Anyone who's been kind enough to follow my blog over the last 2 years will have spotted a certain labrador popping up every so often in my posts. I'm referring, of course, to Alfie, that loopy but lovable dog of ours. A dog who has accumulated, if I may say so, quite a sizable fan base since joining the Hunot family as an 8-week old pup nine years ago. I think it's the pleading eyes. Or could it be the bonkers personality?
Alfie's always angling for a name-check in my blog. Better still, a pic. He'll resort to photobombing if he thinks Mabel is getting too much of the limelight.
No doubt about it, after mealtimes and countryside rambles, there's nothing that male dog of ours likes more in the world than full-on attention. And finally in this post the spotlight is shining 100% upon him. Although sadly not in the way we - or he - would wish it.
Alfie comes from a long line of hard-working field labradors, and even in late middle age, he's a lean machine who prides himself on his stamina and fitness. As such, we blithely assumed that his life expectancy would be a reasonably extended one. However, six weeks ago he begun to exhibit some rather, shall we say, pungent symptoms in his nether regions. After several trips to our local vet, followed by an unpleasant exploratory procedure, Andrew and I were told that he had an anal sac tumour, 'the size of a plum,' as our vet put it. There's no denying it, an anal sac tumour is bad news for dogs - by the time such a tumour is picked up, it's usually already spread to other systems in the body and is beyond active treatment. Our vet advised us that with effective palliative care, Alfie would continue to enjoy life for 'months rather than weeks'. It was a massive shock - like I say, he seemed so fit and healthy.
Three days after Alfie's diagnosis a canine-related crisis occurred. Labradors are notorious scavengers. Anything remotely food-like and they'll wolf it down, however rank and festering it may appear. Alfie duly sourced a carcass of unknown origin somewhere in the garden and gobbled it up. The first we knew of this furtive feast was 24 hours later when it became apparent that his ailing digestive system couldn't handle it. The Weekend from Hell ensued. How Alfie suffered. As did we. As did Lucy, and my brother and his partner (all of whom had the misfortune to be visiting us at the time). I'll spare you the details, suffice to say it involved multiple rolls of kitchen paper, mops, buckets, industrial strength stain remover and Glade plug-in air fresheners, together with a series of panicky phone calls to the very helpful vet on duty (why do health emergencies always seem to happen at weekends??), plus a plethora of pats, strokes, and hugs to soothe our distressed doggy.
We carted Alfie off to the surgery on Monday to have him checked over and to discuss treatment options for the tumour. By then Alf was beginning to recover from his scavenging shenanigans, although he was still looking pretty dejected and fragile. The vet told us that in her opinion Alfie most likely had 2 weeks to live. Goodness, such rapid deterioration.....Andrew and I couldn't believe it. We returned home in bits. We spent the next few days trying to come to terms with this heart-breaking turn of events, and alerting Alfie's devoted band of followers, including the Hunot offspring, who all shot home pronto to give him treats, attention and oodles of love.
A cocktail of palliative drugs was duly commenced. Tramadol for pain. Steroids for anti-inflammatory purposes. Lactalose for the bowelly bits. And then a few days later antibiotics for a localised infection. Meanwhile life continued to be a real struggle for poor old Alf. He retreated to his bed much of the time. His fizzy demeanour evaporated and those soulful eyes of his seemed sad and troubled. Mabel attempted to lift his spirits by snuggling up to him or grooming his ears. Andrew and I spoiled him rotten and steeled ourselves for his imminent demise.
However....two and a half weeks later, much to our astonishment, Alfie boy is still with us! Thanks to his magic medicine mix and his inherent fitness, he appears to be having a mini revival and is doing pretty well at the moment. He's gadding about the Ashdown Forest on short walks, he's guzzling his food (albeit only at wheaten terrier speed now) and he's welcoming visitors with that old manic excitement. We know that the tumour is continuing to grow, we can see that he's losing weight (he's getting so bony...) and we recognise this is just a short-term reprieve. But at least the vet's two week prediction has proved to be, well, wrong. So now we're just making the most of every day we have with him.
Anyone who isn't a lover of dogs (or indeed cats and other domestic pets) might perhaps find this post a little bewildering and/or over the top. But I think I can say with some certainty that pet dogs have the most extraordinary capacity to steal your heart, and the resulting pull on your emotions is very intense. So it is with our lovely labrador. And since I know that a number of dog-loving family members, friends and neighbours follow my blog, this post has been specially written for all of you to say a huge thank you for all your kind words and support over the last few weeks - Andrew and I are very touched.
Alfie's always angling for a name-check in my blog. Better still, a pic. He'll resort to photobombing if he thinks Mabel is getting too much of the limelight.
No doubt about it, after mealtimes and countryside rambles, there's nothing that male dog of ours likes more in the world than full-on attention. And finally in this post the spotlight is shining 100% upon him. Although sadly not in the way we - or he - would wish it.
Alfie comes from a long line of hard-working field labradors, and even in late middle age, he's a lean machine who prides himself on his stamina and fitness. As such, we blithely assumed that his life expectancy would be a reasonably extended one. However, six weeks ago he begun to exhibit some rather, shall we say, pungent symptoms in his nether regions. After several trips to our local vet, followed by an unpleasant exploratory procedure, Andrew and I were told that he had an anal sac tumour, 'the size of a plum,' as our vet put it. There's no denying it, an anal sac tumour is bad news for dogs - by the time such a tumour is picked up, it's usually already spread to other systems in the body and is beyond active treatment. Our vet advised us that with effective palliative care, Alfie would continue to enjoy life for 'months rather than weeks'. It was a massive shock - like I say, he seemed so fit and healthy.
Three days after Alfie's diagnosis a canine-related crisis occurred. Labradors are notorious scavengers. Anything remotely food-like and they'll wolf it down, however rank and festering it may appear. Alfie duly sourced a carcass of unknown origin somewhere in the garden and gobbled it up. The first we knew of this furtive feast was 24 hours later when it became apparent that his ailing digestive system couldn't handle it. The Weekend from Hell ensued. How Alfie suffered. As did we. As did Lucy, and my brother and his partner (all of whom had the misfortune to be visiting us at the time). I'll spare you the details, suffice to say it involved multiple rolls of kitchen paper, mops, buckets, industrial strength stain remover and Glade plug-in air fresheners, together with a series of panicky phone calls to the very helpful vet on duty (why do health emergencies always seem to happen at weekends??), plus a plethora of pats, strokes, and hugs to soothe our distressed doggy.
We carted Alfie off to the surgery on Monday to have him checked over and to discuss treatment options for the tumour. By then Alf was beginning to recover from his scavenging shenanigans, although he was still looking pretty dejected and fragile. The vet told us that in her opinion Alfie most likely had 2 weeks to live. Goodness, such rapid deterioration.....Andrew and I couldn't believe it. We returned home in bits. We spent the next few days trying to come to terms with this heart-breaking turn of events, and alerting Alfie's devoted band of followers, including the Hunot offspring, who all shot home pronto to give him treats, attention and oodles of love.
A cocktail of palliative drugs was duly commenced. Tramadol for pain. Steroids for anti-inflammatory purposes. Lactalose for the bowelly bits. And then a few days later antibiotics for a localised infection. Meanwhile life continued to be a real struggle for poor old Alf. He retreated to his bed much of the time. His fizzy demeanour evaporated and those soulful eyes of his seemed sad and troubled. Mabel attempted to lift his spirits by snuggling up to him or grooming his ears. Andrew and I spoiled him rotten and steeled ourselves for his imminent demise.
Anyone who isn't a lover of dogs (or indeed cats and other domestic pets) might perhaps find this post a little bewildering and/or over the top. But I think I can say with some certainty that pet dogs have the most extraordinary capacity to steal your heart, and the resulting pull on your emotions is very intense. So it is with our lovely labrador. And since I know that a number of dog-loving family members, friends and neighbours follow my blog, this post has been specially written for all of you to say a huge thank you for all your kind words and support over the last few weeks - Andrew and I are very touched.
