I adopted my first dog, a scruffy 10-pound terrier mix named Frankie, when I was an adult and fairly clueless about all things canine. I wasn\u2019t really prepared to care for the cute but alien creature that had entered my home, and I definitely wasn\u2019t anticipating that, a few years down the road, I would be meeting the needs of a dog with diabetes. By then, however, I was completely besotted with him.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d liked dogs \u2013 or at least the idea of them \u2013 since I was a kid, but had never had much interaction with them. I grew up in a small Brooklyn apartment with a mother who feared all creatures great and small. \u00a0None of my childhood friends had dogs either. Our urban Flatbush neighborhood was a far cry from Lassie country.<\/p>\n
It wasn’t until I moved from New York and settled into a house with a large yard in Tucson that I gave in to my vague hankerings for canine companionship- not to mention to the nudgings of a dog rescuer friend, who emailed me a picture of a cute, disheveled pup who had been found wandering in the streets. The local humane society estimated he was about five years old. He had the sweetest, furry face, large intelligent eyes. I fell harder for him than I\u2019d ever done for a guy on a dating site.<\/p>\n
I would like to report that Frankie and I bonded immediately when my rescuer friend left him with me, that as soon as his trusting little face looked into mine, I knew I\u2019d made the right decision. I would like to, but that would be a lie. Frankie\u2019s little face wasn\u2019t trusting; it was terrified.<\/p>\n
Pride and obstinacy have their rewards. Slowly, slowly, I won him over. He began shadowing me around the house, snuggling up against my armpit when we went to sleep at night. I eventually learned his little quirks. He wasn\u2019t interested in playing ball or in most toys, but there was a squeaky chili that he loved to chase \u2013 and chew up. I began buying replacement squeakers in bulk.<\/p>\n
When Frankie was eight years old, far from geriatric for a small dog, he began drinking more water than usual and had a few accidents in the house. We lived in the desert. Maybe the dry heat was getting to him, I rationalized. And he was still his perky, squeaky chili-destroying self.<\/p>\n
So it came as a bit of a shock when, during an already scheduled visit, the vet told me that Frankie had diabetes. I learned that in dogs, the most common version of the disease is similar to the type 1 version in humans \u2013 that is, after the onset, dogs become insulin dependent. In what is sometimes termed insulin deficient diabetes (IDD), a dog loses beta cells and no longer makes enough insulin to keep the glucose levels under control. No single cause is known; possibilities include genetic defects, pancreatic inflammation, and autoimmune attack.<\/p>\n
Although I\u2019d known dogs could get diabetes, and that it was treatable, when I got the diagnosis, I feared life as I knew it would be over.<\/p>\n
I cried.<\/p>\n
I searched high and low for a diet that would treat the condition; many friends with diabetic cats assured me it could be done. Then I finally settled down and worked with my vet to get Frankie’s blood sugar regulated. I won\u2019t lie. It took a long, frustrating time, about seven months. But many glucose curves, switches of insulin types, and dose adjustments later, he was finally stabilized.<\/p>\n
We fell into a routine: I gave Frankie two shots a day, 12 hours apart, right after meals. (He proved resistant to injecting himself; it must have been the terrier in him.) Some people test their dogs using blood glucose meters designed for small animals, but I opted for the less expensive \u2013 and less intrusive \u2013 urine tests with over-the-counter Diastix Reagent strips for humans.<\/p>\n
I found that I was not only coping, but also that Frankie\u2019s care provided surprising rewards. Advised by my vet that regular exercise was important, I would take Frankie to a riverside trail early each morning for a long stroll before the desert heat set in. The air was cool and fresh, and we made friends with other regulars. Frankie was very shy but adorable, and soon had a small fan club. People looked forward to seeing us \u2013 well, him – but learned to avoid trying to roughhouse with Frankie.<\/p>\n
No question: With dogs, as with humans, dealing with a chronic disease is never easy. I was constantly vigilant. I learned to recognize the first signs of hypoglycemia \u2013 a drunken gait \u2013 and always had Karo syrup on hand for our walks. I had a few scares, a few hypoglycemic incidents, but no medical emergencies. I knew I was lucky to have found out about Frankie\u2019s diabetes sooner rather than later, while it was still imminently manageable.<\/p>\n
Frankie lived well with diabetes until the age of 15.<\/p>\n
When it was clear that his quality of life was irreversibly compromised, I booked an appointment with a hospice vet to come over and help ease Frankie out of this world. In the last week, I gave him his insulin so he wouldn\u2019t experience any discomfort but I was far more lax about between-meal snacks. Forget high-fiber kibble; Big Macs with bacon turned up on the menu. Frankie passed away relaxed in my arms after eating a large bowl of Ben & Jerry\u2019s Stephen Colbert Americone Dream\u00a0ice cream \u2013 a fitting sendoff for my Frankie Doodle Dandy.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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