A Papa's Perspective

 by Jason Dains

I'm scared; the truth is I'm scared. Here I am, a 20... 39-year-old man, and I'm scared! I pretend I don't care; I pretend I'm not worried. I pretend everything is fine. But the truth is, I'm scared, and it's not fine.

About a month ago, we officially found out our dog, O.D., is diabetic. I already somehow knew it, though, and I somewhat thought Amber did too. He had all the signs! The constant urinating, the going on the floor (something he rarely did before), drinking all his water two to three times a day, then getting up in the middle of the night to ask for more. Not to mention the family trip to Field of Dreams, where we had to stop to buy him a cooling pad because he was so overheated and sweaty he almost couldn't breathe!

Then there are all the questions. Did we do the right thing? Are we doing the right thing now? Did we give him too many treats, spoil him too much? Did all those late nights, summertime snacks with papa lead to this? Maybe it was all the ice cream we gave him that first year we had him?

Truth is, I don't know. I'll never know, and I can't even begin to pretend to know what caused this or what he is going through. He can't tell us how he is feeling. He can't tell us he's in pain or doesn't feel well. All we can do is guess.

When we got Officer Davis (O.D. for short), he was homeless. Or I suppose I should say had been homeless. He had been living on the streets for two to three years. Did this lead to his being diabetic? We'll never know. The fact is, though, he picked us. He was lying there, under the desk at the animal shelter as we looked at dog after dog, waiting for us to notice him. So giving up on him or sending him back at this point isn't really an option.

Have I thought about it? Yeah. Have I thought we can't afford this or this is too much? Yes, I'm not going to lie or sugarcoat it when I say I have. O.D., however, is family, and you don't just give up on family.

Sometimes I feel like I'm in over my head. Sometimes I feel like we're in over our heads. There are so many questions! How much insulin do we give him? What kind? Who has it for the lowest price? Is there a better option?

Then there are the vet visits, rushing home after work to pick him up to get to the appointments on time. The Libre Sensor and scanning him every few hours. Staying up until 3 AM, holding our dog, lying on the floor crying. Calling into work because you're too tired and upset to go, only to still get up at 6 AM to give your dog his insulin. It's knowing that you can never go to a 5:30 movie again. That someone always has to be home at 6 o'clock to give the dog his medicine. It's the missed dinner plans and football games. It's sitting on the cold hardwood floor with your dogs at 6:15 every night to make sure they eat all their food before fighting the one to put a needle in his neck.

So yes, we fight. We fight O.D. to take his meds. We fight each other about who's going to get up to do it. We fight both dogs to eat green beans as treats instead of wanting something else. We fight the dang Libre Sensor when it's stuck to his back for weeks, and we are sitting on our kitchen floor at 10:30 at night, trying to pull it off with coconut oil. Most of all, though, we fight for our dog, we fight for his health, and we fight for our family.

Is this the worst thing in the world? No. Are there other people probably dealing with much worse things? Yes, probably. Is it our lives now, though, and the hand we've been dealt? Yes! Did he pick us? You bet he did. So, we fight. And we continue to fight. He is worth it.