Catie Caitlin

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.

Just a little note for now. Life and other things have gotten in the way of posting in the last while.

Catie’s first round of chemo was spectacularly uneventful. She went to the clinic; she visited with the other patients and the staff; she had her treatment; she visited some more; and she came home.

Two nights later, at 3:00 AM, I was awakened by the sound of a dog trying to retch. “Here we go,” I thought (ever the optimist), and leapt out of bed with a cry: “Catie!”

The dog retching by the door of the bedroom – what turned out to be an undigested but unrecognizable piece of something – was Riley.

The dog sitting upright and non-retching on the other side of the room was Catie. Obviously startled by my early morning outburst she wore an expression that without a doubt said: “What??? What?????”

I cleaned up Riley’s bit of mess, assured him that moral support didn’t mean he had to throw up for Catie, gave them each a cookie and went back to bed.

Her second chemo treatment is next week.

No regrets.

Riley and I have been doing some summertime dreaming while we wait for Catie to return from her first round of chemo. We seem to be doing this a lot – waiting for Catie. My husband will bring her home on his way home from work (he works afternoons; I work days). When he headed out the door earlier, Riley was distressed at being left behind (“freaked out” were the actual words my husband used).

Riley doesn’t like change. He’s obsessive about his need for routine. Trips to the park are to be scheduled at the same time, every day. Bitter cold mornings are not to be used as excuses for delayed departures. Meals are to be at 6:00 AM and 5:00 PM; the same kibble is totally fine; a little more in quantity than usual is appreciated. He’s the first one to head upstairs to bed; 9:30 is delightful – any time past 10:00 PM confounds his patience and he spends a great deal of energy running up the stairs and down again to remind us of bedtime. Biscuits – for the most part to be given liberally, at any time – are absolutely expected if anyone says, “good boy.”

Most importantly, under no circumstances whatsoever – Catie is NOT supposed to go anywhere without him going too.

He was overwhelmed with joy and relief when I came through the door.

I don’t like change either. It’s why I’ve lived in the same house for over 15 years and stayed at the same job for 20. There’s a comfort in the familiarity of my surroundings even though it’s all somewhat of an illusion anyways because, although I’ve stayed here, life has changed and marched on despite my resistance. My children have grown and are making lives of their own. I’ve gotten older.

And Catie has cancer.

Riley and I have decided that we hate this disease. To pass the time and cheer ourselves up from a passing moment of gloom, we’ve been listening to peppy pop music (it is true: Riley likes Madonna and Lady Gaga) and looking at summertime pictures and we can barely wait to have more of them. Rick and I will drag out the plastic pool this summer and Catie and Riley will splash and play like they do every year.

Riley:

Catie:

My husband just phoned. Catie’s treatment went well and she was enthusiastically socializing with the staff and other clinic visitors. The vet said if we wanted, Riley could come and spend the day during her next treatment to give her moral support.

Riley and I have decided that summer will come in its sweet time. For now, these moments are quite enough.

I dreamed of Clint Eastwood last night. Not that I’ve ever been particularly enamoured by him but just before bed last night, Catie, Riley and I caught the first bit of a movie called “Space Cowboys” with Eastwood, Tommy Lee Jones and James Garner.

Brutal.

Riley couldn’t even stay in the room; Catie only remained because she was ensconced on the couch beside me and a bad movie wasn’t enough to move her.

The movie did result in an addition to my growing list of life’s unanswered curiosities (like: what DOES the tooth fairy do with all the teeth and do I really want to know?; and WHEN exactly did children’s strollers become the size of Smart cars?) … what I’d like to know now in all seriousness is whether all men’s waistlines advance higher to their arm pits as they age or did Clint just have a really poor wardrobe manager?

I digress.

I awoke this morning to a familiar presence in the bed. In my dopey first moment of consciousness, I thought it was Riley, but while he’ll cuddle at night before the lights go out, he doesn’t typically linger until morning. I was incredulous to discover that the furry warm body against mine was Catie. We have a king size bed and it’s quite high off the ground; Catie hasn’t been on it for months now.

I assumed that my husband must have helped her up.

I assumed wrong. He assured me he hadn’t.

I can’t imagine how she managed it.

Catie says: Never underestimate Hollywood’s penchant for bad movies nor  the determination of a Golden Retriever

It’s only 7:10 on a Friday evening and I’m ready for bed. I’m envious that Catie and Riley are having one of their dozen daily naps, Catie on the pillow by the front window; Riley about a foot from my chair.

The two of them have had a good week; daily trips to the dog park; had their meals and their treats and lots of loving. Catie’s been playing the piano more frequently: being a tripawd has enhanced her musical inclinations. If she was more predictable about her keyboard whims, I’d try to catch her on film. But she doesn’t particularly like it if I pursue her too persistently with the camera – she eventually gets annoyed and tries to eat it.

It was vet oncologist visit on Thursday. Catie will have her first chemo treatment on Monday. The decision to proceed wasn’t difficult: without chemo, median survival rate – 3 to 6 months; with chemo, median survival rate – 12 months.

A no-brainer decision, really.

The vet said Catie may be sick for a day or two afterwards. She’ll have one treatment every three weeks until she’s had six. Catie has gone through so much the last couple months; so much pain and discomfort, and recovery from major surgery. I’m feeling a bit guilty and sad about the fact that just when life seems normal and she’s feeling good, we’re taking her for a treatment that will make her feel lousy next week.

The vet said goldies have strong constitutions and we all have our fingers and paws crossed that she won’t be very ill.