicated on her being healthy and whole? If we put her down, would it be for our sake or for hers?

It’s such a personal decision. Les threw himself into work and emails from Rehab Doctor. I texted my animal parent friends who were carefully supportive – whatever decision we made would be the right one. The day was emotionally exhausting and part of me had already said goodbye to my little feral friend while part of me magically hoped she’d be cured with no aftereffects.

I woke up the next morning realizing that for better or worse, our life with Fiona is forever changed. We’ve taken a sharp turn to the left and her new normal will be different. Her new normal will be more PT and slower walks. No more drag races around the living room. I’ll look carefully before I get up because she’s been wrapped around my ankles since I started working from home. The cat will have to direct his restless energy elsewhere.

She’ll be our “Frankencorgi” this Halloween

But our sweet girl….the one who endured a horrendous first year, who survived a coyote attack and knew Owain, who knew Jeeves, our first corgi. When she’s gone our last link to our perfect gentleman will be gone too which brings a new type of mourning.

I wrote: “if you are lucky, you find yourself in a parallel situation and suddenly life and death decisions have to be made in the blink of an eye.”

Yes, lucky. Self awareness and empathy are never bad and life is better if you learn those lessons early. I have hope. I now have experience and hopefully more empathy for friends who have to weigh the cost and benefit of expensive veterinary care. Next time I’m at the Rehab Center, I’ll have new eyes for the other patients and their humans.

So yes, lucky.

Update: Fiona’s first day post surgery is promising! She has movement in her hind legs and sensation in her toes. They are replacing IV pain meds (I wonder if she had a self administration pump?) for a fentanyl patch. She should be able to come home in a few days. I’m breathing again.

Another Update: She’s home and on bed rest but her pain is being managed and she seems happy to be with us. Her little stump wriggles furiously when we lean over her crate for a word and a pet. She can eliminate with assistance and her appetite is voracious. We are all breathing.

Tag: corgi

Day 5/2

Judge-y