A Sight to Fear: the Greyhound Limp

That limp. That cursed limp. 

For two weeks I'd been trying to ignore what I thought might be a shadow of a limp on Hazel's right rear. But when I asked my friend Marilyn if she noticed anything about my dog's walk, she watched for a few minutes, then nodded reluctantly.  "Yeah," she said. "It's her right rear. She's limping."

Her words filled me with a trepidation I knew all too well. Because anyone who has ever owned a Greyhound knows that even the slightest hint of a limp is enough to Fed Ex your heart straight into your throat. Just as Cocker Spaniels are predisposed to epilepsy and German Shepards are prone to hip dysplasia, Greyhounds suffer from their own disease du jour:  bone cancer. Three years ago, my Greyhound, Olivia, started out with an innocent limp that two different vets thought was the result of nerve pain. It was three months later before the bone tumor appeared on X-rays, and two months after that when my sweet six-year old 'Livvy died in my arms.

And now Hazel was limping. With dread, I made the appointment for an X-ray. 

Two days later, I waited in the cold, sterile room with my other greyhound, Aiden, who was there for "moral support." As they carted Hazel off for X-rays, I fed myself a litany of excuses: maybe this time it really was nerve pain. Or arthritis. Or a corn. Or a slipped disk, or...

...and then I heard them. The office staff was reacting to Hazel's X-rays with exclamations of "Wow,"  "Take a look at this," and "Unbelievable." 

Oh my God. It wasn't just a tumor, but a big one. I was dizzy with fear, wondering how much time I had left with Hazel. When I was beckoned, my legs felt like rubber.

"It's not a tumor," was the first thing Dr. Endo said when she saw the look on my face. "Check this out." I stared at the X-rays, not sure what I was seeing except that something seemed off.

"See her left leg?" Dr. Endo asked, pointing to the mirror image. "It's straight, as it should be. Now look at her right."  It was oddly "S" shaped and not symmetrical with the left. "At the race track, Hazel apparently broke her leg and they didn't set it. This is how it healed." 

So it wasn't a tumor. It wasn't cancer. My dog wasn't going to die. 

I felt dizzy again, but this time it was from relief. I recalled what Stu, the founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption, told me when I adopted Aiden, who had broken his right rear hock during a race. Often, the track won't set a broken bone, he said. Instead, they'll stick the dog in a crate for six weeks and wait for the bone to heal. That would explain why Hazel's right femur was shaped like an "S" -- it hadn't been set. I cringed to think of the pain my playful girl must have experienced.

"Joint supplements should help with the limp," Dr. Endo suggested. "Other than that, she's fine." I got teary-eyed at the sound of those beautiful words. Words I hadn't expected.

With a wry sense of humor, I couldn't help but observe that with my neurological leg disorder, Aiden with his broken hock, and now Hazel with her broken femur, we were, indeed, a household of gimps. Three slightly damaged bodies making up one perfect family.  

I hugged Hazel under one arm and Aiden under the other. And with my perfect little family in tow, we headed home.