Ah. “And it’s been ten weeks. So it’s not a bite?”
“No. It’s something else.” She let go of Seamus and unhooked his leash. Seamus ran howling back toward the house, scooted through the doggie door, and disappeared.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know if it’s anything. But unusual bumps on a dog should be checked out just like with people,” Nancy said. She stood up and put the forty dollars I’d handed her into her pocket. “I’d get it checked.”
I took Seamus for an exam the next day.
• • •
Dr. Davis picked Seamus up and steadied him on the metal exam table. Seamus turned his head to me with those big, caramel beagle eyes. Really? You’re going to let him poke me there? He moved his hind end away from the doctor. I moved him back into position. He sat. I prodded him to stand up again. He turned and looked, wide-eyed, at me again. Seriously?
“It’s probably nothing,” Dr. Davis said. “I know you’re worried, with all you’ve been through with dogs lately, but I really don’t think this is anything. I’ll remove it and have it biopsied to be safe.”
“Biopsy? You think it’s cancer?” For some reason, the word biopsy said “cancer” to me. Were biopsies done to look for any other disease?
“No. Hold on. I don’t think so. He’s young and sturdy. This could just be a wart. But I’d like to be safe and check it out anyway.”
I scheduled a surgery to remove what looked like a wart on a beagle’s anus as soon as an appointment was available. As it turned out, the first available surgery date was right before Chris and I were to leave for Cabo San Lucas. We’d been invited by clients of mine to be their guests. Although I hadn’t yet figured out how to refer to Chris (“boyfriend” was too young, “lover” too personal), I’d come to terms with being a couple enough to even share the relationship with clients, so I’d accepted the generous offer. With Seamus now needing surgery though, I considered canceling the trip.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Go. Have a good time. He’s a young, sturdy dog, and I seriously doubt this is anything. You can leave him here with me,” Dr. Davis said.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
I called Chris for his opinion as well.
“If he can stay with Dr. Davis, he’ll be in better care than he would be at home anyway, won’t he?”
“Well, maybe. But he won’t be as comfortable.”
“It’s only four days total. Two days more than he’d be in the hospital anyway for this.”
“True. And I do know they take great care of him.”
Following the surgery, Seamus would need to be confined to a small space and wearing one of those large, plastic cones of shame to prevent him from chewing out his delicately placed stitches. That would be more easily accomplished by leaving him with Dr. Davis, I knew. Dr. Davis and his staff were far more immune to those pleading beagle eyes than I could ever hope to be. They’d leave the cone on, and he’d heal more quickly. And it was only four days, I repeated to myself.
Chris and I headed to Cabo San Lucas, where we spent a leisurely four days lounging in a cabana on the beach. The chips and guacamole, cervezas and margaritas, and anything else we wanted, readily available and served cabana-side, helped dissipate my concerns. Dr. Davis emailed me that Seamus made it through surgery fine, and I relaxed into my vacation. I read two books, got a tan in November, and did a decent job of not worrying too much about Seamus.
We returned late on a Sunday evening, happy and rested. I went to pick Seamus up as soon as I finished work on Monday. I approached the front desk, smiling.
“I’m here to pick up Seamus. And obviously, he’s feeling well. I could hear his howling as soon as I got out of my car.”
“The doctor would like to see you for a moment before you leave.” The receptionist’s voice was soft and kind, and she tilted her head to the side and squinted her eyes slightly, just slightly. Just enough that I worried maybe Seamus was not healing well from the surgery. Or hadn’t behaved well, since that was always a distinct possibility. That would be better—just a complaint about his howling, not a medical issue. But I knew that wouldn’t be the case. I knew because I’d seen this expression before, in this office. “The doctor would like to see you” is one of those statements like “We have to talk” that doesn’t bode well. And just back from a relaxing and thoroughly enjoyable four days on a Mexican beach with Chris, I wasn’t prepared for either statement.
I followed the receptionist to the exam room where she left me alone, seated, staring at the exam table and trying not to look at the cute baby animal photos likely meant to cheer me but having the opposite effect. I stared at the linoleum floor, avoiding not just the pictures but the charts, the jars, the vials, and even the puffs of cotton balls on the counters. I especially avoided the metal exam table. I’d spent too much time here in the past several years with my aging and ill dogs. We’d spread a blanket and laid Richelieu on that metal exam table where I held him and petted him when the injection that ended his life was administered. I had thought my time in this room was over for at least a few more years.
They brought Seamus into the room first. Dr. Davis wasn’t too far behind. Dr. Davis had been the vet to my last four beagles and even the two German Shepherds and a sweet red Doberman from my first marriage. He was with me when Richelieu had to be put down, and he treated Roxy for her heart murmur. He’d given Seamus his initial health check when I had adopted him only one year earlier. Dr. Davis and I had served together on the board of directors for our local pet adoption center for the last fifteen years. He was someone I trusted with my animals completely—someone I knew to be compassionate to humans and animals alike. His voice was even softer, kinder, and more patient than the receptionist’s.
“I’m sorry.” He tilted his head and leaned toward me. “The biopsy came back, and it is cancer. It’s what is known as a mast cell tumor. I’m so sorry. We really didn’t expect this.”
No, we really didn’t.
I sat on the floor. Seamus immediately crawled into my lap and sniffed my face. I held the dog close and petted his head as Dr. Davis explained yet another disease attacking yet another dog of mine. I didn’t hear much of what he told me. I petted Seamus and held his face to mine while I blinked back tears. I wanted to get to the safety of my car and later my home so I could fall apart in private. Dr. Davis handed me papers—a referral to a surgeon, medication, maybe a bill. I stuffed them in my purse.
I grabbed the leash and left the exam room. Seamus followed, baying away: We’re going home! It’s time for home! Take me home now, Mom! Let’s go home! I’d like to go home. Home is good. Also, feed me. Oh my God, feed me!! So hungry! Come on, Mom, let’s go home now! Here’s our car! We’re going home! I love home. Food is at home! AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO!!!
I drove home, steering with one hand and rifling through my purse for tissue with the other. Tears flowed down my face, and I wiped them away again and again before giving up. I sniffed and tried to inhale deeply at the stoplight. I turned to Seamus in his crate in my backseat and petted him through the bars until the driver behind me honked. I cursed the driver in my mind. Fuck you for not caring about anything except where you’re going! Fuck you! My dog has cancer!! I slammed my hands down on the steering wheel.
When we got home, Seamus immediately began the hard work of pulling his stitches out with his teeth. Beginning what would become a lifetime pattern, I felt so bad for him I could not reprimand him in the slightest. I couldn’t say “no” or raise my voice to him. Instead, I tried simply explaining to him that if he continued to do that, I’d have to put that awful plastic cone collar back on his head and that would be awkward and uncomfortable. If that failed, I continued explaining, blubbering through my tears, I had doggie diapers at the ready to prevent him from chewing his rear end, and neither of us wants to
go there. He stopped tearing at his stitches momentarily and instead cocked his head and looked at me expectantly. I just wanted to hold him and cry into his silky, soft puppy fur and feel sorry for both of us. He just wanted to have dinner, chomp on a few squeak toys, and chew on his rear end. It was Chris who had to put up with my crying, sniffling, and general ranting over the phone. I think I said “unfair” at least a dozen times, preceded by a few fookin’s without the Irish brogue.
I tried to get Seamus to sleep on my bed with me that night, but he wouldn’t. He preferred the comfort of his own bed and toys, where there was far less drama. He slept soundly, snoring loudly. I know this because I was awake listening to it all night.
I couldn’t call the veterinarian surgical oncologist until normal business hours the next day. I called at eight in the morning. They didn’t open until nine. I called at nine exactly and got a recording. I called again from work, and again, until finally I reached someone. A someone who told me the earliest available appointment was six weeks away. Six weeks! The dog could die by then.
I explained that my dog had been diagnosed with cancer. Cancer! I cried. Not surprisingly, the veterinarian oncology office did not move my dog to the front of the line of other dogs who had…right, cancer. But she did offer that there might be less of a wait at their Los Angeles office. That office was sixty miles away from me, but only ten miles from Chris. I called. They had an available appointment two weeks away. I took it. I’d drive sixty miles. I’d drive a hundred miles. Three hundred miles. I just needed my dog to be treated. I needed cancer to go away.
Seamus had two more weeks to recover from the first surgery before we’d be meeting a veterinarian surgeon discussing the possibility of a second surgery. I had two more weeks to try to wrap my head around the fact that my adorable, funny little beagle had CANCER.
I left work shortly after five in the evening. I’d been useless all day anyway. All I could think about was CANCER. The word was heavy in my brain. My puppy had CANCER. And I’d left him home, medicated, wearing a cone collar, with stitches still in his rear end. I hurried home, pulled my car quickly into my garage, jumped out, and raced into the front courtyard on my way to my front door.
Immediately, I was accosted by a yelp from behind me. And not a beagle yelp. I spun around.
“Teresa! Your dog has been barking all day. All day. It’s making me crazy! How can you leave him like this? It’s ridiculous. He barks all day, every day. I can’t take it. I. Absolutely. Can. Not. Take it. Not anymore. No more!”
My neighbor across the street, a cotton-candy blond woman in her seventies whom I’d only met once, was at my courtyard gate, and indeed it did appear my dog, or something, had driven her insane. I think I saw foam coming from her mouth.
Seamus was at my feet in an instant. And still howling. Ohmygawd, Mom! Where have you been! It’s been terrifying here!! I’ve missed you! Get in the house! Get in the house now! Also, feed me!! Ohmygawd feed me! So hungry!! Oh, and pet me, yes, yes, pet me! Noooooooowwww!!! Must cuddle noooooooooooooowwwwwwwww!!!
I tried to calm and control my howling dervish of a beagle, while addressing my enraged neighbor and choking back my own tears. “I’m sorry. He’s recovering from surgery. And I just found out he has cancer. So I’m sure he’s a mess right now.”
While I knew the dog was unaware of his diagnosis, something did seem wrong with his emotional state, even more than normal.
“I’m sorry about that, but it’s not just recently. He howls all the time. Every day. All day long. All the time. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t.”
I was no longer crying. I was dismayed. He howls all day long? What? Neighbor, you’ve lost your mind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that. I haven’t had problems with him before. And often Chris is home with him during the day, so I really don’t understand how it could be every day.”
“Oh, Chris is gone a lot more than you think,” she said, eyebrows raised meaningfully.
Great. So my dog has cancer and my boyfriend is running around servicing every female in town. Well, maybe that’s why the dog was howling. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
I turned and headed through the courtyard to my front door. One glance at the doggie door and I could see what the problem was.
The cone collar was in the courtyard, right in front of the doggie door, where it had no doubt dropped when Seamus with his cone head got stuck in the opening. The door opening was not big enough for the cone to fit through. He must have barked for quite some time before eventually working himself free of the cone. He was no longer wearing cone or collar (it was attached to the cone). I thought about heading over to my neighbor’s house to explain what had happened but chose instead to focus on the dog and his stitches.
Dog diapers it will be. Although as a backup plan, doggie diapers seem flawed. Beagles are not dogs to be restrained or contained or…put in diapers. Beagles are smart, cunning dogs with intense motivation to get what they want (usually food). Beagles are very, very clever dogs.
And not surprisingly, diapers are no match for a beagle. Complicating matters, I’d bought the wrong size—and I still dispute that a beagle could be a “large,” but I’m not sure what chain of command to follow for a beagle diaper dispute. When I put the diaper on Seamus, I could only close up one side. The other side flapped open with the protruding section of adhesive tape virtually inviting him to bite it and tear the diaper from his hind end, flinging it into the middle of the living room. Or the kitchen. Or my cereal bowl. After several failed attempts with the diaper, the cone and tightened collar were returned to service. But I couldn’t risk his getting stuck in the doggie door again.
I worked from home for a few days. I alternated between drafting trusts for families concerned with the legacies they’d leave to their children and shouting, “Seamus, NO!” or “Seamus, stop!” Seamus alternated between scratching at his cone, slamming the cone (and sometimes his head) into doorjambs, and lying at my feet looking up with his wide, sad eyes begging for a reprieve or at least a doughnut. My resolve weakened by the minute. Chris came over midweek and took over Seamus-watching, although I suspect he knew I needed watching nearly as much.
Finally, the stitches dissolved and I could leave the house again. I was able to return to my office, go grocery shopping, and rejoin the human race. Seamus was able to use his doggie door unencumbered, sit comfortably, and continue his mastery of the household. We’d survived the surgery, but there was still the upcoming appointment at the Veterinarian Cancer Center. As difficult as the cone of shame had been, it was nothing compared to what lay ahead. I knew he had at least one more surgery, or, I hoped he did. I hoped they’d be able to cut the cancer out.
I found myself staring at the dog—the very healthy, hyper, happy dog—wondering how he could possibly have cancer. With the cone banished, he was fine. He was back to all his usual tricks, and he was no longer subject to any humiliations, other than his person randomly bursting into tears, cursing the gods, and hugging him embarrassingly close.
My humiliations, however, were to continue. A few days before I was to take Seamus to Los Angeles to meet with the specialist, an anonymous note was slipped into my mailbox.
Neighbors,
Your dog has been wheezing and barking for hours this evening and this is not the first time!!!!
My question to you is:
What is wrong with you “people” that you cannot take care of your dog? Why must your dog cry and cry all night without your paying any attention to it?
Shame on you!!!!!!
For subjecting your dog to endless suffering, and your neighbors to your dog’s endless barking.
Sure, I’d been a little crazed since the diagnosis, but I didn’t think my status as “people” really needed to be questioned. And the dog had not been left alone all night without any attention being paid to him. More l
ikely the dog was outside, having freely gone there of his own volition through his doggie door, in an attempt to get away from his clingy, cloying, crying wreck of a human.
What was wrong with me? What was wrong with my dog? Well, cancer is what’s wrong, people! Cancer! But how to explain this to a neighbor who may not even like dogs? Was Seamus barking all day long? Chris and I both suspected the letter came from the same neighbor who’d greeted me at the gate in a rage. So was the dog bothering the whole neighborhood, or was he merely barking at the mailman and maybe the gardeners and perhaps even a pedestrian passing by and this neighbor had no tolerance for dogs?
I knew Seamus barked when I left, but it seemed he stopped after a few minutes. And he barked when I came home, but in an excited greeting sort of way. It had not occurred to me that he barked the entire time in between. Was that even possible? Had that just started happening because of the surgery and the stress he’d been under? When I lived in the rental condo, those neighbors never said anything about a barking problem.
Still, there were signs. Seamus had an unusually high anxiety level. I knew that. He hated to be left alone. He was vocal about my coming and going, his breakfast and dinner, and everything in between. I didn’t like the way the neighbor was handling her complaints, but much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t ignore them either.
Chapter 5
MARGINS OF ERROR
With my cougar status out of the bag, my neighbors gathering pitchforks at my gate, and the holidays approaching, it was clear my holiday curse was continuing. I’d be taking Seamus for his oncology appointment and another surgery, and I’d be spending Thanksgiving with Chris’s entire family at his grandmother’s house. I hoped numbers would be on my side—surgery number two would get all of the cancer, and the sheer number of siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins at Chris’s family Thanksgiving would produce at least one ally—or maybe just someone more objectionable than me.
Dog Lived (and So Will I) Page 6