Today's tale begins with a sound that strikes terror into the heart of any dog owner. Not a growl, not a lamp crashing to the floor and a clattering of paws escaping the scene of the crime, Not even the distinct rhythmic horca of a canine preparing to vomit on a pristine rug. No. This was far worse, a whimper. For those of you unacquainted with the chaotic breed of canine I choose to share my life with, Sally and her two brothers are Siberian huskies.
D. K. Wall:Genetically, they are bred to haul heavy sleds across frozen tundra, fighting off marauding moose and laughing in the face of subzero wind chills. In reality, however, when a rough, tough sled dog gets sick, they have all the stoicism of a professional soccer player who has just been lightly breezed by an opponent's jersey. I can say this because I am a man. And when men catch a cold, we want everyone around us to understand just how much we are suffering. The world must stop and pay its respects if we have the sniffles.
D. K. Wall:Sally manages pain with similar dignity. Our final Monday of 2025 started innocently enough. We escorted the triple canine contingent on the morning three mile trek, the sniff and pee world tour. After breakfast, there's first, obviously, I spent a few hours writing in my study with the fur buckets snoring around me before striking out on the afternoon three mile trek, The let's woo at squirrels world tour. My evening was scheduled for the glamorous life of writer, catching up on administrative tasks, updating spreadsheets, and wondering why my editor keeps complaining about my creative use of commas.
D. K. Wall:But then the whimper. In our usual canine cacophony, no sound is louder than a whimper. It snakes through the air, finds my eardrum, and fires the alarm. A quick review of the room revealed Sally lying in her bed looking miserable. Now, if you ask any veterinarian, they will confirm a universal truth.
D. K. Wall:Siberian huskies are the drama kings and queens of the animal kingdom. They are the operatic tenors of the veterinary world. There is a specific vocalization known in the trade as the Siberian death scream. This sound is not reserved for amputation or severe trauma. No, the Siberian death scream is deployed for tragedies on the greatest scale.
D. K. Wall:A few examples. Having a temperature taken. We won't discuss where. Being asked to step onto a scale. The mere threat that a toenail clipper is in the same zip code, the audacity of someone plucking that outrageously fluffy fur that is always molting.
D. K. Wall:By scream, I don't mean a bark or a melodic woo. I mean the sonic lovechild of an air raid siren, a factory whistle, and the feedback from a Metallica concert. If I try to bring the dogs inside on a cold night because, you know, sleeping in a snowbank is socially frowned upon in our modern world. The shriek is emitted, and neighbors instinctively reach for their phones to call the police because they assume a violent felony is in progress. If fingernails on a chalkboard were the orchestra, the Siberian death scream is the temperamental soprano belting out the solo.
D. K. Wall:So when Sally whimpered on Monday night, I braced myself for the aria. I waited for the noise complaints. But worse than the scream, much, much worse, was the aftermath. Silence. Huskies are talkers.
D. K. Wall:Sally usually provides a running commentary on my life, a play by play narration that is almost entirely critical. You're wearing those pants? You call this kibble service? The cat is looking at me. Handle it.
D. K. Wall:Why won't that squirrel come play with me? Monday night, Sally went mute. She curled into a ball of fur and misery. I did not sleep well that night, not because of the noise, but because of the terrifying cavern of quiet where the noise should have been. I tossed.
D. K. Wall:I turned. I checked on her approximately 400 times, earning only an icy look of disdain as I disturbed her sleep. Fortunately, because of the various ailments of my other canine crew members, my medicine cabinet looks less like a personal bathroom storage unit and more like a CVS pharmacy. I dosed her comfortably, but could only stare at the ceiling as my mind cycled through every catastrophic diagnosis my years of living with canines brought to my imagination. Tuesday morning arrived with the gray bleakness that only a worried pet parent knows.
D. K. Wall:I fired off a message to our vet's office. I feared getting a vet appointment the week of New Year's would be harder than scoring front row tickets to Taylor Swift, but the veterinary gods smiled upon us. Despite the looming holiday, they squeezed us into the schedule before lunch. We loaded Sally into the car, a process usually involving enthusiasm bordering on mania. But that day being a little more than lifting 45 pounds of dead weight like a sack of concrete.
D. K. Wall:The doctor was thorough. He poked. He prodded. He risked the Siberian death scream, but received only some half hearted expletives. After agreeing that she hurt, but without knowing the exact cause, he suggested a wait and see pain management protocol.
D. K. Wall:We loaded up on good pharmaceuticals and scheduled X rays for Friday when she would hopefully be more comfortable. We took our little princess home to pamper her. And when I say pamper, I mean we treated her like royalty recovering from an assassination attempt. Pillows were fluffed. Water was brought to her lips.
D. K. Wall:Much ear rubbing was delivered. Tuesday night was another exercise in insomnia. The silence persisted. By Wednesday morning, my nerves were frayed wires. For a neurotic author with an active imagination, waiting two more days for images of her interiors was torture.
D. K. Wall:We need the pictures, I pleaded. I can't wait until Friday. My sanity won't make it. We accelerated the X rays. There is a specific anxiety that occurs in a vet's office while waiting for radiographic results.
D. K. Wall:You sit listening to other people's dogs bark, staring at a poster explaining the life cycle of the heartworm, and bargaining with higher powers. The vet returned to deliver the classic results, A good news, bad news sandwich. The good news, no scary arthritis, no abnormal growths, nothing life threatening, and the dreaded big c was off the table. The bad news, it's a disc. A degenerative disc in her spine.
D. K. Wall:Two of them, actually. It's a diagnosis I'm intimately familiar with, not just as a dog owner, but as a fellow sufferer. Two decades ago, my spine rebelled leading to a laminectomy, a surgical unzipping of the back that frankly I wouldn't recommend as a leisure activity, though it worked wonders for me. Sally, however, is not a candidate for an unzipping just yet. The goal is to avoid the scalpel.
D. K. Wall:We adjusted the cocktail of meds. We received the discharge papers. And then the vet uttered the two insidious words that would doom my next fortnight. Bed rest. Strict confinement, he ordered.
D. K. Wall:Two weeks. Taper off the meds as the pain recedes. No jumping. No running. No fun.
D. K. Wall:I nodded solemnly. Understood. Sally, however, did not agree to these terms. Here is the problem. You can explain bed rest to a human.
D. K. Wall:You can tell a human, hey. Lie on the couch, binge watch six season of a show you've already seen, and eat soup. A human will say, okay. Sounds like Tuesday. But the concept of bed rest to a Siberian husky means nothing.
D. K. Wall:Pain medication is a miracle of modern science. It works. It works really well. By Friday, the chemicals had done their job. The inflammation had gone down.
D. K. Wall:The pharmaceutical goalies were intercepting the pain signals. Sally felt good. How do I know? Because the silence ended. The vocalizations returned, but they were no longer whimpers of pain.
D. K. Wall:They were the outraged union mandated complaints of a worker being denied her rights. Imagine, if you will, a teenager grounded on the night of the prom. Now cover that teenager in fur, give them pointy ears, and the ability to howl at a specific frequency that rattles the fillings in your teeth. If that sounds like any actual teenagers living in your house, I can only offer you my sympathies. Sally has realized that the Sniff and Pee world tour has been canceled.
D. K. Wall:She understands the let's woo at squirrels world tour has been replaced with the let's walk to the mailbox on a short leash and immediately return inside tour. She is not amused. We are taking short walks, very short walks, multiple times a day. And trust me, for a dog engineered to run a 100 miles a day pulling a sled, walking to the end of the driveway is not satisfying the need for movement. It's like giving a Ferrari driver a 10 foot stretch of pavement and telling them to keep it under five miles per hour.
D. K. Wall:She is telling me all about it. The woo woos have returned with a vengeance. She stands by the back door, looks at me with eyes that are pure ice blue accusation, and launches into a monologue about the injustice of the prison system I am running here. The Siberian criticism is alive and well. Why is this door closed?
D. K. Wall:Why are you lifting me onto the couch? I have legs, you hairless ape. Why are we walking this slow? The squirrels are mocking me. I can hear them giggling.
D. K. Wall:Why can't I tackle my brothers and chew on their heads? It's gonna be a long two weeks. But as I listened to her grumble, groan, and sass me from across the room, I realized something important. I'll take this noise. I'll take the complaints.
D. K. Wall:I'll take the drama, the back talk, and the stubborn refusal to understand why she can't jump off the deck. I will take the cacophony of a recovering husky over the sound of a silent house any day. So for the next week or so as we navigate the treacherous waters of canine physical therapy, I ask that you think of me. Send good vibes. Send patience.
D. K. Wall:And if you have a spare set of heavy duty industrial earplugs, send those too. I'm gonna need them.