Bushington’s Vet

Well, I call up the vet and they say they can only reverse that kind of surgery in humans and not in dogs.  Dang it!  So, I decide to start calling up a counselor and talking about my frustrations using my PDA (I found it behind Mommy and Daddy’s bed).  But, I start thinking about what my life was like before I moved here and can’t keep it out of my head.  Then, I start having nightmares.  See, humans don’t think us dogs have nightmares or even dreams, but we do.  I don’t always remember what happens in the dreams, but when I wake up, I’m sweating.  I sometimes lick my sweat and it’s salty. 

Then, Daddy takes me to a hardware store and there lots of interesting smells like oak, sand, sunflowers, and I forget about being sweaty, but then Daddy picks up a piece of wood for the attic (the attic doesn’t stink anymore) and he accidentally drops it, and I shiver because I’m scared, but the shivering doesn’t stop.  Daddy loads me in the car and then puts the wood, hammer, and nails in the trunk.  When we get home, he brings the stuff in, brings me in, and gives me to Roberta to calm me down.  After fifteen minutes, I stop shivering.  

*

    That night though, I have a dream. I know I’m a Jack-Russel Terrior, but it was a dream.   I’m in a forest with men in green and brown uniforms.   They have guns and I’m beside my former master (before the non-kill shelter). I hear the men talking to each other and feel the mud beneath my paws.  One of the men says to the other, “The Vietcong could be anywhere.  Bushington, smell around.  Are they here?”  I smell, but all I smell is bird dung, but then I hear something.  It’s faint, but us dogs have better hearing than humans.  So, I bark and point my nose to where the noise is coming from.  My first master pets me and gives me sausage.  It’s soft and juicy, so I eat it and my tail wags.  

The men in the green and brown uniforms crawl on their bellies the way I pointed.  Then, I hear a pop followed by more pops; My master falls to the ground.  I try pushing him with my nose to wake him up, but blood flows out and he won’t wake up.  Then, the other men in the green and brown uniforms take my master and me and run away.  The other men feed me and give me treats, but I wish I could wake my master up and make him feel better.  Then I wake up and the sound of pop, pop is still in my head and I start shaking and sweating.  I start having dreams of my former master, Bob, during the day, too.  

Mommy, Daddy, and the rest of the family notice I’m acting weird, so they do what any parents does if their child is sick; they collect my poop in a bag and take it to a veterinarian. I love vets (veterans), but I don’t love vets (veterinarians).  The vet talks to my family about what’s been going on, tells them about my call about reversing neutering, and for some reason everyone laughs. Then, they start talking about the “real problem” with me (Bushington).  They tell the vet about my sweating, shaking, etc. and the vet examines my limbs, listens to my heart, but then recommends a pet psychiatrist.  Daddy rolls his eyes, but no one else does.

Mommy and Daddy had taken out pet insurance in case something like this happened.  So, the following Thursday, Daddy drives me to the pet psychiatrist’s office.  It’s similar to Daddy’s office and Daddy doesn’t take me out of his sight, due to all the trouble I’ve gotten into in the past.  He even warns the psychiatrist about my past escapes and my PDA, but the lady seems nice.  She listens to me and my problems without judging me.  She even lets me tell her about my nightmares using her PDA.  

She thinks about what I told her and about the symptoms described in my medical charts and after six weeks of sessions describing my nightmares, the lady lets Daddy in to talk with us.  She tells Daddy, this family was my second owner.  Daddy says, “Yea, I know.  We got him at a no-kill shelter.”  Then she tells Daddy I (Bushington) was a veteran in a war and she says I’m experiencing symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PDSD). The doctor says I’ll be fine, but I’ll need medication and counseling sessions.  Daddy is open to this and asks questions like what to do when I have night sweats or shivers.  She says someone should stay by me and help me feel safe.  She says to keep bringing me to the therapy sessions and that there’s medication that can help.  

So, I keep coming back and describe to the lady (Dr. Strauss) about my nightmares.  And, I tell her I heard someone say we were fighting the Vietcong.  Dr. Strauss says that means I was in the Vietnam War.  I feel relief as the two of us talk about my nightmares; Me being airlifted in the helicopter with my master to the MASH,  the doctors declaring my master dead, me whimpering with my tail between my legs.  Us dogs don’t cry when we’re sad, we whimper.

So, my daddy comes into the room and talks to Dr. Strauss and she tells him what we discovered today:  I was a bomb/people sniffing dog veteran in Vietnam who has PDSD.  My daddy nods. The lady says I’ll need at least fifty therapy sessions and medication.  My daddy says if it’ll help me and I need it, it’s okay.  

So, Daddy and I leave the office, Daddy hugs me, kisses me, and says he’s sorry for all the times he got upset with me for running away.  Daddy didn’t know I had PTSD.  He puts me in the car, puts my doggy seat belt on, puts music on, and starts driving.  Then, in the middle of his driving, he pulls over and puts his blinkers on.  Then, he looks at me and says, “It’s 1995 and you’re only six-years-old.  The Vietnam War was between 1955 and 1975. You don’t have PDSD.  You’re just nuts.”  I didn’t get any more counseling or medication after that.