Bad Medicine

The phone rang early on a Saturday morning.

It was Dr. Tom.

Not the call I was expecting.

Especially early on a Saturday morning.

He informed me that he had just finished his research.

And he had some troubling news for us.

Cooper has Von Willebrand Disease.

When you get news like this.

You only hear the worst.

Except we hadn’t heard the worst.

Yet.

The doctor said that he has only seen one other patient like this in the last five years.

And that patient is now dead.

Those were his words.

Not mine.

Well maybe not the exact words.

But pretty damn close.

Dr. Tom had done surgery on Cooper a few weeks earlier.

And since that surgery, Cooper just hadn’t healed properly.

According to the doc, the fact he was still bleeding was a sure sign he had this disease I’d never heard of.

Von Willebrand disease.

It’s a bleeding disorder, according to webmd.com.

• When you have this disease, it takes longer for your blood to form clots and you bleed for a longer time than other people.

I asked if he knew about this before doing the operation.

That’s when he took off his doctor hat.

And put on his lawyer glasses.

“We did a coag test.”

“And everything was normal.”

Ok, so it was normal before you cut Cooper.

And abnormal after you cut him.

I’m no math major, but something wasn’t adding up.

The doctor apologized for not having the foresight to see this situation before doing the surgery.

The fact that he used the word “apologized”... more than once... really concerned me.

In my court of public opinion, that sounded like he was guilty.

Of what, I still wasn’t sure.

So I kept asking questions.

That’s journalism school paying off.

In the doctor’s words, “if Cooper gets a heavy laceration or gets hit by a car, he will bleed to death.”

Whoa.

I was writing as quickly as he was speaking.

Because I knew my wife would want every piece of information when she got home.

After all, Cooper is her baby.

Well her dad’s baby.

Now before you call the Maury Povich on us.

Cooper is a dog.

A purebred German Shepherd.

Born to a litter of 13 earlier this year.

A litter produced by my father-in-law.

We got Cooper as a present.

And after eight months, Cooper is 86 pounds.

And still growing.

But he is definitely a member of this family.

I have the vet bills to prove it.

A few weeks ago we listened to Bob Barker and got our new pet spayed.

Or neutered.

Or one of those.

Doctor Tom was hired to do this job.

But instead of getting fixed, something got broken.

The weird part was from the moment Cooper got home from surgery, he was himself.

Bumping into things.

Eating everything in sight.

Being a puppy.

Albeit, an 86-pound puppy.

His post-op R&R lasted about six minutes.

It wasn’t until a week later that he started dripping blood.

A slow drip.

One here.

One there.

For no apparent reason.

That’s when we got concerned.

That’s when we went back to Doctor Tom.

And that’s when he told us German Shepherds are #4 on the list of dogs most likely to get Von Willebrand’s disease.

Well that would’ve been nice to know before you cut our dog open.

But that was about all he had to add. 

So we did what everybody does in 2011 when you don’t know something.

We googled.

That’s where we found the symptoms for this Von Willebrand disease:

• Recurrent and prolonged nosebleeds
• Bleeding from the gums
• Blood in the stool or urine
• Excessive bleeding from a cut

Um -- no, no and no.

Bleeding?  Sorta.

Excessive?   Not a chance.

Yet another part of this formula that didn’t add up.

Over the next few weeks, we kept a close eye on Cooper.

And day-by-day, we saw... nothing.

No more blood.

From the nose.

From the gums.

From the wherever.

Well it turns out Cooper’s bleeding was a serious case of ... not resting and relaxing after getting fixed.

That’s it.

I’m not sure where this “Doctor” did all his research.

I’m not even sure where he got his license.

Costco?

But the bottom line is Cooper is fine.

And back to destroying our back yard.

Which is exactly what an 86-pound puppy should be doing.

The Dog With No Name

Shhhhh.

You hear that.

Nothing.

The sound of silence.

And doesn’t it sound great.

It's almost midnight and the whining just stopped.

Seconds ago.

As did the yelping.

And the barking.

But I’m sure it will be back.

Before I am done writing.

Just a few short hours ago the in-laws arrived.

And with them came a package of two.

Two from the litter of 13.

Two fuzzy, hairy, adorable purebred German Shepherds.

One for us.

One for my sister-in-law.


Eight weeks old.


It's like having a newborn all over again.


Except this newborn has four legs.


Our babies had a total of six.

I must admit I’ve been looking forward to this day from the moment I found out the momma was knocked up.

I love dogs.

I always have.

This whole “man’s best friend” thing.

It’s really true.

And now that I spend most of my life sitting at home.

Alone.

It’s great to have company.

We’ve had dog #1 since she was a pup.

Nearly five years ago.

Her name is Sport.

My son named her.

He always wanted a brother.

In fact, we had Sport’s sister too.

For about a week.

But we quickly learned that one was enough.

At that point.

So we packed Lucy up and sent her to a new house.

A good house.

But not our house.

To this day that makes me sad.

I realize that two dogs are ten times the work of just one.

But I believe in power by numbers.

And I wish we would’ve kept Lucy.

That’s probably part of the my wife’s motivation for getting a new dog.

We tried a couple of times before to add a playmate to the stable.

But it never worked out.

There was Lucy.

Then Cody.

Then Ryker.

Then Charlie.

And Zeppo.

Ok, not Zeppo.

But all the others each got their 15 seconds of fame.

And all of them disappeared.

For a variety of reasons.

Ryker was actually with us for a full month.

But he hopped one too many fences.

Great dog, wrong dog, wrong place.

Fortunately he found a new home very quickly.

And lived happily ever after.

None of the others were able to make our cut either.

Until now.

This time it’s going to work.

I just know it.

The clock started ticking when these pups were hatched in the middle of February.

And after two months of staring at the pictures on my email.

He is finally home.

He.

Well, he doesn’t have a name yet.

But it’s not due to a lack of trying.

Stone.  Buster.  Buddy.  Slate.  Lucky.  Hammer.

We have considered them all.

But none of them has stuck.

I thought it would be a good idea to come up with a German name for our German Shepherd.

I’m not sure my dad would’ve thought that was such a good idea.

He was true old school.

He wouldn’t even sit in a Volkswagen.

Or Mercedes Benz.

“Nazi car,” he used to say.

So the idea of his one and only son.

His Jewish son.

Having a German dog.

With a German name.

Oy vey.

Then again, he wasn’t crazy about me having a Korean wife.

At first.

Now considering this German dog comes from my Korean in-laws, I’m thinking it is ok.

My father in law told me that he has a friend who is a dog trainer in the old country.

His old country.

And his friend says German Shepherds are the smartest dogs out there.

The internet almost agrees.

According to animalplanet.com, the German Shepherd is the third smartest dog.

Behind the Poodle (#2) and Border Collie (#1).

Considering there are more than 300 breeds of dogs, the bronze medal is not so bad.

But it doesn’t matter how smart this dog is.

If he doesn’t have a name, he’ll never fetch.

So my son and I sat at the computer a few days ago.

And we searched the list of “most popular dog names”.

When two of those names were the same names as two of my kids, it was time to try a new plan.

Enter Google Translate.

We typed a series of english words into the box, looking for the German equivalent. 

And we tried a bunch.

Dog... Hund.

Barker... Marktschreier

Buster... Buster.

We kept searching and suche-ing.

But at the end of the day, we had nichts.

Nothing.

Except for a new dog.

A fuzzy, hairy, adorable, purebred little dog.

And that's something to celebrate.

In any language.






For the story behind the story of the pups, check out this blog:
The Barker's Dozen

A Barker's Dozen

You may find this hard to believe.

But not everything you see in the movies is true.

For example...

Indiana Jones, scared of snakes.

Harrison Ford, not scared of snakes.

Gary Sinise, has both his legs.

Lieutenant Dan, not so much.

Sandy, hot.

Olivia Newton-John, hot.

Ok, that one was true.

Now I’ve worked in TV for all of my adult life, so I know a couple tricks of the trade.

But I certainly don’t know it all.

I was reminded of that nearly 14 years ago.

That’s when my wife went into labor for the first time, with our first child.

Now my mom and dad had no brothers and no sisters.

So I grew up with no real nieces or nephews.

And that meant no babies.

And no experience with pregnancy.

Sure my wife and I took all of the classes.

Hee Hee.  Ha Ha.

But I had no idea what really happens when labor kicks in.

Dr. Huxtable can only teach you so much.

So through the magic of real life, I learned that unlike General Hospital, labor actually takes longer than 12 minutes.

And there is no commercial break in the middle of it.

Who knew?

In the case of my daughter it took more than 12 hours.

Of course it was all worth it in the end when the good doctor handed us our little girl.

Then again, I wasn’t the one in serious pain for more than half a day.

I did a quick google search to see how long the longest labor has been.

And I wasn’t able to get an official answer.

But I did see that one very unfortunate woman said she was in labor for 52 hours.

Ouch.

Of course, I have absolutely no idea how she felt.

But Bella does.

We just got word from the in-laws that after months of waiting.

And days of pacing.

Bella is finally a mom.

She and Dino decided to start a family a few months ago.

Well, it was probably Dino’s decision.

I’m not sure if they are legally married.

But these days, does it really matter?

My father-in-law has been anxiously awaiting the arrival of Bella’s babies for several days.

And Sunday she delivered.

The first call informed us that Bella and Dino were proud parents.

Of four puppies.

Bella and Dino are German Shepherds.

We were all excited.

But selfishly, I was thrilled.

You see, I’ve been hoping to get a second dog for quite a while.

And since my in-laws have three children, including my wife.

And since they now had four puppies.

I liked our chances of getting one of the dogs.

But Bella, that little overachiever, wasn’t done there.

A few hours later, the phone rang again.

Puppy #7 had just arrived.

All black.  All adorable.

Just last week they had taken Bella to the vet to make sure she was doing alright.

The doggie doctor said there were at least four puppies on the way.

Possibly more.

At last check, seven is more than four.

By this point, Bella was about 12 hours into the process.

She had to be beat.

I know my in-laws were.

In fact, they had switched to the zone defense so that at least one person could get some shut eye.

1000 miles away, I slept just fine.

When we woke up the next morning, the news had changed.

Again.

Bella had reached double digits.

Ten puppies.

This cute little thing had taken on an entirely different level.

By this point, I had a pretty good feeling one of those pups would be making the trek to my house.

Maybe more.

Those feelings got even stronger when puppy #11 was born.

Then #12.

And finally #13.

13 PUPPIES.

That’s not a litter.

That’s a kennel.  

My son found the record for a litter is 24 puppies.

24 Mastiff Puppies, born in the United Kingdom in 2005.

That poor Momma.

Our poor Bella.

Thankfully, she is doing great.

Dino too.

The plan is to keep the babies with mom and dad for the next six weeks or so.

Then our immediate family will increase by one.

Maybe more.