The dreaded red light was blinking. I hated to push “play,” but I had to. At the beep the original complaining neighbor launched into a plaintive wail describing Seamus’s reign of terror.
“Here, listen, it’s horrible. It’s just horrible. We can’t take this. Listen!” She held the phone out and recorded, from her home, Seamus’s incessant, frantic, and distinct whiskey howl. Even played back on tape the howling was intolerable.
Point made—and made well.
I hung my head. “I don’t even know what to do anymore. We just can’t win.”
“We’ll figure this out,” Chris said. “We’ve got to figure out what triggers it. He doesn’t howl every single time we leave. That’s impossible.”
“I don’t know that it is. He’s a pretty stubborn dog.”
For the next several weeks, we tried to map out when or what set off the separation anxiety. It seemed that the morning walks were at least keeping Seamus calm and quiet during the day. Or maybe that was the medication. But by evening, once I was home, he was not willing to let me leave again. We were also able to tell that if I left and sometime later Chris left, the dog did not howl. But if Chris left and then I left, the dog howled. And if Chris and I left together, the dog howled.
On the evenings we wanted to go out together, I started to leave the house before Chris, drive down the street, park, and wait for Chris to come fifteen to twenty minutes later. Soon though, Seamus caught on to that as well and began to howl when Chris was only twenty feet or so away from the house. And I could never leave the house at night if Chris was not there.
Feeling trapped, I turned to Dr. Davis, Seamus’s veterinarian for all things noncancer. Dr. Davis suggested what we came to call “doggie Prozac,” but I hesitated to add more drugs to Seamus’s system. Instead, I stopped working with the trainer I could no longer afford and hired my friend’s teenaged son to come over and sit with Seamus. It seemed like an easy enough job for a college kid—bring your homework, your girlfriend, whatever you’d like, just be there so my dog doesn’t bark.
The first evening he dog-sat, Mitchell brought his girlfriend with him. We ordered pizza for them, heated the hot tub, told them to feel free to use it, and showed them how to work the television. Enjoy, kids! We’d just like an adult evening out, whatever it takes.
When we returned home the teenagers were still on the couch, right where they’d been when we left, only looking a lot less relaxed. Seamus had barked so much they had to keep him in the house with them, blocking his access to the doggie door and the outside. Mitchell’s girlfriend, an accomplished singer, tried singing lullabies to calm Seamus. That didn’t work. They filled his bowl with kibble—that did not distract him. They petted him and brought him up onto the couch between them—that didn’t last. Nothing worked for longer than a few minutes. Seamus clearly did not feel that a pair of teenagers was adequate companionship, and he voiced that opinion all night.
On subsequent evenings my twenty-something single office assistant dog-sat. Seamus liked Kelly well enough and seemed to remain calm, but soon Kelly’s schedule got too busy for a beagle-sitting job. A single friend who at the time had no dogs of her own also occasionally babysat as well, but I felt ridiculous calling an adult who refused any payment to come simply sit in my house with my neurotic dog while I went out for drinks with other friends or dinner with Chris.
Just as I thought that after giving up nearly all of my savings for this dog I was now going to have to give up any social life for him as well, a solution presented itself. I learned that a client of mine was opening a doggie day care business right down the street from me.
Seamus and I were first in line to be “interviewed,” and when that day came, I was no calmer than a parent with a toddler in need of the perfect Manhattan private preschool. The truth was, I didn’t really know how Seamus got along with other dogs. Most of his interactions with other animals took place in clinic waiting rooms. And would they take him knowing he needed medication regularly? Would he howl and cause hysteria among the other dogs? And in the back of my mind also was the obvious fact that this was not going to be cheap.
For once, my worries were overblown. Seamus passed his doggie civility test and became the first overnight guest at Ruff House Pet Resort. Since 6:30 p.m. was the latest pickup time, it would be necessary to leave him overnight any night we were going out to dinner or a movie or any of those things normal people with normal dogs did. Any date Chris and I had would have an extra $35 tagged on—the price of an overnight stay for Seamus.
The first time I tried out Ruff House, Chris and I attended a fund-raiser for a battered woman’s shelter on whose board of directors I served. I checked my phone for calls or urgent messages every fifteen minutes or so, fully expecting a demand that I come get my dog. I could almost hear the “we can’t take it anymore” complaint.
My phone did not ring.
Waking on my own the next morning with only Chris beside me, no beagle face in mine, no urgent howling, and no pressure to get downstairs and into the laundry room where the kibble was kept, was unsettling. I suddenly had all this time on my own. And such quiet! But I had only one cup of coffee before leaving the house to pick up the dog. I didn’t need the quiet nearly as much as I needed to know that Seamus was okay.
“He did great!” Denise, the owner, said.
“He did?” I said.
“Yes. He’s wonderful. I’ve never seen such a cuddly beagle. We didn’t have too many dogs, and he was the only one staying the night, so Karen, our overnight staffer, just let him sleep on her bed with her.”
Uh oh. “She did? All night?”
“Yes. He loved it.”
“I’m sure he did. How was he during the day? Did he play with the other dogs?”
“He did for a bit. But every time he saw me, he howled until I came over. He’s so funny!” She seemed to be laughing, but I had a suspicion this was not going to end well.
“He is definitely a funny dog. Sorry for the howling.”
“Oh, no worries. We’re a doggie day care. There’s going to be noise. I just went and got him, and he hung out in my office with me, followed me around. He’s great company. He’s a cuddle monster.”
Thus did Seamus complete his dominance. While I had found a solution—a thirty-five-dollar-a-night solution, but a solution—to my problem with the neighbors, every time Seamus stayed at Ruff House he howled his demands that he not be left with the other dogs and his demands were met. I’d arrive to pick him up and he’d be sitting in the receptionist’s lap or lounging on a dog bed in Denise’s office. Occasionally he’d be running in the yard with the other dogs, but on those times, always, he’d be running the fence perimeter howling. Everyone knew he was battling cancer, so everyone spoiled him. Everyone. Even other dogs’ owners, if they knew of his battle, would give him treats, pet him, and mention how the howling was understandable. Sure, as long as you aren’t our neighbors.
I told myself that once the treatments were over and we knew he was cancer-free and not dying within the year, we could really dedicate ourselves to breaking the codependence. I’d find a new trainer with more realistic techniques—after all, this was not an exercise problem. Just one more round of the two chemotherapy drugs, and we’d start anew. I also told myself we’d deal with Chris’s family after Seamus’s treatments finished as well. One crisis at a time, we’d move forward.
On June 2, Seamus trotted into the veterinarian cancer clinic, flinging out that back right leg and looking fit, if not trim. He was now at 38.5 pounds. He’d gained nearly 20 percent of his body weight. No matter how much walking and how much training we did, Seamus gained weight and kept howling. Maybe it was me who couldn’t get it right. Maybe I did lack leadership skills. Maybe I fed him too much. Sure, he was on steroids and weight gain was a common side effect, but it’s a common side effect of toast, burritos,
cheese, pizza, bacon, potato chips, and fried chicken, too.
Dr. Dutelle greeted Seamus with her usual cheery hello and handful of green cookies. She didn’t seem concerned about his weight gain. The last round of Vinblastine was administered intravenously, and Seamus got his last bandage—bright green again—wrapped around his right front leg. All that was left were the Cytoxan pills on days eight, nine, ten, and eleven, and it was over. I was feeling giddy. The finish line was in sight.
“His next appointment will be in a month, and that’s when we should do his re-staging,” Dr. Dutelle said.
“Re-staging?”
“What we recommend is an aspiration of the liver and spleen, a complete blood workup, and an abdominal ultrasound. This way we can see whether there are any signs the disease metastasized. They will give you a patient care plan with the estimate of costs at the front desk when you check out.”
Estimate of cost? We’re not done yet? The finish line was slipping away.
I could estimate the cost myself—a lot. More than I could spend. As I paid for that visit, I was handed the estimate anyway: $1,059. About $2,000 more than I could afford.
When day eight came, I put on the rubber gloves to give Seamus the first of the last four Cytoxan pills. I felt a moment of relief. Whatever these future tests and costs meant, at least Seamus was through the treatments. I was determined that we’d finish up and enjoy a summer without medical worries.
A week later Seamus jumped on my bed, walked between Chris and me, and put his face up into mine, making sure I was awake and knew it was time for breakfast. Immediately, I noticed a bump on his eyelid. The bump was small, black, and mole-like, but it was definitely new. I pointed it out to Chris.
“How does a new cancer appear in the midst of all of that chemotherapy? How is that possible?” I said. “Maybe I gave it to him wrong?”
“Whoa. Hold on a minute. You don’t know that’s cancer. Just have Dr. Dutelle check it when you bring him for his next checkup,” Chris said.
“That’s two weeks away.” Despite all I’d done for the dog already and despite all he was doing to ruin my life, I was still willing to drop everything, put him in my car, and drive off to the veterinarian cancer specialist, particularly when the dog cuddled up and snuggled into the blankets with me as he was doing then.
Chris played the role of rational thinking adult. “I don’t think that’s cancer. But even if it is, you just finished his last chemo pill a few days ago. What else would they do for him right now? You can wait for his next appointment.”
I spun anxiously and considered my options. Chris was probably right, but then I’d nearly waited too long to bring Seamus in when he’d had the white blood cell crash. What if time was of the essence here again? What if he needed surgery immediately? And if he did, how would I pay for more surgery? And more chemotherapy? Because of course I’d do that. Wouldn’t I? Could I? Could Seamus tolerate more? Could I tolerate more?
A reasonable compromise, somewhere between overreacting hysteria and cold, heartless bitch, is what I settled on. I took Seamus to see Dr. Davis for another blood test to see how his white blood cell count was doing and to have the eyelid bump examined.
“I don’t think this is cancer,” he said.
I didn’t respond. I just stared at him.
“Don’t look at me like that. I know you’re thinking that’s what I said last time, but this is different. And he’s been in chemo for how long now?”
“Six months. Or a hundred years. I can’t really remember.”
“I’m going to give you a prescription for an ointment. And Valium.”
“Valium?”
“For you. And I’m kidding.”
I managed a laugh. Dr. Davis and I had always joked around. I hated to think I was losing my sense of humor along with my savings. “Okay, I deserved that. I might be a little stressed.”
“Put the ointment on his eyelid twice a day. If it doesn’t clear up, we’ll excise it.”
I knew excise meant biopsy, but I appreciated that he was choosing his words carefully.
I was not optimistic. At $13.80 the ointment seemed almost silly. How could something that didn’t cost thousands of dollars possibly help this dog? Not this dog. This dog only gets very, very expensive care. What chance did a little tube of goo have?
A week later, I took another afternoon off work and returned to the cancer clinic for Seamus’s follow-up appointment.
Dr. Dutelle sat on the floor facing Seamus. She petted him and rubbed his head, scratching behind his ears as she did so. She remembered to give him his green biscuit, and he howled at her for another.
“How’d he do?”
“Great with the pills. No issues at all. Except, as you can see, the weight gain.”
“That should start to go down as we get him off the steroids. He’s almost done.”
I liked the sound of that so much; I hesitated to point out the new bump.
“Yeah, that will be great. I…uh…I…wanted you to look at that growth on his eyelid.”
“I see that. Let’s take a look.”
Dr. Dutelle lifted Seamus onto the exam table. Seamus immediately turned away from her and sat down. He was not letting her anywhere near his rear end. Dr. Dutelle and I both laughed. Smart dog. I held him while she looked at his eyelid.
“Dr. Davis prescribed an ointment. I’ve been applying it for about a week. I think it’s getting better.” I wanted that to be true.
“If this were any other dog, meaning a dog that did not have a history of mast cell tumor, I’d tell you this was likely a meibomian gland inflammation. But we need to be sure this isn’t a recurrence.”
“So this could be another cancer?”
“I really don’t think it is. But I’m going to recommend that we do a fine needle aspiration and a cytology workup.”
I stroked Seamus’s head. “I don’t know how I’d pay to do this all over again.”
“No, no, no. I’m not saying this is cancer and we have to do everything over again. Not at all. I just want to make sure we know what we’re dealing with.”
Fifteen minutes and $240.75 later, Seamus and I returned home and awaited the results.
Dr. Dutelle called me at work the next day and used a lot of big words like “probably meibomian hyperplasia versus meibomian gland adenoma,” which, she explained, meant the tumor was benign. She wanted me to continue to use the ointment Dr. Davis had given Seamus and if that did not resolve the mass, she recommended removal. If Dr. Dutelle had been any less caring and sincere and genuine, I would have begun to think she had a lot of student loans to pay off, and Seamus and I were going to be helping for a long, long time. I decided not to think about whether another surgery might be necessary, however minor.
A week later, as Seamus snuggled up against me and I rubbed his belly and petted him, I felt a lump. Jelly-like, and not big, but definitely palpable and under the skin. I felt around to see if it seemed attached to anything, but I couldn’t tell—nor did I know what it might mean if it was attached.
Our regular checkup (and yes, by now, I was a patient too—this was every bit my health issue as well) was a week away, on Chris’s birthday. For both reasons, I’d already scheduled an afternoon off work.
This time Seamus weighed in at 38.6. He’d only gained one-tenth of a pound. After she examined the eyelid bump and declared improvement, I showed Dr. Dutelle where I had felt the new lump.
“That’s great that you found that. It’s good that you examine him for bumps and lumps and changes.”
I pet Seamus. A lot. He insists on it. It’s good to know there’s a medical purpose to all that petting. I’m Seamus’s first line of defense, I suppose and it seemed he needed a lot of defending.
“So what do you think?”
“If this
were any other dog—” I no longer heard what followed this statement. I knew that what followed meant more expensive tests and treatments.
This time the cytology and ultrasound-guided aspirate, along with a re-staging cytology, got me $503.25 in airline miles on my credit card. Attached to the bill was a notice that nutrition consultations with a certified clinical nutritionist were now available. In case I hadn’t done enough, I could now get a customized dietary plan to address Seamus’s specific nutritional needs.
Dr. Dutelle called promptly, as was her custom, and gave me the news.
“It’s a fatty tumor. And his eyelid is fine. His test results came back perfect. Congratulations. Seamus is in complete remission.”
Complete. Remission.
I couldn’t believe I was hearing the words.
I hung up the phone and squealed in excitement. I annoyed Seamus that evening with all of my hugging and kissing on him. Chris was equally excited and grilled steaks for all three of us, though only two of us had champagne. In honor of Seamus’s remission, we did not retire to the hot tub out of reach of the dog. We stayed on the couch, with Seamus happily between us.
In the days and months to come, of course, I still worried. I checked his skin constantly and monitored his behavior, watching for a decreased appetite, increased thirst, decreased energy—any change at all. He never changed. He was steadfastly Seamus.
When I came home from work late one evening and saw that he was limping, I refrained from rushing him to urgent care. The next day I took him to Dr. Davis and together we decided for once we would treat Seamus like “any other dog.” We’d see if the limp resolved itself in a few days with Seamus on anti-inflammatory medication before we x-rayed and tested for bone cancer. Seamus was walking normally in less than twenty-four hours.
And later, when Seamus scooted his rear end on the floor, eventually I recognized he needed his remaining anal gland expressed (thank goodness for groomers) and was not signaling the return of cancer. Cancer, it should be noted, does not itch.
Dog Lived (and So Will I) Page 15