Catie Caitlin

It is a sad but true fact that humans spend way too much time worrying about the weather. I don’t know what it’s like in other parts of the world but the humans here are obsessed about it. They think about it and worry about it, cry about it and swear about it and on occasion rejoice about it. Some of them even watch a television network that’s simply ALL about it. Just in case – what are the odds? – they miss the most recent local forecast, they can check their barometers and wind meters and wireless multisensored countertop weather stations.

Want to know what the weather is? Look outside. Sun? That’s nice. Snow? Who cares? Rain? Just give a good shake and get over it.

I don’t have much time; Mom wasn’t keen on me coming back on here because I told everyone about Catie’s hanger-on poop. Catie, by the way, is standing up on the couch at this very moment trying to get into something she’s not supposed to. Seriously, since Catie got cancer, there aren’t too many rules around here. It’s chaos.

Just wanted to make my weather rebuttal. I only used that word because I like butts so much that a rebutt sounded pretty cool. It’s a dude thing. Buttons; buttresses; butterflies, scuttlebutts, buttocks.

Oops. The great buttinsky just noticed what I was writing and says it’s time to sign off. Now. What does degenerated mean?? Worse than that she spied all the mess Catie and I dragged in from outside again and now she’s heaving out that nasty noisy sucking machine I hate. I’ve seen mom empty that thing and it’s full of some dog’s fur. Maybe more than one. Maybe hundreds. Thousands. And mom wonders what happened to the feathers on Catie’s tail?? Hellllooo? This is how those hairless breeds came to be.

Gottago Riley

Let it be known that I don’t do rain.

I don’t walk in it if I can help it; I won’t run in it except to get out of it. I don’t like the sound of it on my rooftop or cascading along the eavestroughs. The rational part of me knows it’s earth-nourishing and life-sustaining, but the child in me who grew up in Vancouver can only recall all the times I traced the path of raindrops on the window with my fingertips and yearned for sunshine so I could go outside and play.

It’s raining hard this evening. Sorry, guys, not tonight, I say to Catie and Riley, who watch my every move with great hope, follow me upstairs and downstairs, to the kitchen, to the window where I study the sky. They went to the park this morning with their dad and my weekday after-work strolls are much celebrated bonuses. I feel bad in disappointing them, but the fact remains that I’m simply a rain-free walker. I’ll walk or run in blustery wind and heavy snow, in freezing temperatures and blazing heat.

I simply can’t do rain.

When I finally stop moving about and they realize nothing exciting is going to happen, they both settle in my vicinity with collective downhearted sighs. My aversion to rain is perplexing to them, I’m sure. They have no issues with weather. Wet or dry, hot or cold, it’s all the same to them. The world is infinitely fascinating and beautiful whether covered in sullen clouds or brilliant sunlight. Even on the most bitter winter days they eagerly await and expect an outing; sometimes they can only endure a short time because their paws are tender and susceptible to the cold. All in all, though, any opportunity for outdoor adventure is worthwhile, no matter how brief. It’s but one of their many endearing and unique gifts to accept everything without complaint, even my inability to venture outside this evening.

So we’ll just put on some quiet music, draw the curtains against the dreary landscape outside, and share some extra treats and cuddles where it’s warm and dry.

Words I really don’t like: radiographs, pathology, osteosarcoma, chemotherapy, catheterize, carboplatin, and doxyrubicin.

Catie had her fourth chemo treatment last week, her second round of doxyrubicin. The after-effects of her first treatment were loss of appetite, lethargy, a little mushy poop. The side effects were similar this time but marginally more intense; she turned up her nose at almost every meal and walked away and her poops were significantly mushier and more urgent.  She threw up several times yesterday, a miserable exercise which left her with a worried furrowed brow and very bad breath.

I say this with no hyperbole: I hate doxyrubicin.

She’s lost a lot of the feathering on her tail. I thought at first – and guilt stricken at my lapse in grooming – that she simply needed a good brushing; but no, there simply is no longer much to brush and her tail is just a spindly shadow of what it once was. There’s also much more gray threaded throughout her coat and the regrowth in the areas where she gets shaved for the IVs is very, very slow.

After a mildly anxious weekend, she was better today. She welcomed me home after work with limitless licking and panting and jumping before hop-running to the piano to muzzle the keys. Exactly where do these inexplicable and unexpected whole-being moments of delight come from?

Words I really like: possibility, pleasure, harmony, acceptance, and joy.

The snow’s all gone; the grass is greening and there are buds on the trees. Was there really a windstorm with blinding snow a couple of weeks ago? It’s not even June yet and I’m feeling like it’s spring and spring means it’s time for some feeble version of cleaning.

I decide to tackle paperwork first. I gather up the fistfuls of vet bills we’ve accumulated since October. The newest addition from yesterday’s fourth round of chemo for Catie is still on the kitchen table; the rest have been unceremoniously stuffed between the microwave and the kitchen cupboard. I don’t need to look at the totals; I have a running tally in my head. I take them upstairs to the office, gingerly pry open the bursting file drawer in my desk. I know there’s a folder in here somewhere labelled “Vet.”

Ah. Here it is. I missed it at first because it’s alarmingly thick but I quickly figure out it’s not all Catie or Riley related material. Here’s a phone bill from 2005 that I assume I paid; an old tax receipt; a midterm exam of mine; and my daughter’s high school diploma. Here’s Catie’s Certificate of Achievement from Puppy Training; and Riley’s marks from Beginner’s Obedience Graduation. He scored 94.5 out of a 100. He botched the “figure eight” but made up for the lost marks with bonus tricks: kiss, rollover and speak.

This is a mess, I think. I’m about to surrender because I’m already getting bored when I come across two other serious-looking certificates. I think I perhaps have found my children’s long lost birth certificates but no, the two pieces of paper are from the Canadian Kennel Club.

I have a vague recollection of submitting a name to Catie’s breeder for registration but this can’t be right. Lady Caitlin Galadriel. Oh, but yes, I remember now. We had to come up with three names, not one, but what were we thinking? My husband and I must have just finished an all-nighter of watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy because I’m pretty sure that’s where Galadriel came from and wasn’t it Cate Blanchett who played that part?

We don’t take responsibility for the name on the Riley’s registration. At all. In fact, we didn’t get back to his breeder until it was past the date for submission. My husband I are lousy with paperwork. Because we were so delinquent, the breeder took it upon herself to complete and submit the documents with the following name: Marbrook Max A Million.

Not even close to Riley, really, but it’s just a piece of paper after all.

Mom said just this once I could write. She was going to do it herself, but she’s a little occupied right now cleaning the house. Part of that is my fault; I can’t stop myself from rolling in the dead grass and leaves and dirt in the backyard and naturally a lot of the little bits get stuck in my fur even though I shake the best I can. When mom’s home, she won’t let me back in the house until she brushes me off. Outside. Dad usually doesn’t notice or doesn’t care and just lets me in.

On the weekend my dad told mom I had superpowers. I was lounging on the deck out of the wind and suddenly it occurred to me that dad was sneaking cheese out of the fridge. When he turned from the counter with the cheese in his hand, he noticed me with my nose pressed against the glass on the wrong side of the door. He was impressed. Mom said it had to do with my amazing old factory senses. Superpowers sounds better.

Which brings me to the other reason my mom’s cleaning the house. Mom’s old factory isn’t as amazing as it used to be, I have to say; if it was up to snuff, she would have noticed that Catie had a piece of poop stuck to her bum when she came in from outside an hour ago. Catie’s had her bottom washed and mom’s running around the house with a spritz bottle and a scrub cloth wherever she thinks Catie’s been sitting or lying down. I’m betting mom’s rethinking all the fuss over a bit of yard grit now.

But despite the added work, she’s promised us an extra treat or two or three. It’s April 13th and officially three months since Catie’s surgery and I just know we’re gonna celebrate as soon as she’s done.

Catie, Riley and I don’t want to live here any more. We’re open to offers from just about anywhere. Florida, California, the Caribbean, Hawaii, Maine, Vancouver, Halifax, Colorado. Right now we’re colder than Anchorage, Alaska.

The wind is howling and I can barely see down the street for the blowing snow. An ominous red wind warning scrolled across the top of our  weather channel all day and it’s finally here – with gusts up to 81 KM/H.

I check the calendar. Yes indeed, it is April 8. Yes indeed, just yesterday I went for a run at noon and didn’t wear a jacket and even perspired a bit from the sun. Young people wore flipflops and tiny t-shirts and sat outside. After work I took Catie and Riley for a leash-walk wearing summertime sunglasses. Riley trotted and picked up sticks; Catie was so delighted that I had to jog to keep up with her. Once she gets her rhythm she moves faster than she used to with four legs.

So what do we do, you ask, when it snows in April in Edmonton Alberta Canada?

It will be twelve weeks tomorrow since Catie’s surgery. Despite all the fears and tears – and I remember those despairing, helpless, hopeless days well – the world kept turning. Hours turned into days, turned into weeks, turned into months and here we are. It’s April.

The snow’s melted for now.  The poplars and the ash trees remain starkly bare, the air is stale with snow mold and thick with dust from the sand and gravel dumped on winter roads and sidewalks, but I swear there’s a hint of green in the grass. It is Alberta though. The weather could change overnight and transport us without mercy back to January conditions.

Catie’s snoozing in her spot beneath the front window. She’s endured great pain, so much so that before she was diagnosed with osteosarcoma her diseased leg had atrophied; she’s been x-rayed and biopsied and poked and prodded; sailed through major surgery, took each and every painkiller and antibiotic with unflappable patience and trust; and has thus far endured three chemo treatments.

And yet . . . life has gone on. The hares are no longer white, but a mottled grayish brown colour. They continue their hare-raising parties out front when they think no one is watching. As for the mice – to be honest, I haven’t set foot in the garage for weeks.

Catie continues to enjoy her cookies and trips to the dog park with Riley and barking at strangers on our street. She’s strong and she’s beautiful and I’m sitting here thinking: wow.

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.