Oceana (Oshy)

Picture of Oceana (Oshy), a female Beauceron

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Home:Oceanport, NJ  [I have a diary!]  
Age: 13 Years   Sex: Female   Weight: 51-100 lbs

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   Leave a bone for Oceana (Oshy)

Oshy, Osh, Oshy Bear

Doggie Dynamics:
not playfulvery playful

Quick Bio:

running off leash, playing with other dogs in the dog park, being with her family

running dishwasher

Favorite Toy:
tennis ball

Favorite Food:
liver treats, ice cubes, carrots, dog bisquits

Favorite Walk:
jogging off leash on trails

Best Tricks:
Oshy, Sit, Stay, Okay Oshy Jump...Jump, Tunnel, Jump...Jump, Good Job Oshy!

Arrival Story:
When we decided to get a dog we began our research on the AKC website and became intriqued with the Beauceron breed. We searched North America to find a puppy that was available immediately because we were trying to acclimate a dog into a two kitten family before the cats were no longer kittens. We finally found one in Southern California from a Beauceron and Belgian Malinois breeder. When we picked up our 4 month old pup last March, she had been living in a kennel with a litter of Belgian Malinois. The first thing we did with her was bring her to the dog beach in San Diego. Having never owned a dog myself, I was frustrated that she wouldn't walk on a leash (what did I know??!! - NOTHING.)! She was timid and afraid of all the other dogs, but a Belgian Malinois came up to her and she immediately started wagging her tail and barking at him because she recognized the breed as something that was familiar to her!! (The Belgian's owner recognized her as a Beauceron and was very excited, even asked if we had gotten her from the breeder where we had (she brought up the name - we didn't). Pretty cool to be 3000 miles from home and make a distant connection.

The Last Forum I Posted In:

I've Been On Dogster Since:
December 7th 2004 More than 12 years!

Rosette, Star and Special Gift History

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It's Not Always a Dog's Life

It's Not Always a Dog's Life

February 23rd 2005 9:54 am
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Boy, I don’t know what has happened here. First thing Sunday morning I’m barking to go out (something I never do) having to wake someone up to let me out. I bolt down the steps into the backyard only to find myself up to the top of my 20” legs in snow. Okay, so I find out later, it’s not 20, only 15” but I’ve never walked in anything as deep as this! I stop and look back at Marc, “What is this?” I am asking. I go and do my thing and come right back inside. It’s Sunday morning so no one else is up yet and Marc goes back to bed. I stay downstairs like I’m trained to do and try to go back to sleep as well. But I just can’t help it, I vomit all over the carpet in the playroom and then I vomit all over the carpet in the living room. I’m not feeling very well.

Well, this goes on all day and I am finally locked in the kitchen because everyone is disgusted cleaning up the mess from the carpets already. They’ve even taken out that noisy steam cleaner to get it all out.

By Monday morning, I still have not stopped and I am coaxed into the car for a trip to the vet. He’s a nice guy, but I still would just rather stay home and be with my pack. The vet puts me on a metal table that I even know just looking at is way too slippery. I weigh 84 ½ pounds today. I wonder what I would have been on Saturday when I was still eating and frolicking? Then, all of a sudden, the metal table is raised up to the human height and I am startled. This table isn’t stable at all. Jode tells me, “Down,” and I go down not only because I am an awesomely trained dog, but it seems like the best thing to do at the moment. The vet pokes and prods and I begin to shake. I don’t like it much here right now. But at least Marc is in front of me stroking my head, telling me it’s okay. Is it?

We get to leave and I’m just real low energy today. As I wait outside with Marc while Jodi pays, I just lie down in the snow. Marc tries to get me into the car, but I don’t feel like moving. When Jodi finally comes out Marc asks her to pick me up out of the snow, she has boots on, he has sneakers. Jodi puts her happy voice on and says, “Come on Oshy, in the car.” I get up immediately and jump off the snow bank. “Oh, right. She comes for you.” Marc says. “She was waiting for me. Come on Osh, in the car," as she tries to lead me into the passenger side. Then Jodi says, “She doesn’t like getting in this side," and we both walk around the car without a word. I don’t know why I don’t like it. I think I’m just used to the other side, that’s the side we always get into when the truck is in the garage.

I still do not feel well. Even at dinner when I am offered real pot roast I could care less and don’t eat. I sleep in the kitchen on my pillow, not in my crate, because they don’t want the carpets messed up during the night. By Tuesday morning, I feel really bad, when I go out in the snow to pee I just lie down. Jodi says, “Bye, baby, see you soon,” and Marc herds me into the truck. I am left at the vets for an X-ray. Everyone thinks I’ll be coming home this afternoon. Boy, were they wrong. After the X-ray showed a spherical object in my large intestines, they shaved my legs and stuck an IV in me. They also took blood from my other leg. I was so sick, I didn’t even care. I just did whatever all these strange people wanted me to. I was put in a crate and had to spend the night. I heard the vet say that they were going to wait to see if the object moved at all during the night. They’d give me another X-ray in the morning. Big sigh, I don’t care. I just want to lie down and die, I feel so bad.

Wednesday morning, it looks like I may be getting my wish. I am given another X-ray (the sphere hasn’t moved a millimeter, X-ray to X-ray, it’s in the exact same spot.) Worse still, my blood has told the doctor that my body is shutting down and they prep me for surgery immediately. I am given sedatives and my stomach is shaved. Marc and Jodi, and even the doctor think once the object is out, everything will be fine. On the table, once the object is removed (it’s the rubber inside of a golf ball) my insides turn from bright red and pink (normal) to deep purple/blue. I am dieing in front of them. I am given a shot of epinephrine and a ton of other meds to stabilize me. When they are done, the doctor tells Marc and Jodi that unfortunately, I was critical, and he couldn’t assure them that I was going to make it. They’d have to wait and see, 4 hours, then 24. The doctor waited the first hour after surgery to even make the call. The first hour was crucial and I made it through. He was reasonably comfortable after that to presume I would continue to improve.

Thursday comes and I am still alive. The doctors and technicians think I’m looking a lot better. I’m feeling better, too. Just really sore and groggy. I still have an IV. By the end of another hazy day, everyone can let out their breath. I am going to make it!

Friday arrives and I’m looking and feeling even better. I am wearing a stupid collar around my neck that blocks my peripheral vision. I am offered some kind of grealy mix of water and food. I sniff it without much interest. By late afternoon that day, I finally give in and gulp it down. Someone must have explained that I don’t eat on a regular schedule. I self feed and usually only eat after I’ve exercised. When there is no more food or slop left in the bowl, I bark once. The technicians are amazed. I haven’t made a sound the whole time I was here. They got the message and I got more food. Now that I’ve eaten I’m going to be allowed to go home. I’ll have to spend another night with these people who have taken such good care of me though, oh well.

Saturday comes around and when the doctor does his morning rounds I am cleared to go home. By noon, I am brought to a little room and I smell that both Marc and Jodi are there, I’m hanging my head though. I still have that sight-blocking collar on. I’m so happy to see them, I wag my tail. They get down on the floor with me and coo to me and pet me. I can tell they’re really happy, but really scared to see me again. Their voices are quavering. When I leave, I weigh 80 pounds and have a 10 inch incision. I’m still a little groggy, but everything is great because the worst is over and I’ll be acting normal again by Tuesday! And then, by the following Tuesday, 13 days after surgery when I get my stiches out, I will weigh 87 pounds. It's a Dog's Life, but someone's got to do it!

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