Dog Lived (and So Will I) (11 page)

“Really? So no dogs with mast cell tumors on the anal sac have survived?” I said.

“Of course they have.”

“Okay, so he must have some chance.”

“I’m just trying to be realistic.”

“Yes, so am I.” We glared at each other over the exam table. I’m not even an optimist, let alone a fantasist, and here this sorority chick of a doctor couldn’t even bring herself to tell me, $5,000 and two months later, that Seamus had, oh, I don’t know, a 10 percent chance of survival? It was ludicrous to me. And frustrating.

That night’s tub talk with Chris was all about my combative relationship with this doctor.

“You can be honest. Do you think this is some sort of alpha-female drama being played out where she and I are both determined to be in control?” Apparently, where this doctor was concerned, I could maintain outrage and indignation even soaking in hot water, wine in hand, and sparkling city lights in the horizon.

“Well, that might be a little of it. I think your styles might be clashing. She clearly needs to be in control and just isn’t a very warm or communicative person. And you want a lot of information, and um…..”

“I need to be in control, too.”

“Yeah. That.”

“And I’m not warm or communicative either?”

“Well, we’re working on that.”

“Okay, but I’m the customer here. If I ask a question and want to understand the treatment and what I’m paying for, don’t I have that right? Why does she just act like I’m annoying her? What am I supposed to do, just hand her my dog and my credit card and say ‘do what you want’? I’m not going to do that.”

“Well, I imagine some people do.”

I stared at him. Sure, maybe some people do. I looked over at Seamus on the patio chair, stretched out, head resting on his crossed front paws, big brown kohl-lined eyes staring at me. “I guess I’m not some people. I just want to understand the choices and be sure I’m making the right choices. I had no idea we’d be switching up chemo and dealing with a whole new set of possible side effects. I should have been told that before. I haven’t even researched this new chemo.”

“Maybe you should ask for a new doctor. They’ve got a whole facility full of them. Ask for another doctor.”

“I think I will.”

Thus braced, I gave myself a pep talk on the drive in for Seamus’s January 20 appointment. I was going to make Dr. Sorority Chick explain the new chemo to me, what its risks were, and what it would do that the other wouldn’t, and by god if she didn’t respond, I would demand a new doctor.

When I arrived, I was surprised to see a couple I knew from Riverside waiting in the lobby with their bassett hound. They were also volunteers at the Mary S. Roberts Pet Adoption Center, we had the same regular vet, and I saw them and their dogs (they also had two beagles) frequently at events. I’d always thought of them as a happy, content, mild-mannered couple that seemed unruffled by much of anything. Their bassett, Molly, had the same kind of cancer as Seamus. And the same doctor.

“Isn’t she great?” they both cooed.

“Dr. Gilbert?” I said, refraining from calling her Dr. Sorority Chick.

“Yes, she’s been so wonderful with Molly.”

“Um. Well. I’d say she’s been less wonderful with Seamus. Or with me at any rate.”

“Really?” They seemed as astonished to hear this as I was to hear “wonderful” expressed in a three-mile radius of Dr. Sorority Chick.

“Well, basically, I can’t get her to talk to me about anything other than Seamus having only a year to live.”

“Oh, no.” They looked at each other. I’m no good with married-people speak, so I have no idea what the glance expressed. I imagine it was “oh poor Teresa—her dog is dying and she’s losing her mind and blaming the doctor.”

“And I know that she doesn’t want to give false hope, but it seems like some hope would not be out of the question, don’t you think?” I was probably pleading with them—strident and desperate. I’m sure they wanted to change appointments so as not to encounter me again, and indeed, I only ran into them one other time.

“Oh, of course. You have to have hope.” They smiled encouragingly. As in, encouraging me to leave them and their happy bubble alone.

By the time Seamus and I were called back into the exam room, I was completely subdued. Of course it was my fault. I was being too aggressive and demanding. I should just be friendlier with the doctor and let her do her thing without question. I should be like the nice couple.

Seamus weighed in at 36.20 pounds (later, I noted his treatment report said “Body Condition: overweight”). I handed over my credit card and my fat dog and obediently sat and waited, feeling like I had curled up with my tail between my legs.

I pulled three bottles of pills—steroids, pain medication, and the chemo pill—from the bag I’d been given. I reread the chart setting forth when each pill should be given over the next twelve-day period. As I again read the instructions on each bottle, I set them down in a row, next to the chart on my kitchen counter. The instructions for handling the pills stated that they should not be stored near any open food or drink, the pill should not be broken or cut, and if I was pregnant, nursing, or planning to become pregnant, I should be very, very careful when administering the drug as fetuses and babies are particularly vulnerable to the toxic effects. What about a thirty-six-pound dog?

I reached into the bag for the rubber gloves I’d been instructed to use when handling the chemo, and I set them down next to the pill bottles. Gloves. How much clearer could it be that I was poisoning my dog?

I poured kibble into Seamus’s bowl along with some beef broth. After he finished his breakfast, I called him to me and petted him for a long time, rubbing his ears, scratching his back, and apologizing in as many ways as I could. Then I donned the rubber gloves, stuffed a quarter of a hot dog with a pill, and, tears in my eyes, handed the hot dog to my beloved beagle. Seamus swallowed it in one bite, wagged his tail, and looked up at me for more. I gave him another piece with another pill hidden. He ate that too, and the third piece.

By evening, he seemed unaffected. That would all soon change.

I often wonder how people who live alone without a pet explain all the weird noises in their house. Generally, Seamus follows me around the house and is close enough that I figure any noise that isn’t me is him, and this helps me sleep at night. And I like his little sounds—the cheap aluminum tags jingling together slowly when he’s moving about and more quickly when he’s scratching his ears with his back leg, the little grunts and harrumphs when he sleeps, the circling and scratching to get all the blankets and pillows arranged just so before he lies down, the incessant sniffing of the air for any whiff of possible toast, his nails tapping across the wood floor as he trots off outside, and the little swoosh of the plastic doggie door behind him. A dog is a presence in a house.

Seamus is not always right by me at home, but if I’m upstairs, he’s upstairs. If I go downstairs, he’s downstairs—of course, the kitchen is downstairs, so that would explain that. He will be in another room apart from me but usually within eyesight of me and definitely within hearing distance.

That’s why I was immediately concerned eleven days after the new chemo was administered, when Seamus did not follow me downstairs for my morning coffee. My morning coffee comes first, but once the pot is brewing, Seamus gets his breakfast. I poured a cup of the high-protein kibble in his bowl. The sound of kibble hitting the tin is like a mating call to a beagle. And still, there was no Seamus. I made toast and poured myself a cup of coffee. The toaster lever going down should have been another trigger—a noise that can usually get Seamus down an entire flight of stairs and through two rooms in what seems like negative time. I’ve been known to hit the toaster lever just to get Seamus downstairs for a walk. It didn’t work this time.

I hurried back upstairs, coffee and toast in hand, and found Seamus still in his bed. He raised his head and sniffed at the air in the direction of my toast. When I held out some crust for him, he sniffed and then took it from me but didn’t sit up. He ate a little, chewing slowly, and when I returned to my bed he eventually followed me, sitting at my side and waiting for more toast. As I finished getting ready for work, Seamus curled himself up on my bed and slept.

This must be the tiredness they were talking about, I thought. His next blood check was three days away, since that’s when his white blood cell count was expected to be lowest. From the looks of Seamus that morning, this chemo was having more of an effect than the others. If the white blood cell counts were the ones that give a body energy, they were waving white flags, weakly. I added up the number of days or half-days of work I’d been out of the office for all of his treatments already and mentally ran through the stack of files on my desk. I had to go into the office. I figured I’d just come home for an early lunch and if he didn’t seem better then, I’d call the vet. When Seamus didn’t follow me down the stairs as I left for work, I hesitated. I went back upstairs and petted him, kissed him on the forehead, and promised I’d be back.

I was home again three hours later. Seamus didn’t greet me outside or even as I walked in the front door.

I raced up the stairs and found him lying in his bed, awake, alive, and looking at me, but not even lifting his head. He was barely keeping his eyelids open.

I called the cancer clinic.

The conversation seemed to take hours. I wanted to hear either “that’s perfectly normal, give him a baby aspirin and take him for his blood test as scheduled” or “bring him in immediately.” I wanted to be told what to do. I wanted not to be in charge.

“You should probably have him looked at,” said the receptionist at the veterinarian cancer clinic.

“Should I bring him to you right now?”

“Well, you could bring him to us or to your regular vet.”

“But if this is related to the chemotherapy, shouldn’t I bring him to you?”

“You can. Or you can take him to your regular vet. You were scheduled for a blood test with your regular vet, weren’t you?

“Yes, but that’s three days away. Should I wait that long?”

“Probably not.”

“So I should bring him in to see you now?”

“You don’t have to bring him to us. You can bring him to your regular vet.”

I wanted to scream at her. It seemed clear I needed to bring the dog in, but the way she kept mentioning my “regular vet” was confusing. Did that mean this was not something requiring a specialist? This was not related to the chemo? What would my regular nonemergency vet do with a lethargic chemo-beagle?

“I don’t want to go to my regular vet. I want to bring him to you guys.”

“If that’s your decision you can do that.”

“Well, isn’t that what I should do?”

“You just need to get him some attention. I wouldn’t wait.”

“Are you saying I don’t have time to drive him in to see you?” The drive usually took me about forty-five minutes.

“No. It’s completely up to you. Wherever you would like to take him.”

Frustration was seeping from my pores. Why couldn’t she just give me instructions like “bring your dog in immediately”? And why couldn’t I just say, “I’m bringing my dog to you right now”?

“It seems like this is something for you guys to handle. Why would I take him to my regular vet? He’s not a cancer specialist.”

“We just don’t like to interfere with your relationship with your vet. It’s your choice.”

Only later did I understand that, of course, as my vet had been the one to refer me to the veterinary cancer center, they were careful not to return the favor by proceeding to steal all further veterinarian care. Great, that works for their relationships, but what about the care Seamus needs? And needs now!

“I’m bringing him to you right now. I’ll be there in a half hour.”

I forgot to call my office to let them know I wouldn’t be coming back in, and I cursed every other car on the freeway as I sped past, well over the speed limit, but I arrived at the clinic in a half hour. I lifted Seamus out of the car and carried him in. He didn’t even lift his head to sniff for the cookies. He leaned his head against my shoulder, and I could feel all thirty-six and a half pounds of him, slack and heavy in my arms.

“Oh, Seamus!” The receptionist came around the desk and rubbed his head. “Let me take him right back. We’ll get him set up, and then the doctor will see you.”

I don’t know if the receptionist was the same girl on the phone, but now at least someone was giving him the attention he needed. The attention I needed him to have. She took him from my arms, and they were gone. I didn’t even get to say good-bye. I felt a shot of panic that I hadn’t felt since they first told me he had cancer. Just as I’d relaxed and begun to think he’d make it—he’d survive not just the chemo but the cancer—WHACK! Seamus was being rushed into doggie intensive care.

I retreated to the waiting room. This time I cried and I didn’t care who saw me. Every seat in the room could have been filled and I would not have been able to hold back the tears. I would have contorted my face and sniffed and gulped air, but inevitably, I would have lost it anyway. I was frightened. I felt horribly guilty that I’d not rushed him in immediately that morning. I felt responsible that I let Dr. Sorority Chick change the chemotherapy. I’d given Seamus the very pills that were causing this! I wrapped the poison in a hot dog and tricked him into eating it. Everything was my fault. My dog was going to die, and it was my fault. There wasn’t even a small part of me telling myself I was being ridiculous.

When I finally got to see the doctor, it wasn’t, mercifully, Dr. Sorority Chick. It was Dr. Roberts again. But Seamus wasn’t with her.

“Seamus is a sick boy. It’s a good thing you brought him in,” she said.

“Is he going to be okay?” That has to be the question most asked of a veterinarian. I wonder how often the answer is the same as the one I got.

“We hope so.” She leaned across the exam table, resting on her forearms but making eye contact. “He’s febrile and has a very low white blood cell count. We’ve got him on IV fluids, antibiotics, and we gave him an injection of Neupogen to help build back up his white blood cell count.”

Okay, so maybe I got him here in time. “What happens next?”

“We’re going to keep him overnight. Maybe for a few days. We’ll recheck his white blood cell count tomorrow and reassess. The concern is infection. He doesn’t have enough white blood cells left to fight off an infection, so we need to be very careful.”

“Can I see him?”

“It’s best if you don’t right now. He’s resting and getting his fluids, and that’s exactly how we need him to be.”

I left with assurances that Dr. Sorority Chick would be checking in on Seamus and I could call and check on him at any time. That evening the doctor would call me to report on Seamus’s progress, I was assured. I drove home with the empty dog crate rattling in the backseat, replaying in my mind how exuberant Seamus had been the night before and trying to decipher whether there were signs I should have picked up on. Then he was still howling and stealing food and demanding belly rubs. Now, because of the “cure,” he could hardly lift his head and he was on doggie life support. It was hard not to think I’d made all the wrong choices in his care. It was particularly hard when there was no phone call from the doctor that evening. I left a message on the clinic voice mail.

The next morning and on into the afternoon, my only information on Seamus’s condition was provided by the receptionist, who continued to take my messages. I wasn’t hungry—what was the point of eating if Seamus wasn’t there demanding his share? I didn’t want a glass of wine—alcohol is a depressant and that was definitely not going to help. I didn’t talk to anyone about what was going on since it seemed most folks thought I’d already spent too much emotion, money, and time on this dog. I suspected that even Chris was beginning to think I was a little obsessed.

I’d stopped talking about Seamus and his cancer treatments at work. There wasn’t anyone else in my office who was a “dog person.” I’d noticed they all looked at me like I’d lost my mind when I said anything about my visits to the vet or my worries about Seamus. Many of my friends were the same way, and some mere acquaintances offered up their own unsolicited and horrifying opinions.

Dog people know that somehow in this world it’s perfectly acceptable to spend thousands upon thousands of dollars on fancy cars, big televisions, gaudy jewelry, and even plastic surgery, but if you choose to spend your money on your pet, no matter how important that pet is to you, some people will frown in disgust. People will judge. And people will call you insane and make horrible suggestions like killing the dog. But I earned the money. I could spend it as I chose. And I’d always choose my dog over a newer car, more clothes, and, at the rate we were going, over a vacation. I didn’t care. I wanted Seamus to live.

I tried to reach the doctor again at four in the afternoon but got an answering service. I left a message asking that the doctor call me with an update and then chastised myself for not driving in and demanding to see how Seamus was doing. Never mind that at this rate I’d be working extra hours and retiring years later just to pay for his care, I still should have taken the afternoon off to drive to the clinic and check on Seamus. It’s what any good dog owner would have done.

Late that night the doctor finally called. But it wasn’t Dr. Sorority Chick. This was a new doctor. Her name was Autumn Dutelle, and she was everything Dr. Sorority Chick was not—kind, caring, compassionate, and not in a hurry to get away from me. She also had been the one caring for Seamus since I brought him in. She apologized that no one had called me, and I gleaned that updates to me were Dr. Sorority Chick’s responsibility.

But Seamus was doing fine. He had his appetite back, and his white blood cell count had returned to normal. I think that’s when my heart rate and breathing also returned to normal.

Dr. Dutelle called me again the next morning to let me know Seamus was eating, barking, and back to his same old beagle self. She saw no reason he couldn’t go home that afternoon. As long as he had a normal bowel movement, he’d be ready for me. Maybe that’s an unusual thing to hope for, but that’s what I was hoping for all afternoon. Come on, beagle bowel movement!

When I was reunited with Seamus, he did indeed seem back to himself. He was howling and sniffing out the treat bowls, still preferring the green bone-shaped cookies. The tech left him with me in the exam room and informed me that Dr. Dutelle would be in soon, and indeed she was.

Dr. Dutelle could easily be mistaken for a teenager—a happy, smiling, bright teenager. She was freckle-faced, with jaw-length light brown hair and short bangs cut straight across her forehead. Her eyes were large and green and compassionate. I could see that she genuinely cared about Seamus and was nearly as happy as I was that he’d pulled through. She sat on the floor with him, stroking his back, rubbing his belly, and holding his muzzle in the palm of her hands as she spoke to him. He crawled into her lap, pawed at her for more petting, and worked her over for more cookies. She obliged.