“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.
She may as well have be
en rubbing my belly, for all the comfort I felt. She was empathetic, and I could tell she’d been watching Seamus and caring for him, and even worrying about him, for the time he’d been there. And finally, I had the conversation I’d been needing to have.
“This was all because of the new chemo, right?”
“This rarely happens, but yes, this was a reaction to the chemo. His white blood cell count dropped dangerously low. Unfortunately, chemo doesn’t just attack the bad cancer cells; it attacks the good ones too. Usually, the good ones can regenerate faster.”
“But not this time? Not with Seamus?”
“Not with this chemo. It happens in less than 5 percent of the patients.”
“We’re not giving it to him again, right?”
“No. Definitely not. We’ll change the protocol.”
“Why not go back to the old chemo? Why do something different?” I didn’t know if I could give him another chemo. What if it happened again? What if the cure was worse than the disease? Was that even possible?
“Here’s the thing: Seamus has—or had—an aggressive type of cancer, given where it was located. We want to give him the very best chance, so we need to fight it with everything we have. The first chemo may have worked, but it may not. We have no way of knowing yet. Another chemo gives us another weapon.”
“What if this happens again?”
“The protocol we’d like to switch him to has much less of a chance for a reaction.”
“But there’s still a chance he’ll react badly again?”
“I know you’re worried. I understand. It’s a lot to go through. There’s always a chance of a bad reaction, so I can’t say there isn’t. He did really well with the first one, so chances are very good he’ll do well with this next one. It’s what we recommend, but it’s your choice.”
At least she was acknowledging that I had a choice.
When the time came, I made two choices.
When Dr. Roberts came back in to see me and Seamus, I agreed to try one more chemo.
“But I have a condition. I want Seamus’s care assigned to Dr. Dutelle. I don’t have any faith in Dr. Gilbert, and frankly, I don’t care for her style. I can’t go through this again if Dr. Gilbert is involved.”
“That’s fine. Not everyone is a good personality match. That’s why we have several doctors here you can choose from.”
“It’s not just a personality problem. She has not been looking out for my dog’s best interest.”
Dr. Roberts nodded, but I could see that she was not agreeing with me but rather choosing not to engage. “It’s your choice, of course. I have no problem switching you to another doctor.”
“Now that I understand what good care should be like, I choose Dr. Dutelle.”
Instantaneously as I spoke, I was relieved to be done with the cold, uncaring, unresponsive veterinarian. I was also satisfied that I’d finally taken control of the situation. Bring on the teenage wonder vet! Dr. Roberts then advised me that Dr. Dutelle had just completed her residency and was brand new. So in fact, Seamus’s care would be assigned to Dr. Dutelle but overseen by Dr. Roberts. Even better.
Many more airline miles on my credit card later, Seamus and I both bounded out of the clinic. The total count of toys and treats I showered on Seamus that weekend may have run into the thousands as well. If I was going bankrupt saving the life of a diabolically cute beagle, we may as well have fun with it. Seamus tore around the house throwing his peach, mint green, and lavender lobster into the air before catching it and attempting to rip its guts out. Just for good measure, he also rifled through every trash can in the house to see if anything had been left behind in his absence. His appetite was back.
I called Chris.
“Seamus is home with me now and doing really well.”
“Glad to hear it. I’m telling you, the dog is indestructible.”
“I’d rather not keep testing that theory.”
“True.”
“And I finally dealt with Dr. Sorority Chick.”
“You saw her?”
“No, of course not. But I did ask to have Seamus reassigned to the doctor who treated him this last weekend. She’s really wonderful.”
“I’m glad to hear it. That will be better for both of you.”
Yes. Yes, it would.
I checked on Seamus every couple of hours throughout that night and the next. When Chris came for the weekend, I noticed he too checked on, petted, and indulged Seamus more frequently. And on Saturday morning, Chris cooked all three of us scrambled eggs and bacon.
Chapter 11
THE RED ZONE
Each morning I donned the rubber medical gloves to handle the chemotherapy medication, and each morning I wondered if I was killing Seamus. Then I would remind myself: the pills were killing cancer. I was trusting Dr. Dutelle and doing what I had to do. I stuffed the pill into a chunk of cheese and held it out to Seamus. He sniffed at it and gently took it from me, not with a bite. Instead he held it in his mouth, walked away from me, set the pill-stuffed cheeseball on the floor, and began to disassemble it.
“Seamus, buddy, I’m sorry,” I said, picking the cheese back up and stuffing the pill farther down. I tore off a piece to make it smaller in hopes he’d swallow it all more quickly. I handed it back to him.
The newest chemo regime involved the Vinblastine given intravenously at the cancer center, alternating with Cytoxan given at home in pills, every two weeks. Seamus was also still on the prednisone steroid, which I also gave him in a pill. Although true to his beagle nature, Seamus would eat just about anything, he was now on to me. His nose was strong enough to sniff out the pill smell no matter what I hid it in. He’d deconstruct the food, spit out the pills, and then gobble up the treat. I’d changed up the food I hid his pills in every third or fourth dosage so that his excitement over new food would cause him to simply inhale, rather than dissect, the new pill-stuffed treat. But after two or three pills, he’d know that the hot dog, the ball of cream cheese, the roast beef slice, the American cheese, all held a nasty, bitter pill, and he’d return to his investigative techniques.
“It’s for your own good, buddy. I promise.” I held his muzzle, forcing him to swallow the pill. His eyes demonstrated the betrayal he felt, and I’m sure mine looked as sad as his.
But Seamus did not react badly to the Cytoxan chemo pills. Instead, he seemed to have an increased appetite and energy. I worried that he was gaining too much weight. And, it seemed, he had too much energy. I was walking him every morning and usually in the evenings as well. But still, he would run around the house frantically chasing his toys, or sit, rocking back and forth, letting out frustrated sighs, signaling he needed attention. No amount of attention seemed enough.
One evening, a month into the new chemotherapy protocol, I finally felt Seamus was doing well enough (or more likely, I was doing well enough) that he could be left alone in the evening. Chris and I went out to dinner and pretended, as best we could, to be a normal couple out on a date.
When we arrived home, there was a voice mail message. Chris hit the play button while I petted and talked to a wiggling, howling Seamus.
“Teresa, I’m so sorry to call. I really am. I love dogs, but your dog has been barking at the gate since six this evening.”
I looked up at Chris. We’d left for dinner at six. Chris was shaking his head slowly as the message continued.
“He’s still barking…” The message was left at quarter to eight. “I’m so sorry, but we just can’t take it anymore and we thought you should know, it’s not the first time. It’s been going on when you leave for work as well.”
This was not the neighbor who had originally complained and whom, we were fairly certain, had left the note on my gate. This was Judy, the quiet neighbor on the other side of us—she and her husband were home and
working in their yard (her) or garage (him) most every day, best we could tell.
Barking all day? I lay down on the floor. “I give up. This dog is going to be the death of me.”
Clearly, I had created a monster. The dog might well survive the cancer, but now he’d gotten so used to my constant attention and instantaneous response to any and all howled demands that he’d developed a severe case of separation anxiety. I’d been doing a nice job of ignoring that problem, having convinced myself the howling was only as I came and left and only when the dog was recovering from some sort of medical procedure. The phone call made it hard to maintain that denial.
“I’m sorry, baby, but you knew this was coming. You need to stop spoiling the dog and get in control of him. I think it’s obvious he’s going to beat his cancer. He probably just needs more exercise.”
I had begun to think Seamus was going to beat the cancer, but I had yet to voice that thought. My relief at Chris’s opinion of Seamus’s survival allowed me to overlook his (obviously correct) statement that I was spoiling the dog. “Okay. You’re probably right.”
“To start, the three of us can start walking these hills around here. A longer, more intense walk will do us all good.”
We began a regular walking routine, and Chris began staying most of the week at my house, taking Seamus for additional, longer walks. We also tried various treats to distract him when we left, hoping that would eliminate the howling. Sometimes we left him with a chew stick, sometimes it was a peanut-butter-stuffed Kong toy, and sometimes a steak bone.
We came home from grocery shopping one afternoon to Judy’s husband, a retired Marine, standing at our front gate looking none too happy. He politely but firmly explained that my dog was preventing them from enjoying their yard. They couldn’t be outside because of the nonstop racket from the dog. I, humiliated and cowering, took the still howling, frantic dog into the house while Chris tried to explain that we were trying to deal with the problem. The neighbor held firm that we were failing in our efforts.
Dog Lived (and So Will I) Page 13