Month: March 2010

Catie, Riley and I are listening to mindless, foot-tapping, bass-thumping, electronically-enhanced pop music. I have to admit I’m enjoying it more than they are (they’re napping through it all), but it’s a day for celebrating.

Not because I had a really bad hair day and wore a sweater to work that I realized (way too late to change) I detested, and definitely NOT because of the pimple on my chin (who still gets pimples at fifty-four??).

But because I finally got around this evening to reading what the oncologist wrote on Catie’s discharge instructions yesterday: bright, alert and responsive…CBC, chemistry, urinalysis – no significant abnormalities noted…she was an excellent girl for us today!

Same biohazard precautions as last time:  heavy duty rubber gloves, double-bagging and optional Darth Vader breathing apparatus. Having said that (I’m just kidding about the heavy duty rubber gloves), I am going to check when it’s dark to see just how radioactive this waste material is.

I know it’s silly and no doubt inspired by the music I’ve been listening to for the last hour  but I’ve been wondering if a satellite image of our house might just show all the backyard marks lit up like twinkling, anti-cancer wishing stars.

Can you see us?

🙂

There’s a man in our neighbourhood who walked his dog at least twice a day. I would see him each morning as I backed the car out of my driveway and again in late afternoon when I came home. On chilly mornings, he wore a plaid woolen jacket and casual pants and would raise his hand in greeting if he noticed me. When he walked his friend at the end of the day, he was still in his work clothes – shirt and tie and full-length dress coat – and you knew he’d returned home just long enough to grab the leash and head out again.

For the longest time, the dog he so faithfully walked was a small, short-haired, caramel coloured canine with a pointy muzzle and equally pointed ears. If it was bitterly chilly, the dog wore a red knitted sweater. The man vanished for most of this past fall and winter and I wondered if he had moved. He’s recently returned to walking every morning and every evening, but the dog that now trots ahead of him is a black and white Shih Tzu in a red sweater.

I was thinking of the man with his new companion as I took Riley out this evening without Catie – she’s at the vet hospital for her third chemo treatment. It felt strange to walk with just one dog.

It’s hard to believe it will be ten – or is it eleven – weeks this coming Wednesday since Catie had her amputation; three months since her cancer diagnosis. Getting up is a little more difficult for her; she still avoids the stairs to the family room, and she doesn’t hop up on our bed as often as she used to, but all in all she has so easily adapted to the loss of limb, I can hardly remember her having four. Time has a funny way of  marching on.

Catie should be home soon.

Catie showed a marked wilfulness from her first leash walk. Halfway down the block, the little bundle of fur sat down on her fluffy butt and refused to move. I tried animated encouragement which quickly disintegrated into a demeaning, whiny sort of pleading. I tried gentle tugging, insistent tugging, no tugging. She simply looked at me with an expression that clearly said: “I don’t think so!”

So, like all earnest dog guardians, when she was old enough, my husband and I took her off to puppy classes. We’d read about the importance of obedience training to establish the household hierarchy, enhance good behaviour, teach manners and encourage socialization, all towards raising a disciplined dog.

Ha.

First off, she was unexpectedly, painfully timid in the classroom. Each weekly Saturday morning excursion proved as traumatic as the last. Each time we moved, she swam towards the door with her tail between her legs. She spat out her treats. She sat on our feet.

The instructor shook her head.

“That’s not normal behaviour for a golden,” she said. She was a peculiar lady who didn’t feed her dog anything without taste-testing first and proved it by chewing on a bacon-flavoured jerky stick. She passed the bag around for the rest of us to try.

The whole enterprise was a disaster.

Riley had none of the same inhibitions. Any opportunity to share himself with the world was met with wholehearted enthusiasm. Unfortunately, this natural inclination for gregariousness didn’t bode well for serious lesson learning. He whimpered. He whined. He wanted only to play. He and an equally sociable Giant Schnauzer had to have time-outs and stand, on more than one occasion, in opposite corners with their muzzles to the wall along with their sheepish guardians.

On test day, he managed to focus long enough to pass.

Naturally, with these past training successes – and since my husband is very irked that I refuse to go into the garage any more since I took out the mice-riddled garbage bags – it occurred to me that I could teach Catie and Riley to be mousers.

I introduced two mouse-models. Riley made a half-hearted investigation. The most life-like of the duo was given the most cursory sniff. Not the ferocious approach I was hoping for.

Catie looked at me. She raised an eyebrow. I knew exactly what she was telling me.

I’m not sure what made me think this evening of Mark Twain’s quote. It certainly wasn’t inspired by the repeated chorus of frenzied barking at the front window because people dare to walk down our street (Catie has been particularly animated). It wasn’t triggered by the events of an ordinary weekend and a mundane Monday. And I haven’t danced in years – I renounced the whole business when I realized to my horror that I danced just like Elaine on Seinfeld.

Thinking of dancing makes me think of my mother. She died in November 2001, a shadow of who she had been just eighteen months before, when an undiagnosed brain infection robbed her of her memory, her speech, and her self. Music often played in the long term care facility my dad had to move her into and one evening, when she was still able to walk, the nursing attendant coaxed her for her bath by asking her to dance.

It was one of those rare magic moments stumbled upon and instantly captured, as my mom – who no longer knew who I was – waltzed and twirled down the corridor in the arms of an aide.

I’ve just realized that it’s not really dancing I’m thinking of. It’s more a niggling reminder to pay closer attention so I don’t miss those exquisite and fleeting moments. I’m sure I’ve carelessly overlooked many. You see, I spent much of today in a mindless, melancholy stupor for no particular reason. And then I came home. Catie and Riley greeted me as if I had been away for weeks. There was the familiar flurry of tail wagging as I opened the door. Riley did his excited dance around my feet; Catie hopped to the piano and put her muzzle on the key board.

I think my mom would have loved both these dogs.

A lot.

All dressed up and nowhere to go

Baby, it’s cold outside

The true meaning of mortification

Smilin’ Catie

Noble Riley

All in all, a good weekend. A dinner invitation from my son and fiance on Friday to join them at a favourite restaurant; a surprise birthday party for my sister; one brief, unproductive and unattributed bout of retching in the middle of the night on Saturday (my husband swears it wasn’t him and neither Catie nor Riley will own up to it either).

Catie’s appetite is back. All is well.

Last Tuesday was the OMG-the-keys-are-locked-in-the-car-and-I-can’t-get-in-the-house fiasco.

This Tuesday … all in all a good day until I pull into the driveway. The black bags on my neighbours’ curbsides signal that garbage pick-up is tomorrow

I open the garage door, haul out a couple of bags. I notice, as I head to the end of the driveway, that one of them has a couple of holes.

As I deposit it on the ground, two little mice scamper out of the bag. One heads west; the other straight east.

I shriek.

I park the car in the garage, holding my breath (yes, I know all about hantavirus) and run into the house. Catie and Riley think my panic is simply excitement at being home.

Now, I’m very familiar with lot of animated movies of cute little rodents. Stuart Little and The Rescuers, An American Tail and The Great Mouse Detective and the singing mice in Cinderella were all very enchanting. Even Mickey Mouse had a certain charm, if one could get past that annoying voice of his.

But there is nothing agreeable at all about them scampering and scavenging in my garage.

There are three nose prints on the front window this evening. Catie and Riley are on their continued watch for rabbits; I’ve been fixated on the garage door and wondering how I’m going to get my car out in the morning.

My husband has promised to take care of the squatters.

A glorious week of warm weather in Alberta has presented Catie with an unexpected dilemma.

Like the world’s diminishing glaciers, the snow on the deck day-by-day narrowed to a thin ribbon no longer sustainable for the effortless pee breaks she’s become accustomed to since the beginning of her illness. She squatted precariously at several locations last evening before admitting defeat and hopping down the three steps into the yard, just when Riley had been starting to think it was now his private domain.

Catie’s appetite’s been uneven this week. Some normal golden voraciousness mixed with some uncommon apathy. The bouts of mealtime disinterest, naturally, worry me (because that’s what I do very well) and befuddle Riley (who can’t imagine not being excited about food).

Catie, to my ever suspicious eye, has been a bit tired. She’s also had some frightful flatulence.

Like right now. As I type. Good grief. Even Riley has left the room.

I’m close behind him.

1. March 1 – Discharge Summary – slight decrease in white blood cell count…likely due to previous chemotherapy treatment but not low enough to cause a delay in treatment. No significant abnormalities noted in CBC chemistry or ECG.
2. Number 2 treatment. Check. Catie looked a little tired and scruffy when she got home; too much excitement coupled with some understandable anxiety. And of course, the administration of an intravenous catheter with nasty medication in her left hind leg.

March 2

And so it’s Tuesday. An uneventful night, a solid performance at breakfast. A mid-day report, before my husband goes to work: Catie seems fine.

A good day, all in all. I’m in a hurry to get home after work but think I can quickly duck into the grocery store to pick up a couple of things. A miraculous 15-minute run into Costco; a 10-minute stop into Safeway; I pull into the driveway. The car’s still running as I open the door, simultaneously hitting the trunk button, get out and slam the door shut just as I realize the trunk didn’t open after all and I must have pushed a wrong button. My heart sinks. Which button?

Yes indeed. The car is locked. No matter how many times I peer in the window and pull on the door, the car is unequivocally locked. And running.

A trip across the street to my neighbour, a call to my in-laws, yes, they have a key to the house. All is well.

Riley says: You have GOT to be kidding me. It wasn’t quite as composed as that. I heard the car pull into the driveway and Catie and I ran to the front window. Hm. I can hear the car. Mom runs into the garage. Mom runs out of the garage. Mom looks at us in the window and jabs the lock with a screwdriver. I bark: Yay, supper’s coming! Mom disappears around the corner. Is that her at the back door? She reappears on the front step, and stares at the door, rattles the  knob, looks at us and runs across the street like a madwoman, almost slipping on some ice on the sidewalk. I’m confused. When it looks like she’s not returning any time soon, Catie and I sigh heavy Golden sighs and go back to our pillows. Things are weird around here sometimes but I’m sure she’ll come back.

Catie doesn’t eat all her supper. I don’t think it’s because of my delayed arrival; she manages about half and then looks up at me. I don’t think she’s feeling all that well. Riley’s lurking around. The bowl goes on the counter and Catie gets some hugs and kisses before I let them outside.

Riley says: Ok. Number one: what a waste of excellent kibble. Number two: Mom is obsessed with Catie’s personal business. She watches Catie poop and pee and cleans it up in gloves and an outfit like someone from her favourite movie Space Cowboys. Not to mention she won’t let me pee where I want to.

It’s not a good sign when chemotherapy medications require you to double bag your dog’s waste products and keep urine in a contained area away from other animals and humans. Since neither my husband nor I are in the habit of sniffing dog pee, I don’t see the relevant hazard to humans; Riley, on the other hand, does like to sniff AND pee wherever Catie does.

Catie’s at the vet hospital right now. It’s become a very familiar place and Catie enjoys the visits; the technicians, the doctor, the special outing without her brother. Her second chemotherapy treatment was administered late this afternoon: doxorubicin this time, the first round was carboplatin. Her treatment protocol alternates between the two equally-sounding unpleasant drugs I can’t pronounce and can barely type.

I have to be honest. Riley and I in particular quite enjoy the three weeks between treatments. Life seems normal then; Riley and I share an affinity for routine in our day-to-day lives. It’s a prerequisite for our well-being, actually. The last couple of months of Catie’s illness has upset the natural rhythm of our household and ironically, Catie has handled all the changes – the pokes, the probes, the loss of limb, the chemo treatments – with far greater and astonishing aplomb than we. We’re now very accustomed to her hopping gait; the distinctive thump-thump she makes as she moves around upstairs; and we forget for a while that she has cancer.

Until she has to go back to the vet’s.

Riley is having his post-supper, evening nap. The Olympics are over (he barked enthusiastically yesterday at the human outburst over the final goal in hockey; Catie slept on the couch with her head on my mother-in-law’s lap); television is boring. For distraction I search the house for a good book about dogs. Sad to say, we don’t have many on the subject. The most beautifully written one I have is Dog Years by Mark Doty – lovely, lovely, funny, breathlessly poignant but I decide I’m not in a place to re-read it right now. I go on-line to the Chapters Indigo site, type “dog” in the search.

Results – 12,610.

That’s a lot of books about dogs.

Books on surfing with your dog, teaching your dog physics (I’m serious), gardening with your dog, making crafts for your dog, raising dogs, training dogs. Doggy problems, doggy tricks, doggy cookbooks. Bayou dogs and San Francisco dogs; sled dogs, shelter dogs, prairie dogs, hot dogs, Obama’s dog.

I’m overwhelmed. I stop scrolling at item 371.

Riley is still napping. Waiting for Catie has become our theme song.

I open Mark Doty’s Dog Years to a random page:

We are not helping our dogs move toward independence, as we do with children – and as, of course, children long to do. The dog’s need for us is permanent. The great evolutionary success of their species lies in their ability to convince us of our need for them.

I’m thinking I need a snuggle with Riley.