Poor Old Echo

Something was really wrong with Echo yesterday morning. She was very lethargic, panting constantly and stumbling when she walked. That was what really got to me--she walked everywhere; instead of running, she plodded. And she was whining and groaning, just lying on the floor. This was not my dog.

I got on the phone and started phoning to find a vet. The last time I took her in to see her regular vet, I swore I'd never go back to that office. But I had neglected to establish a relationship with a new one in the interrim.

A vet hospital on the west side of town said "bring her right in." When we got there, I noticed she was leaving spots of blood on the tile floor from her left hind foot. That's when I saw for the first time how swollen her whole foot and leg were, about three times the size of her right hind leg.

Dr. Skelding explained that she either had a laceration or a foreign object in her paw, and what we were seeing was a massive infection. I left Echo with them, to be anesthetized and have her wound opened up and flushed out. They also gave her IV antibiotics, bandaged her up tightly so the swelling pressure could be eased, and duct-taped a Walmart bag around the whole thing to keep it dry.

So this is my dog last night, post-surgery:

She's on pain-killers and 3 different types of antibiotics, one of which has to be injected. By me.
I only stabbed myself with the needle twice this morning, and managed to get all of the drug into her instead of me. I feel downright triumphant. Another skill learned! (Though not yet perfected--I'm hoping to avoid sticking myself with the needle tomorrow).

I have to think it's only that I've been so sick myself that I didn't notice her leg before it got to a crisis point. I'm feeling very guilty as a pet-parent.