Alvie - Dog with the big heart

Nov. 15, 2001

Dear Pat,

Mornings, our dogs Hank and Lucy climb the back stairs quickly and leap on our bed like pirates with plunder on their minds. Too many seconds later, the tiny beagle we found a few weeks ago sleepily peeks through the bedroom door. Alvie has neither the stature nor the energy for jumping onto beds. Slowly he climbs into the clean clothes in the laundry basket usually sitting in the hall.

Eventually, Hank and Lucy fall all over each other running back downstairs. One of us carries Alvie back down. He's sick and needs help but never whimpers.

After someone abandoned Alvie in the park next door, we saw he had a big heart. It was too big. His chest was swollen with heart worms.

We hoped to rescue him. The first veterinarian recommended putting him down or treating him to prevent any new heart worms. The prognosis was inevitable death from heart congestion.

"That dog won't hunt" is one of the favorite colloquialisms of CBS anchorman Dan Rather, a phrase he applies to anything that won't work. Saving Alvie, it seemed, was not to be.

Making Alvie's life as comfortable as we could seemed the best we could do.

Alvie is brown and white, weighs 17 pounds and bays so loudly it sends Hank and Lucy into a frenzy. DC's mother originally christened him Little Bit, but DC has renamed him. So far she has offered no detailed explanation.

"He just is," she says.

Though small and young looking, Alvie is no pup. Judging by his teeth, the veterinarian put his age at 7. At first when he started wheezing because of the heart worms, we were afraid he was about to expire quickly. Before she died a few months ago, my grandmother had a hard time breathing, too. We could feel ourselves already starting to mourn him.

Then I talked to a couple of dog lovers who said maybe we should get a second opinion about Alvie's condition. Veterinarians have differing treatment philosophies toward heart worms, they said. No veterinarian wants to kill someone's dog, but some are willing to take more chances.

We took Alvie to a veterinarian office known for successfully treating heart worms. The vet listened to Alvie's heart and said four beautiful words: "It's not that bad."

The worms have permanently damaged Alvie's heart, and killing them could cause a deadly embolism. But we put ourselves in Alvie's position. Either of us would go for the cure.

The veterinarian gave him an injection that will start killing the worms. For the next month, we give Alvie medicine and keep him quiet. He stays in the pet carrier when we're not home and goes outside only on a leash. It's the canine equivalent of bed rest.

At the end of the month, the vet will decide whether to proceed with two more injections to be followed by another month of rest.

Hank and Lucy still don't like Alvie's intrusion into our pack. It's especially troubling for Hank, our overwhelmed alpha male. He growls and grumbles sometimes, but the more we make it clear to him that Alvie is in our pack now the less he seems to compare testosterone. Sometimes he licks Alvie's eyes when they weep.

Alvie started baying when the receptionists at the veterinarian's office came out to greet him in the "Dog" waiting room. Alvie is the Pavarotti of beagles.

A man sitting in the "Cat" waiting room across the way started laughing at the huge sound emanating from such a small dog. "Does he hunt?" he asked.

We'll know soon.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian