Day: January 12, 2010

As Catie lies at my feet, I’m reminded that dogs are immune to the human time-wasting, energy-sapping, emotionally-depleting foible of worry. And guilt. And shame.

 

You see, I haven’t always felt this way about family pets. While not exactly Grinch-like, with a heart many times too small, I was, at one time, indifferent and bemused by the deep, abiding dedication of other pet-owners and the lengths they went to provide their furry family members with comforts and extraordinarily expensive medical care.

 

In my sad and smug ignorance, I simply didn’t get it. 

 

Little baby steps of transformation started with the death of my mother in 2001. Carried on with the growing up of our three children, leaving home, making lives of their own.

 

And completed on Christmas Eve, like Ebenezer Scrooge’s own metamorphosis, when I saw Catie sitting on the mat by the front door.

 

And brimmed over one year later when I chose little Riley from his eight other litter mates as he snuffled and scrambled for attention.

 

I finally, unequivocally, got it.

 

“I never thought I’d see the day you would let a dog sleep in the bed,” my husband once said.

 

Neither did I.

 

These two family members have taught me much about myself and about love. No other being has ever been so thrilled to have me come home; they don’t care if the walls need a fresh coat of paint or the curtains need to be laundered or the windows need to be cleaned. They’re indifferent to whether I’m wearing fashionable jeans or grungy sweatpants, whether I’m having a bad hair day or have morning breath or have a pimple on the end of my nose; such absolute acceptance of all my flaws. Each meal is devoured with the same uninhibited relish as the last one; every day they explore the backyard with earnest curiosity as if they’ve never explored it before. 

 

Even if I forget sometimes, Catie and Riley have taught me that each day, each moment is a gift; that we humans would be wise to treat all our loved ones with the same delight and tail-wagging enthusiasm whenever we see one another; that money is just money and what’s the point of having any if we can’t spend it on those we cherish; and that life is oh-so-precious and so worth living and fighting for.

 

We will love Catie with three legs just as much as we love her with four. She has loved us without prejudice or censure. A strong and often willful girl, I am confident she will do well tomorrow.  And she will be free from pain and soon be her old self again. This is a good thing.

 

To those of you who have sent their well wishes, thank you, thank you. Your stories of devotion to and the courage and resilience of your beloved pets have inspired me and give me great hope for the days and months ahead. Catie sends hugs and wet kisses to all.

 

The kindness of strangers does sometimes take my breath away. 

It’s 3:00 AM on Tuesday and I’m wide awake. Four hours sleep might have to be enough; the alarm is set for 6:00. Work will be a bit of a struggle today.

The house is quiet. Riley’s curled up on the dog pillow in the kitchen; Catie’s somehow managed to crawl up on the bed in the room that once belonged to one of the children. She’s been finding it impossible of late to climb up on our king size bed. I can’t count the times I’ve awakened in the morning with her body spooned against mine; her head sharing my pillow. Will she be able to do this again? I’ve missed her warmth these past few weeks when the weather’s plunged to -30C.

I’m not sure what I’m feeling. Fear over the days ahead. Worry over whether we’re doing the right thing; is this what Catie wants? Will she be okay? Will she adapt to life with three legs? How much time will she have? Does it matter? Heartbreak over the pain she suffers with such silent stoicism, the evidence of discomfort in her hesitation to move, her severely hobbled gait, her atrophied right foreleg; the little furrow between her eyes. Despite the inconceivable pain she must be experiencing, she still gets excited when visitors come; she still barks at the mailman and the hares that taunt her from beneath the spruce tree in the front yard; and she still tries to make snow angels in the snow on the back deck.

We first met the specialist on December 28, armed with equal parts anxiety and optimism and the two sets of xrays taken on November 13 and December 21 and sent by our own vet for his evaluation. He showed us the suspicious growth on her humerus, the motheaten appearance, the uneven edges of bone, and suggested it was likely bone cancer. Treatment options: amputation and chemotherapy. I could hardly make sense of what he was saying. She just turned six, I thought; we’ve fed her high quality food and taken her for all her check-ups and shots and walked her and loved her and how could this happen?

The surgeon sat on the floor. Catie crawled into his lap and licked his face with great enthusiasm and surprising affection. This dog’s not ready to die, he said. If we wanted to be sure of the diagnosis, he could do a biopsy.

Catie had her first biopsy on December 28. The results we received three days later gave no indication of cancer.

We were happy. We were relieved. The surgeon was perplexed. He consulted with other colleagues, his wife who is also a vet, his mentor in Florida.

She had a second biopsy Wednesday, January 6. This time the surgeon took numerous samples.

One of the samples clearly showed cancer cells. When my husband phoned me at work yesterday with the news, he said, “It’s all worth it if we can give her one more summer of going to the park.”