We’re waiting for the biopsy results on Buddha’s tumor. “It looked like a fatty mass,” said Laura, our new vet in Puriscal, “but we won’t know for about two weeks.” The tumor, about the size of a tennis ball, was in a precarious position, near his jugular vein. The operation took hours, and left him with a long row of stitches down his chest.
We’d planned on Buddha’s staying overnight with Laura for a few days, but when she called me, on the morning after the surgery, she told me she’d taken him home with her, and he’d paced, fretted and whined throughout the night.
When I went to visit him, the morning following the surgery, he paced, fretted and whined some more, all the while trying to drag me out of the place. “He might be better off at home,” she said. “He’ll recover sooner if he’s relaxed.”
“Can you help me get him into the car?” I asked. Buddha weighs about eighty pounds, and I’ve pulled my back out trying to help him into the back of our ancient Toyota Land Cruiser, but when I swung the doors open, Buddha leapt up, without prompting or help, he was that anxious to go home.
Laura called every day, to see how Buddha fared. We tried to imagine a vet back home doing that. She even gave us her cell phone number, and said it was okay to call on weekends or evenings.
Buddha is no stranger to animal hospitals. It’s like he’s wearing a sign, only visible to other dogs, that says, Bite Me! The first time he had surgery, he’d managed to open our front door just as a really mean dog passed by.
By the time I followed him outside, the fight was over, and a bloody Buddha was returning to the house. “He leads with his face,” quipped Jack. We packed him off to the University of Pennsylvania Animal Hospital, where they’ll treat any dog whose owner has 600 dollars upfront.
Although I would have paid that amount here, and it would have hurt financially, I didn’t need to, happily. The bill, which covered diagnosis, surgery, medicines, bandages and follow-up, came to 200 dollars. Costa Rica is a good place to have a pet.