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Today's Keyboard Smash
It's been decided that something is wrong with my dog beyond the skin condition both of them dealt with all summer. She's getting worse and weirder despite the treatment. So. Now she's getting tested for Cushing's. Which involves her getting dropped off this morning for eight hours of vet observation and before-and-after blood testing. Mum is handling that, while I carry on with the vital work of *checks notes* cleaning small doodads at work and having a very quiet nervous breakdown.
I have a special and raging hate for Cushing's, which occurs often in horses, particularly when those horses belong to us, apparently. In horses, it has the added thrilling effect of frequently causing founder, which is when the hooves go deeply and horrifically wrong inside. We've had...four? No, five maybe? Go through this? There was a bloodline that had a weakness to it, which we didn't discover until we had a rather unfortunate quantity of horses bred from it. I am intimately familiar with the ways in which it sucks ass.
In dogs, it is perhaps less acutely horrible, on account of the lack of hooves. It can be treated, in any case. My dog is only thirteen, which isn't nearly old enough. (I'll settle for "older than mountains, younger than stars," please and thank.) So I am highly prepared to throw many medications at the problem if it means I get her living comfortably for as long as possible.
Right now, though, is the waiting. I hate waiting. Hence the blogging from work.
I have a special and raging hate for Cushing's, which occurs often in horses, particularly when those horses belong to us, apparently. In horses, it has the added thrilling effect of frequently causing founder, which is when the hooves go deeply and horrifically wrong inside. We've had...four? No, five maybe? Go through this? There was a bloodline that had a weakness to it, which we didn't discover until we had a rather unfortunate quantity of horses bred from it. I am intimately familiar with the ways in which it sucks ass.
In dogs, it is perhaps less acutely horrible, on account of the lack of hooves. It can be treated, in any case. My dog is only thirteen, which isn't nearly old enough. (I'll settle for "older than mountains, younger than stars," please and thank.) So I am highly prepared to throw many medications at the problem if it means I get her living comfortably for as long as possible.
Right now, though, is the waiting. I hate waiting. Hence the blogging from work.