Living with canine epilepsy is hard.  In fact, it sucks.  To try and help others just a little, I’ve created a canine epilepsy resource page, which can be found here or through the link at the top of the page.

Duncan was my first seizure pup.  He was 6 years old when he had his first grand mal.  It’s the only time in my life that I remember being hysterical, but I honestly thought my dog was dying right in front of me.  I called a friend to come help, because there was no way I could get Duncan into my Jeep alone.  My poor friend thought I’d taken Duncan with me on an errand, we’d been in a wreck, and Duncan was hurt.

Duncan had another seizure that afternoon, and then it was several months before the next one.  They started coming faster after that.  They were always awful, but I quickly got used to them and was able to handle them calmly.  Kodiak started alerting to the seizures, which is the only reason I ever slept during this ordeal.  Our vet did his best, but as the seizures got worse, the only thing he would suggest was to increase the dose of phenobarbital that Duncan was getting.  Trouble was, the meds not only weren’t helping, they were also turning my very intelligent, multi-titled dog into a drooling idiot.

After watching Duncan scream at a wall for several minutes one night, I made an appointment with a neurologist at the North Carolina State University Vet School.  I took Duncan’s scrapbook with us, and showed the neuro what Duncan had been capable of doing before the meds took over.  He honestly believed Duncan had a brain tumor.  We did an MRI, along with a few other tests, and got negative results.  It turns out that a small percentage of dogs simply don’t process phenobarbital well, and Duncan was one of those dogs.

We started Duncan on Keppra and weaned him off the phenobarb.  During this time, we agreed to participate in a study through the vet school, testing to see if mild electrical stimulation could help decrease seizures.  One night, Duncan had a brutal seizure that lasted 80 minutes before the vets could get it stopped.  His temperature spiked, and everyone was worried about organ and brain damage.  He seemed to recover fairly well, which amazed us all.  We finally got the last of the phenobarb out of his system.

Duncan had three glorious weeks.  There were no seizures.  He was the dog I used to know.  He was smart, and silly, and loving.  He earned three new agility titles.  He attended a drafting workshop and was entered in his first draft test.

Less than two years after this nightmare began, it was over.  I came home from work one evening and Duncan wasn’t watching me from the kitchen window, as he’d done every evening for years.  I heard Kodiak give his alert bark, and I knew Duncan was gone.  Reyna and Kodiak were as devastated by this loss as I.  Reyna never really recovered from it, and passed away eight months later.  Getting Jake helped Kodiak, and helped me.  I still think about Duncan and miss him terribly; he was my heart dog.

Just shy of two years later, the nightmare started again.  This time, it was Kodiak.  The pup who had turned himself into Duncan’s seizure alert dog was now having seizures of his own.

It’s been a bit over three years now.  We’ve tried all the meds.  Kodiak currently takes lorazepam, zonisamide, phenobarbital, and thyroid meds.  We’ve tried others – he’s allergic to potassium bromide and Keppra makes him aggressive.  As time passes, the frequency of his seizures is getting worse.  The severity isn’t, thank goodness, but the more seizures he has, the more seizures he’ll continue to have.  It’s called kindling, and it basically means that every seizure makes it easier for the brain to misfire and have another seizure.

Kodiak’s neurologists at Carolina Veterinary Specialists are stumped.  At our visit last week, they recommended that we try MCT (medium-chain triglyceride) oil.  There are a few studies out there that show MCT oil may have some effect on reducing the frequency of seizures.  What the heck.  It’s worth a shot.

While I wait and hope for the MCT oil to help, all I can do is watch my poor boy and keep track of his good days, his bad days, and his seizures.  We’re losing good days.  He’s generally a happy fellow between seizures, but there aren’t as many of those “between days” as there used to be.  I’m not ready to let him go, but I’m afraid I won’t have much choice soon.  In the meantime, we’ll play and cuddle as much as we can, cross our paws, and hope for the best.