Had my final (knock wood) appointment with the hand surgeon this morning. He was mostly satisfied with the way the bite-wounds are healing (the one on my palm has nearly closed!) but said there was still infection active in the one on the top of my hand; there’s still some green gook in there, and some redness and swelling, though far, far less than there was. He went back and forth a bit regarding numbing my hand and reopening that wound but decided, finally, not to.
So I’ll continue to soak that hand three times a day (now in warm Epsom salt baths — who knew?) and continue to self-debride (owieeee!). The doc prescribed three extra days of antibiotics (I would have taken the last of the 10-day course tomorrow morning), too, to make double-sure we kill all those bad bugs off. And after examining the wounds, he smeared them both with antibacterial salve and stuck on band-aids. I’m down to band-aids! No more gauze and clumsy, one-handed bandage wrapping! I’ll only need to see him again if that one, slower-healing wound goes south. I don’t think it will.
Tomorrow is also the day that the county releases ol’ Logan from home quarantine, so the final chapter of this dog-bite saga will soon begin. The quarantine allowed us to have this extra time with him, and for that I’m glad. But I’m not looking forward to what comes next. I try to tell myself that Logan’s getting very old, and chances are he’ll die of old age or age-related illness anyway before much longer. And perhaps this gentle, if early, death will spare him some misery later on.
They don’t help much, those platitudes. Logan’s been the best Good Dog he’s been able to be for nearly 14 years; he’s tried very hard to please us in spite of having some crossed wires somewhere inside that handsome head of his. And he has pleased us. He’s lived a long, happy life, safe and secure, and he has always been deeply loved.
Oh, this is hard.