The Diarrhea Diaries

If you've continued reading in spite of the unappealing title, you've come to the right place, because I've got the scoop on poop for anyone navigating that gastric nightmare known as canine diarrhea. Sure, an occasional bout is unpleasant, but chronic diarrhea? It should be added to Dante's Inferno as the 11th Circle of Hell. 

And when you have a Greyhound that weighs 84 pounds? Well, let's just say big dog, big output. 

The source of Ember's diarrhea was a mystery. Was it his hookworm medication? Diet? An allergy? An intestinal disorder, perhaps? My poor boy was having three, four, sometimes as many as six mushy stools per day, and during our nonstop rainstorms, no less. Try cleaning the stuff off fake grass while it's raining and you know it would be easier to remove white off rice. No sooner would I pick up the latest pile and disinfect and scrub the grass before Ember would step outside for yet another...no no no no no...bout of epic proportions. Sigh.

I tried everything. His vet, the wonderful Dr. Dowd, thought he might have a food allergy so I slowly transitioned him to a limited ingredient kibble. Upon her suggestion I also added a daily probiotic plus, for extra fiber, green beans or a scoop of pumpkin. 

Nope. Although he loved the bonus additions.

Could it be a vitamin B12 deficiency? She taught me how to give Ember bi-weekly injections, but to no effect. Maybe it was a bacterial infection? She prescribed Flagyl. 

A little better. I held my breath...maybe, maybe, maybe? Nope. 

She didn't think it was his hookworm treatment, either. He'd been on medication for almost a year but was now off it since he was finally testing negative--hooray! And yet the mushy stools continued. 

I became obsessed with poop talk. When I asked Cara, a fellow dog walker at my local park, how her new six-month old Golden Retriever Bernie was doing, she bemoaned his consistent diarrhea and bam! We bonded over poop. She finally went to an Irritable Bowel Disorder (IBS) specialist who charged a sum equivalent to her mortgage but when I ran into her a few weeks later, she said every penny was worth it because Bernie's stools were picture perfect. That's all I needed to hear--alleluia sister, give me that guy's number!

Never mind. Just one month later, she said the soft stools were back. 

Emily's Greyhound, Arrow was having gastric "issues" as well. During our group walks, while others were sharing Netflix recommendations and Ted Lasso reviews, Emily and I were exchanging sordid details about size, frequency, texture, and color. Everyone was frantic for answers, hoping that perhaps someone else had discovered the Golden Ticket. 

In the meantime, Ember wasn't showing any signs of tummy distress. He was still my goofy, gentle, playful pup, affectionate and eager to play, happy to eat. His "mom" on the other hand, was growing increasingly desperate for a solution. I replaced my small patch of fake grass with pea pebble, thinking it might be easier to clean. It wasn't. Where I had once emptied just one trash receptacle per week, I now hauled multiple bags of the reeking stuff. Every morning I looked out my living room window with a sense of dread, scared to survey the latest landmine of poop sprinkled throughout my yard and cobblestone patio, gearing myself up like a soldier about to enter a war zone. 

Then one morning...

With my usual trepidation, I peeked between the blinds and...wait, WHAT? I blinked hard. Nope, it was really there.  A perfectly coiled poop reaching toward the sky like Coit Tower. I knew this wasn't from my other Greyhound, Clara whose M.O is to wait until our morning walk. I looked in disbelief at Ember, who was oh so casually sprawled across his Laz E Dog recliner.

 Was this work of art yours?

"Yeah, it's mine," his expression seemed to say. "What of it?"

And just like that his stools have remained, dotting my fake grass like the heads on Easter Island. I'm continuing with the probiotics, pumpkin, et al because I'm not sure what worked. Maybe it was a collective solution coupled with my pathetic prayers. 

Now, on our weekly greyhound group walks, I can forgo poop talk and chime in about Ted Lasso and his soccer team named, appropriately enough, The Greyhounds. But if anyone wants the dish on dung, I'm your number one gal. 

Uh, make that number two.

Introducing Ember

And just like that, there's a new dog in town, as if you were surprised. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm happiest with a dog under each arm. When I lost Aiden unexpectedly last April, that left my poor Clara trying to adjust as an "only" dog, an adjustment she did not take well. Sweet dog that she is, I know she likes dogs more than people, and that's okay. I like dogs more than most people, too.

So, about this new dog. A few days before Thanksgiving, I got a call from Stu Homer, founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption. He had a "bounce back" that was currently in a foster home; a two and a half year old male that had been returned because the dog's apartment-dwelling owners claimed that, after 11 months, they just couldn't housetrain him, plus he didn't walk well on busy San Francisco streets. The dog had a limp, Stu said, thanks to a bad break at a Florida racetrack that occurred either playing or during a practice run, nobody knew for sure. Due to my neurological condition, Stu was aware that I also have a limp and can't walk fast or far. It was a perfect match, he said. Would I be interested?

Like he had to ask. We made arrangements to meet the next day at Stu's house, where all surrenders and adoptions take place. There, "Grant" would be returned by his foster family and handed off to me. 

I fell in love instantly. The dog was jet black and by far, the tallest greyhound I've ever seen. His head came to my hipbone and at 5'9, I'm no shrinking violet. 

"Where do I sign?" I asked Stu. In a few short hours, the dog I renamed Ember, inspired by his glowing brown eyes, was in his new home. 

The first few days Ember didn't leave his pillow, seemingly in a state of shock, and who could blame him? Just a few days earlier he had been with the only family he had known since leaving the track. Then without warning he suddenly found himself with a foster family, and just a few days later he was in yet another strange home: mine.  

But slowly, cautiously, he started to explore his new surroundings. He saw Clara use the doggie door and without hesitation, followed her through the door where he proceeded to do his business in the designated grass area, with no prompting, mind you. Five months later, Ember has never had an accident in the house. And this was the dog that couldn't be housetrained?

This was also the dog that his previous owners claimed "didn't walk well." Now bear in mind, I wear leg braces and use a cane, yet I found I was able to handle Clara and Ember easily using one hand to hold two leashes. They walked together seamlessly, belly-to-belly. I wish I could take credit for being an extraordinary trainer, but I can't because Ember adapted Just. Like. That. 

As the days passed, Ember started playing with toys, playing with Clara, and playing with his new greyhound friends that we walk with every Saturday. His personality began to shine forth, a happy, playful goofy pup that was incredibly affectionate, leaning his 84-pound body against me so hard for hugs that I soon learned to make sure I had a wall in back of me for support. He and Clara became inseparable, sleeping together, riding in the car together, going on walks together, eating together. In no time, it felt like Ember had been with us forever.

But that limp. His funny gait was causing a painful corn to form on the foot of the leg he had broken and judging from  his limp, I suspected he might need a boot. I called Stu for advise and he told me to bring Ember to his house and he would try different boots to determine what might be the best fit. Since I'd be preoccupied with Ember, I decided to leave Clara at home. 

As we turned down Stu's street, Ember's demeanor changed. He appeared nervous. Scared. I opened the car door to let him out, but he wouldn't budge, instead tucking himself further back in the corner. And when he saw Stu? The poor dog started trembling so hard I became concerned. What the heck? And then I knew.

Every time Ember had been to Stu's house, he had been ripped from his home and moved to a new one. First the racetrack, then his home of 11 months, then his foster family of four days. The common denominator was this street. This man. Ember saw Stu and thought he was being sent away yet again. His fear was so palpable it tore my heart. 

I didn't force him out of the car, instead letting him stay inside as Stu came to us to try different boots while I held my shaking dog. I talked to Ember, soothed him, told him everything was okay and he was coming back home. He leaned into me with worried eyes, offering his paw to Stu but not ever looking at him. 

When we returned home, Ember bolted into the house with the same speed I imagine he'd once exhibited at the racetrack. He saw his pillow. His toys. His bed and his companion, Clara. And above all else, he saw the one most important thing, the only thing that really mattered: 

My sweet boy saw his forever home.