Meggie’s brain

About a year ago, before daybreak, Meg started scrabbling in her crate, like she always does, ready to start the day.

Within moments, though, the sound became a rhythmic pounding, and all of us, including Abby, knew that something had gone terribly wrong.

It was Meg’s first seizure, and it lasted a long five minutes, from convulsion to collapse to consciousness. We took her to the emergency vet, who did some bloodwork and reassured us with the possibility that this was the only one she’d have. Like humans, dogs can have one seizure and never be troubled with another.

The next one happened that same afternoon, and the third that night. All lasted for only a few minutes, but she went in to her regular vet for observation the next morning. Nothing happened. No more seizures. Nothing strange in the bloodwork. Sometimes dogs have a couple of seizures, then no more after that.

She did well for a few months, and didn’t seem to have any effects from the electrical storms.

But then they started in again. Three at a time, always when she was sleeping. She’d go a month or so without another, so we got used to the idea that she would have them, but they’d be sporadic, and not frequent enough for medication.

Then the petit mals began. She walked as if she were in slow motion, then stood motionless and apparently blind. Three in three days.

We started her on phenobarbital, and after a few days of drunkenness, her body adapted and didn’t show any effects. Meggie was back. The seizures were gone.

Meg has always been inscrutable. I took her in when she was about five, after she had proven too difficult for her previous family to handle. Meg had been a breeder in a mill, and when rescued had a severe case of peritonitis from constantly producing puppies. Physically, she recovered quickly. Her teeth remain a problem — when rescued they were invisible because of soft food and the lack of dental care, but she’s had few health issues since then.

Mentally, though, she’s had much to work through. Her behavior shows a lack of socialization — she doesn’t interact with other dogs (except Abby, whose well-being is Meg’s main focus), doesn’t comprehend voice commands, seems to have little sense of her own size, would stay indoors for the rest of her life if she could, and doesn’t connect with anyone. She seems happy — she’s learned to wag her tail, and her face lights up when it’s time for treats — but every day is a new day for her. Though I’ve kept her existence simple with repeated patterns and words, she still seems to be stumbling through life. For the past seven years, putting on the leash has always meant going out the door and down the steps, but still she has to be lead out the door and down the steps. Occasionally she’ll head to the door and patiently stand by it when her leash is on, but most days it’s as if she has no idea what’s expected of her. On cold mornings, it gets to be a little, well, much.

Lately she’s become even more difficult to handle. She’s forgotten her always tenuous understanding of being housebroken. She awakens earlier and earlier, but then sleeps unnaturally soundly during the day. She has transient deafness that’s so profound she can’t hear when someone is standing directly behind her and saying her name. She can’t control her water intake, regularly drinking so much that she throws it up a few minutes later. We’ve taken to giving her smaller amounts of water with ice cubes to slow her down. Her back leg twitches when she’s otherwise standing still.

My worry is that it’s a brain tumor. When an older dog starts having seizures, odds are this is what causes them. Because of all the behavioral changes, she goes in tomorrow to see if we can get a definitive diagnosis.