Pet lovers rejoice -- Puff’s back home

If you’re not a dog or cat lover, you can stop reading now.

If you are, break out the bubbly. Puff is back home.

Last week, my lovable 10-year-old mutt was hospitalized with diabetes, pancreatitis and anemia. When I visited him Friday, he was hooked up to an IV -- glassy-eyed, listless, too weak to walk. I didn’t know if he would survive until I could see him again.

But when I called the next morning, the vet told me that Puff started barking as soon as I left. “And he’s been barking ever since.” On Monday, I was allowed to go get him.

He’s not well, the doctor said, “but he’s good enough to go home.”

I don’t know whether to credit his turnaround to the good thoughts and prayers that readers sent, the recuperative powers of Mom’s visit, or the veterinarian’s desire for peace and quiet.

And now -- as I watch him prancing around the house, preening as we fuss over him -- I’m wondering if the little charlatan faked the whole illness thing so all the attention would be on him.

It took me two days to read through the hundreds of e-mails my Saturday column drew. Readers sympathized, encouraged me and shared their own pets’ medical calamities.

They told me about their animals’ chemotherapy regimes, asthma treatments and surgeries. It made me feel that Puff’s insulin shots will be no big deal. And my guilt over not noticing that Puff was fading is nothing compared with the guy who sat on his dog, Charlie. “He’s all black and hard to see on a dark chair,” the wife explained. It cost them more than $1,000 to fix Charlie’s broken pelvis.

Some stories made me laugh; others had me in tears. Almost every one of them reflected the bond among pet owners that transcends other differences. “I don’t often agree with your politics,” one reader said, wishing me luck with Puff. “But I feel better knowing you’re an animal lover, like me.”

I took some heat for admitting that over the years, my three dogs’ medical catastrophes have set me back more than $10,000. One reader pronounced me selfish. “You could have paid for an inner-city child to go to college with the money you spent on your dogs,” he said.

At the other extreme was Herbert Erdmenger from Guatemala, who chastised me for worrying about the cost of Puff’s treatment. “Forget the vacations, the IRS returns, etc.,” he wrote in giant blue type. “We’ve got to be loyal to them before everything else.”

I’m not willing to go that far. But then I never would have expected to be shelling out 10 grand on pet medications and surgeries. When I was growing up and had a dog, I don’t ever recall visiting a veterinarian’s office.

But I didn’t hear from many readers who had regrets. Most were like Robi Mayes, who spent $12,000 on the last nine days of her little Margaret’s life. “I owed her that,” she wrote, “for all that she had given me . . . loving looks, warm kisses, happy yelps when I came home.”

In this increasingly disconnected and impersonal world, we rely for comfort on the unconditional love we get from our pets.

“What I realize is that I don’t need that new pair of Uggs, I don’t need to go to Hawaii again, I don’t need to go out to dinner,” wrote Julie Vanderweir, whose dog, Kanai, has diabetes. “I don’t need all of the luxuries and treats that have packaged themselves as necessities. What I need is for my girl to get better.”

I’ve asked the vet not to tally my bill just yet. Give me a few nights to enjoy my dog without worrying about which of those “luxuries and treats” I’m giving up to get him back.

I know Puff’s not out of the woods yet. When I went to pick him up, Dr. Erickson greeted me with a bag of syringes, a vial of insulin and a giant plunger filled with glucose in case he goes into hypoglycemic shock because I give him too little medicine. Or is it too much?

Puff will have to be fed morning and night at the same time every day, and everyone in the family will have to learn to give him shots.

That’s going to be a big change for a household where people come and go on their own schedules, and Puff has always had to adapt to us. Now his needs will limit our freedom, as we’re forced to rally around our ailing dog.

But right now what matters most is what I missed while he was gone -- the contented snoring of the little fur ball resting at my feet, finally home.

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sandy.banks@latimes.com