One of the most frustrating aspects of being a dog owner is those times when our pets develop skin problems. Since I changed over to a high-quality dog food about 10 years ago, my dogs have had far fewer issues. However, Aquinnah, our chocolate lab, will give himself an acral lick granuloma just about every summer.
Labs are prone to this self-abuse. The dog will lick an area of his leg that has a tiny sore or abrasion, or is simply itchy. He continues to lick obsessively until there is a good-sized wound.
My husband, Paul, and I are still dealing with the granuloma that Quinn started in August.
With previous incidents, we had treated him with an over-the-counter medication, Vetericyn, and his raw spots healed up. This year, after several weeks of not seeing much improvement, we took him to his veterinarian.
Vets aren’t sure what causes dogs to obsessively lick. It could be boredom, or separation anxiety.
I don’t know what Quinn could be worried about. He lives a charmed life. For one thing, he has a human around almost all the time. Paul is retired, and takes Quinn and his sister dog, Martha, out five times a day. Two of those times are 15-20 minute walks for Quinn. (Martha prefers to get her exercise by chasing cats around the house.)
We are indulgent pet parents, and the dogs can lie on the furniture if they want. They also have three comfy dog beds between them. They get three square meals a day, and a “dessert” packed in a Kong toy after breakfast and supper. Every night I play a game with them that I call “school.” We go through a routine of shaking hands, sitting, staying—Martha, being a smallish, agile lab-pit bull mix, can jump in the air and twirl.
Every summer, they spend a week on Penobscot Bay. Most importantly, they have two humans who love them and make sure they get yearly wellness checks, all necessary shots and vet visits when necessary.
On Quinn’s latest visit, the doctor prescribed oral antibiotics and a mixture of antibiotics, steroids and non-steroidal anti-inflammatories to be applied topically. He showed me how to spread it on, then place a small sheet of plastic over the wound. This would serve as a barrier, so the ointment wouldn’t leak into the bandage, a wrapping of athletic tape to hold the plastic in place.
I was to keep this on Quinn for half an hour or so. Then, I’d remove the bandage so the wound could, in effect, air-dry.
Okay. I could do this. Quinn is good about taking pills, as long as they are delivered in a teaspoon full of wet dog food. He’s reasonably receptive to being handled, such as when I clean his ears.
Still, I knew his condition was going to be a challenge. I read a few articles on the Internet that were written by veterinarians and vet techs. One called it a “dermatological nightmare.” Dogs will rip bandages off. They will start another granuloma in the exact same place on the opposite paw. They will lick their spot right in front of their owners.
Paul and I quickly realized that we were going to have to keep an eye on Quinn during all of our waking hours. If he was left alone for more than 10 minutes, he could bring that lick granuloma back to square one, undoing all of our therapy.
Of course, this was an impossible task. Paul has to let out and feed our backyard chickens at dawn. I leave for work between 6:50 and 7:15. As the days grow shorter, he can’t take care of the hens while I’m still in the house.
When Paul walks Martha, Quinn is alone. Midmorning, Paul goes out to give the chickens a snack. Again, Quinn is alone.
So, when Paul comes back into the house, Quinn often has the bandage pushed down to his paw. Sometimes the wound is red, because he has been licking it.
By the time I arrive home from work, around 3 p.m., Paul is going stir-crazy. He’ll go out for a walk, go to the library or bring in recyclables. It’s my time to watch Quinn.
He is an alpha dog, and often resents being told what to do. To keep him under our supervision, we’ve had to put up a baby gate, to restrain him in the living room with Paul. If we are in the family room with Quinn, we have to close the door, to keep him in place.
Quinn has taken to running away from me if he thinks I am going to fence him in. He’s 11, but he can move fast when he wants to, darting from the living room, through the dining room, through the kitchen and down the stairs into the family room. Sometimes he hesitates on those stairs; they’re oak, and I think they have a sheen that makes him wonder whether they are safe. But when he is dashing off to escape me, he heads right down them without a thought.
Today, Quinn didn’t bother the bandage when Paul took Martha outside. His granuloma is still there, but he hasn’t fussed with it. As I write this, he is lying in one of his dog beds, fully relaxed.
Maybe it’s because I told him that if he couldn’t stop he’d have to wear a plastic cone, an Elizabethan collar, also known as the canine “collar of shame.”
Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it. Perhaps he’s finally getting better. I can only hope.
No comments:
Post a Comment