How Big Will Our Puppy Be?
By: Dustin Holloway
Tags: Growth, Dogs, Puppies, Surgery, Pets

Just the biggest, goodest boy. Photo Credits: Dustin

Felix got his stitches out at the end of last week on Friday. He got his cone off the same day and celebrated by tearing my forearm into bloody tatters, such that a group of pixies could nearly do a maypole dance around it.

Still, it’s exciting to see him so much happier and more content. He can now lie down without the cone partially cutting off his airway, which is, I imagine, a minor improvement. For our part, with the cone off, the stitches out, the tumor gone, and the margins clean, we were pleased to know that we had reached the end of that particular journey; we were in the clear.

Victory! Photo Credit: Dustin

When the vet called us with that particular piece of good news, I immediately mistrusted it. Literally every time Felix scratches himself, I worry that it signifies a mast cell tumor lurking somewhere. Every whine or whimper hits my ears like a warning that there’s something the vets missed — or, when I’m feeling conspiracy minded, aren’t telling us. It’s possible that feeling will fade away soon, as he continues to live a healthy life. It’s also possible that I’ll just feel that way forever. Yippee!

Felix’s second week in the cone was a bit easier than the first. There are many reasons for this, but one reason stands out above the rest: we cheated and started taking him on walks.

“I told them not to, but they took me anyway.”…”Narc” Photo Credit: Dustin

It wasn’t quite as rash as it sounds. As a puppy, Felix’s cell turnover is wicked fast, so his cut was already thoroughly closed nine days after his surgery. Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t take him out for a run (we’re not maniacs ~HLH). I may suffer from a healthy skepticism for doctor’s orders that involve “no exercise”, but even I have my limits. Still, we took him on short, pacifying walks up the block that seemed to perhaps boost his spirits and most certainly kept me sane. He also began sleeping through the night again (throwing a big, loud, plastic cone over his head didn’t make him a great bedroom companion ~HLH).

The week was mostly uneventful, so I’ll let you in on a philosophical conundrum, on which Hannah and I have been musing (often including Felix ~HLH). The question we ask, and it becomes more emotionally meaningful by the day, is “what kind of dog is he?” It’s one of the first questions people ask when they meet him, and it’s becoming a bit wearing to say “we’re not sure, some kind of shepherd mix.” He is some kind of shepherd mix, as his recently perky ears have started to give away, but it weighs on our minds, much in the way that the ring of power weighed on Frodo when he wore it around his neck carrying it to Mordor (I take no responsibility for this metaphor~HLH).

He’s a skinny warg with funny ears! Photo Credit: Dustin

It is a conversation that’s partially related to size. We want to know if our puppy is going to grow into a pony (though that is looking increasingly less likely, sigh), a nice, normal-sized 80 pound dog (still have my fingers crossed), or a measly, cat-sized 50 pounds or so (highest probability here).

We’ve become obsessive about it, though. We have inadvertently been going to the vet every week (turns out puppy cancer makes you trigger happy with the vet appointments ~HLH) and each time he gets weighed, we look up “if my puppy is growing three pounds per week at 14 weeks and weighs 26.7 pounds, how much will he weigh when he gets big?” But of course, the number of variables in play are dizzying. Is he currently 15 weeks old? Or was he more like 7 weeks old when we got him because he was really effing small, making him younger? Or maybe we don’t know anything about dog sizes so he was actually nine weeks old and is only going to wind up around 40 lbs. Depending on how many weeks old he is, what he weighs, and how much weight he’s putting on, we have gotten very certain estimates that he will be ninety pounds, and very certain estimates that he will be fifty. The reality, of course, is that no matter what breeds he is, his weight could vary by as much as thirty pounds. Knowing the breed wouldn’t change that. And yet, here we remain, sitting on the floor of our living room asking Felix “what kind of dog are you?”

To which he gives no answer.