At the end of September, our 10-year-old goldendoodle, Leo, began walking with a limp. It seemed innocuous enough, and we figured he’d stepped on something outside on a walk and would heal in a few days. The limp would improve, worsen, improve again, and then, finally, one evening after our walk, he came into the kitchen for water, and I discovered blood on the floor in front of his bowls.
The next morning, a Friday, I began searching for a veterinarian who could see Leo that same day. The vet we usually see — the one who issued our EU pet passport — didn’t get back to me early enough to see him. Luckily, I found a clinic near our apartment that could work him in and was willing to see him early that afternoon.
I had no idea if the vets at the new clinic could speak English. All I knew was that Leo needed help, and I’d use as much Spanish as I could and Google Translate for the rest.
We’ve had Leo since he was eight weeks old, taking him home in 2015 just before the Fourth of July. My daughter had just turned one, and my son was two and a half years old. He rode on my lap on the way home, and he’s been under my feet ever since. In essence, Leo became my third child. I raised him alongside my human babies, and they don’t remember a time when he wasn’t part of our lives. It’s a big reason why he traveled to Spain with us, and we went to such great effort and expense to get him here. He is a family member.
Leo has been a healthy pet, never requiring vet visits for anything more serious than an ear infection or annual vaccines. (Groomer visits, though, that’s another story!) As he ages, I expected that would change. I didn’t expect that it would be such a sudden occurrence.
He’s also a high-energy, anxious dog and very, very attached to me. If I leave a room, he leaves the room with me. If I’m sitting at the table with my laptop, you can probably find Leo under my feet. If I leave home to do anything, he’s waiting to greet me at the door when I return. And Leo listens to me better than anyone else in the house.
The veterinary clinic caring for Leo is located right across the park from our apartment building, about an eight-minute walk, give or take a minute or two. The building is nondescript, but the signage is clear, and we made our way into the clean, modern space. It’s been in business for more than 20 years, and the two female veterinarians in charge have an evident rapport.
Will and I walked in, unsure of what to expect. However, a receptionist greeted us at the desk in Spanish, and I apologized profusely for my limited fluency in the language. The young woman did not speak English, but she was happy to communicate with us using Google Translate when needed. Within a few minutes, she brought one of the vets up front, who, to my surprise, spoke English. She was a bit out of practice, but she was happy to communicate in English as much as we needed, and I am sure relief was written all over my face.
Once in the exam room, Will and I had to wrangle Leo onto the exam table and hold him down so that both vets could take a look at the affected paw. (The other vet also speaks English, although not quite as well as the other.) Going to the vet isn’t his favorite outing and gives him anxiety, so we were prepared for Leo to make a scene.
And make a scene he did. The vets couldn’t sedate him because he’d had food and water, so our only safe option was to hold him down and let him deal with the exam.
I’m not going to lie. Listening to him whine and cry and fight broke my heart, but just like taking your kids to the doctor when they’re little and don’t understand, it was a necessary fight.
By the end of this visit, Leo’s foot was bandaged, and we walked him home with a plan to return in a couple of days for sedation, X-rays, blood analysis, and pathology. His paw had an obvious injury, but we didn’t yet know the cause.
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