Some of you may remember that two years ago come November, we were thrilled to welcome puppy Django to the farm mix. Well, it seems to us like it was yesterday, but we now have a 147-pound puppy that just turned two years old, so I thought you might like an update.
If you recall, I wrote an article back then about his arrival and the adventure of naming him. When we settled on Django, I had great hopes for my favorite game, Fun With Names. Well, it turns out the creative bent is not what it once was, so he’s pretty much Django, Baby Django (ironic given his mass), Django Baby, and—still my fave—Djangolicious. Given his penchant for barking loudly at the bunny who lives to taunt him, our neighbors within earshot also know him as Django Hush!
“ …we know we should have kept up on that training program. Did we? Nope. Not even a little.”
The above-mentioned bunny is truly the bane of his existence. Given the ruckus Django makes, you would think this bunny is not only a threat to his charges, but to the farm in general and humanity as a whole. The bunny, on the other hand, appears to have complete trust in the fence. He simply sits on the other side of the fence, backside facing Django while looking straight ahead. We’ve determined this is essentially the bunny equivalent of flipping him off.
Django has the weirdest metabolism of any dog we’ve ever had, and there are many to compare. We started out feeding him the normal recommended kibble amount for a growing giant, but quickly figured out that wasn’t going to cut it. We like him lean (as do his joints), but he was just too thin and wasn’t gaining weight at a pace to keep up with his height and length growth—which is an impressive pace, indeed. So, it still currently requires feeding his weight in kibble to keep him at a healthy place. Ok, perhaps a little exaggeration there, but seven cups of kibble a day is a freaking boatload of kibble. And he’s not done growing yet; he still has another year for his chest to drop and start to fill out the rest of him.
As he approached his second birthday, the conversation turned to the topic that makes all men clench up: neutering. The goal was to get close to his second birthday so the bones have the most time to develop, and at the same time not cross the line of testosterone kicking in and he becomes a general hormonal ass. Especially given that it would be directly aimed at Clara Oswald the Impossible Girl, who is now 11 and—as awesome and patient as she is—there is no room for shenanigans there. Plus, he’s got about 50 pounds on her. So, the appointment was scheduled and the plan developed for getting him into the car.
Now before you get all judgy about it: Yes, we vividly remembered previous challenges of loading him into the car. We were even bright enough to document that process on social media so you’d all have visual entertainment of what an effort that was. And yes, we know we should have kept up on that training program. Did we? Nope. Not even a little. So, like all good animal stewards who suffer from poor time management decisions, we went with the next best thing: a sedative.
Turns out that a close to 150-pound dog takes a lot of druggage to have an impact. But, in the end, the right dosage (translation: stoned out of his gourd) combined with a back-challenging lift into the back of the Bronc got him in there. Throw Superhubby Jim into the back with him to keep him happy, and voila! We have stress-free transport.
The trickiest part of his recovery was that “no running or jumping” rule for about 10 days. First, it meant keeping him kenneled, which he put up with but sure wasn’t too happy. He was so good on a leash, though, that he lulled me into a very false sense of security with the illusion that I had some control. Right up until that bunny from the beginning of the story came through on the wrong side of the fence and Django caught sight. I didn’t let go (should have, but didn’t). In the end I won, we were still fairly close to where we started, the bunny got away and Django didn’t run and bust out any stitches. I was a little worse for wear, but learned my upper body strength has not totally abandoned me at this age. All in all, we’re calling it a win.
He’s recovered, we’re recovered, he’s happy, we’re happy, Clara’s happy. So, are we having fun yet? You betcha.
