Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I)

by Teresa J. Rhyne

  I had been hoping for more time. I had even begun to think the tumor might not come back, that we might beat this back with all we’d been doing. But now I knew: Seamus was going to lose his eye.

  The vet made arrangements for the surgery two days later. And just like that, I was back in a vet’s office, waiting for the results of a cancer surgery and wondering where we’d gone wrong. Maybe the diet and supplements and exercise were why he had nine months instead of nine days. Or maybe they didn’t change a thing. Or maybe we’d irritated the eye and shortened the timeline. Who knew? Who ever knew with cancer?

  I tried to distract myself from the worry and the anger by flipping through magazines in the waiting room. I’d come early so I could take Seamus home the moment he recovered enough to leave. I didn’t want to be stuck in traffic while he waited for me to come get him.

  “Ms. Rhyne?”

  I stood and walked toward the receptionist. “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Great. Just follow me.”

  She led me back to the exam room, the same room where Seamus had been diagnosed. “They will be with you shortly.”

  I sat again. By now, I was familiar with the reading material in this room, and since I wasn’t in the market for a speed boat and couldn’t bear to see the photo album of the stages of eye surgery and recovery, I didn’t even bother to pick one up. Instead I texted Chris with an update, though I had little in the way of information. Just: I’m here. Should have Seamus soon.

  I tried to ready myself for what Seamus might look like. Bandaged, of course. And woozy. But he’d always been such a trooper. Rarely did anything get him down or slow him down. But losing an eye was grave. He never knew he had cancer, but he’d certainly know he was missing an eye. What would the adjustment be like? Would he have balance issues? Would he be confused now that he couldn’t see on his left side? I hated that I couldn’t explain to him what had happened and why.

  The vet tech came into the room.

  “Seamus is doing great. Still a little groggy. We’ll bring him to you in a few minutes. First, I wanted to go over the medicines and aftercare with you.”

  “Okay. Great. He’s doing okay?”

  “Yes, he did well. Surgery was a success.” She explained the medications—pain pills, antibiotics, the usual—and handed me a small white bag filled with his prescriptions. “Now, because of the anesthesia, he may not want to eat tonight or even tomorrow morning. As long as he drinks a little water, that’s fine—totally normal.”

  Seamus not eating? I’d probably have to keep checking that it was really my dog. Seamus ate all the time. He was never not hungry. Not even after surgeries in the past, not after chemo, never. This dog always wants food. Always. I listened to her, but I was thinking, If he doesn’t eat by tonight, I’m going to be freaked out.

  “I can’t imagine that,” I said.

  “Perfectly normal. He’s had anesthesia and he’ll be on pain medication. Sometimes that upsets their tummies too. So just remember it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  Oh, I’ll be concerned. “Okay.”

  “If you want to pay at the front desk, I’ll go get Seamus and bring him to you there.”

  At the front desk I handed over my credit card, adding to the frequent-flier miles Seamus and I had so regularly accrued in years past. As I signed the bill, I heard the jingle of his collar and the four-pawed pitter-patter come down the hallway. A little slower than usual, and no howling, but there was my boy. He picked up his pace when he saw me and came right to me. The bandage was not as frightening as I thought it would be, and I’d gotten used to the brightly colored wrap applied to the front leg where they insert the IV. I bent down to pet him, and in return he lifted his face to mine, sniffed me, wagged his tail, and then turned, went straight for the reception desk, put his two front paws up on the desk, and AAARRROOOOOO’d away at the treat jar.

  I laughed. “So much for no appetite.”

  “I guess so!” the vet tech said.

  The receptionist opened the jar and handed him a treat. He ate it quickly and looked at her for another, wagging his tail in approval. Then he howled again. She gave him another cookie.

  “Okay, that’s enough for now.” The tech turned back to me. “So, in Seamus’s case, since he does seem to have an appetite, just make sure he eats small portions. You don’t want to upset his stomach.”

  “Nearly impossible. He has a stomach of steel, but I won’t take any chances.”

  Seamus’s recovery was speedy. He needed only a day or two of rest before he was up to his usual antics. When we finally had the bandage removed—though of course he was missing an eye—I was impressed with the surgeon’s skill. Seamus looked like he was winking. There was no sunken hole, no jagged scar, nothing brutal or terrible-looking. He was still a diabolically cute dog. Now he just had a permanent wink. The vet told me Seamus had probably gradually lost sight in the eye in previous months, so the adjustment was likely already complete. As we watched Seamus’s swift return to normal, it was easy to believe that was true. He was breaking into cupboards, stealing our food, and howling his demands, just as he’d always done. And we, of course, were no better in our corrections of him. We’d lost that battle long ago, and now with his one-eyed swashbuckling look, we were entirely disarmed.

  Two weeks after the surgery, he’d recovered well enough to be at the launch party when our memoir came out and even howled on cue when I read out loud from the scene wherein I first met and adopted Seamus.

  “‘And again there was the howling. He sounded as though he’d suckled whiskey from his mother’s teats and had been chain-smoking since birth,’” I read.

  “AAAARRRRROOOOOO,” Seamus said.

  He was going to be just fine. He’d adjusted again—my little trooper. I was so proud.

  And I could begin to look forward to my trip to India. With everything going on, and despite the fact that I’d driven all the way into Los Angeles to interview as part of my application, I’d nearly forgotten I’d applied. But then came the news: I’d been selected as one of the Delhi Dozen. I’d be leaving on Valentine’s Day.

  • • •

  My memoir was published, and from October through December, Seamus joined me at book events and, without fail, charmed the audience with his antics and energy. He hadn’t slowed down one bit. In January, we had one last book event to do before I left for India.

  And even in that room full of beagles and other dogs, Seamus was the loudest. He stretched up on his hind legs, front paws on the table, and howled his indignation that the platters of appetizers had all been pushed back out of a beagle tongue’s reach. A well-dressed, petite woman reached for one of the multicolored dog treats, baked and decorated to look like doughnuts and cupcakes, and handed it to him, just as he knew would happen. He gulped it down and lunged for more. The woman laughed.

  I tugged Seamus away from the table, but with half effort. After all, this was his party too. Seamus, Chris, and I had been on a tour we called “Words, Wine, and Wags.” We’d done over a dozen events, helping to raise funds for various animal rescues by combining my book signings with “celebrity” appearances and paw-tographing from Seamus (due to the popular demand, we’d had a stamp of Seamus’s paw print made), and a wine tasting from Chris Kern’s Forgotten Grapes. I was the words, Chris was the wine, and Seamus was the wag. It was the way our little family worked. And we were having a blast—much to my continued amazement.

  Years ago, when I was going through a divorce, I’d said I wanted an alphabet life composed solely of A for “Alcohol,” B for “Books,” C for “Coffee,” and D for “Dogs.” Chris had thrown that off a bit by adding “L” for “Love,” and I’d taken a very circuitous route, but it seemed now I’d landed right where I wanted to be. This tour had brought it all together, and the event on this day was particularly special, because it was held at Ruff House, the doggie
day care and resort where Seamus had the honor of being the first customer and, due to his severe separation anxiety, a regular visitor. In addition, the event was for an organization called Beagle Freedom Project.

  I’d heard about Beagle Freedom Project from other beagle-loving friends. So when Chris and I put our tour together, I reached out to them. I knew they worked to rescue beagles used in animal experimentation in research laboratories. And I knew I wanted to help. I didn’t think too much more about “animal experimentation” or what that meant when I reached out to the organization. But at our event, there were two of these victims right in front of me. There was Bogart—rescued in May 2012 from a lab in San Diego, California, and now in the loving home of Kelle and her husband, Manos—who calmly greeted everyone. Bogart was the perfect yin of calm to Seamus’s yang of chaos. And then there was Comet, a little slip of a beagle with dark, almond-shaped eyes, long soft ears, and the cutest little way of sticking his paw out at you. Comet was there with his foster mom, Vanessa, who had been caring for him since he and ten other beagles were rescued from a Northern California laboratory on December 11, 2012. Barely a month free and here he was, standing, running, and playing in a crowd of people with several other dogs and a lot of food, noise, and commotion. He didn’t seem frightened at all, just reserved.

  I saw Chris hold Comet more than a few times that afternoon, which made me smile. Beagles always make me smile, but Chris picking up and holding a beagle, well…that makes me glow with happiness.

  When I first met Chris, he wasn’t much of a dog person. But after all the three of us had been through—years of fighting first Seamus’s and then my cancer—well, Chris came to love Seamus every bit as much as I did. He became a dog person. And more specifically, Chris became a beagle man.

  Shannon Keith, founder and president of Beagle Freedom Project, stepped forward. In a soft but firm voice, she thanked the guests for attending and then began to explain the work of her organization.

  “We work behind the scenes, legally, to rescue the animals that survive vivisection—that’s the term for testing on live animals.”

  Shannon is a lawyer. I could recognize her training. Using the word “vivisection” gets the listeners’ attention. It got mine. “Animal testing” is vague and allows one to think the beagles are asked to identify flash cards or count to three with their paw. “Vivisection” is, well, vivid.

  “Testing done on beagles in university and other research facilities includes medical, pharmaceutical, household products, and cosmetics. When the beagles are no longer wanted for research purposes, some labs kill the dogs.”

  I noticed Kelle pulling Bogart closer.

  “Other labs attempt to find homes for adoptable, healthy beagles. Working directly with these labs, Beagle Freedom Project is able to remove and transport beagles to place them in loving homes. All rescues are done legally with the cooperation of the facility,” she said.

  Shannon was an attractive blond woman in her late thirties who radiated competence, compassion, and tenacity. I liked her instantly. I loved what she was doing, though hated that she had to. And, no surprise, I loved those beagles. Appalled by what I was hearing, I listened intently to the plight of these poor dogs. Shannon lifted Comet from Vanessa’s lap and picked up one of his floppy ears. She showed us inside, where a long number had been tattooed.

  “This is the federal ID number that was given to Comet. This is as close to a name as he had until we rescued him in December. Bogart has a similar tattoo. And do you notice how quiet Comet is?”

  I had noticed. Neither Comet nor Bogart made a noise—in stark contrast to the steady AAARRRRROOOOOOOOO coming from a certain beagle at the hors d’oeuvres table.

  “They don’t howl because the labs have the beagles debarked—a cruel practice of cutting the vocal cords,” Shannon said.

  I cringed. A beagle’s howl is intrinsic to a beagle. I couldn’t imagine Seamus without his signature howl. It had been one of the first things I’d noticed about him. Well before I had even seen him in his kennel at the shelter, I had heard him. My neighbors could have done without his howl, but that was beside the point. Beagles howl. It’s their thing.

  I watched Bogart, cuddled in Kelle’s lap, content and calm, and Comet, now returned to Vanessa’s lap, leaning far into her and resting his head on her chest.

  “The reason beagles are used in the research is not just because of their size, short hair, and good nature, but precisely because they are so trusting and forgiving. The labs use those very characteristics against them to subject them to a shortened lifetime of cruel testing. There are seventy thousand beagles in labs across America being tested on every year.”

  Seventy thousand. Beagles.

  I was stunned.

  I knew then I wanted to help—needed to help. I instantly thought about adopting one of these dogs and glanced over at that sweet-faced Comet who still needed a home. But this wasn’t the time. Seamus was an only-dog kind of dog. He’d shown no interest in sharing his time and total dominion of our household with any other dog. Maybe one day, after Seamus was gone, I’d look at adopting a Beagle Freedom Project dog. But that wasn’t a day I wanted to think about just then. I filed the thought away. It was my turn to address the audience.

  I handed Seamus’s leash to our friend Todd, aka “the beagle whisperer.” He and his wife, Tiffany, have six beagles, and Todd can magically make them all behave. (And Seamus was in many ways the equivalent of six beagles.) I walked to the front of the room.

  “Well, you may have all noticed that Seamus looks a little different than he does on the cover of the book,” I said. And I saw several people nodding, though no one had mentioned it during the wine tasting.

  “Seamus had another bout of cancer last year. And this time it was an eye melanoma. He had one surgery last December—a month I hate, as many of you know—but unfortunately the tumor grew back, and in September we had to have the eye removed.” I could hear the crowd wince and say “ooh,” and I could see the sympathetic faces. I’d gotten used to that in our cancer years. I knew Seamus, though, and he was not a dog who needed or expected sympathy. He’d adapted to his circumstances immediately and seemed to inherently understand that this was something he could use to his advantage. More treats!

  “But as you can see, it hasn’t slowed him down. And it definitely hasn’t affected his appetite.” At this the audience laughed. Seamus had a legendary appetite—an inescapable fact that everyone present had learned early in the event when he’d knocked over more than one plate and quickly gobbled up the spoils.

  “And he is cancer-free at this point. Luckily, eye melanomas very rarely spread to other parts of the body. So, Seamus, in his Seamus-esque way, has just added this permanent wink to his repertoire of cuteness.”

  Seamus howled on cue, as he was wont to do in these events. And, likewise on cue, another guest handed him a green-sprinkled doggie doughnut.

  “He is my little survivor, and that’s really what we are here celebrating today. Seamus, Comet, Bogart… They are all survivors. And so am I.”

  In that moment, I really believed that.

  Chapter 5

  Breathing In

  At least this time when I was charting out pills and doctor appointments, it wasn’t because of cancer. This time it was for travel. Two hepatitis shots, a tetanus shot, malaria pills, and two shelves of over-the-counter-oh-my-god-you’ll-catch-everything drugs later, and I was ready for India. I began packing three nights before I was to leave, partially because I was nervous and partially because I knew I’d have difficulty shoveling it all into only one suitcase. This did not seem to be the sort of trip where one should arrive with her entire closet in tow, nor did I think much of a wardrobe would be necessary. We’d be taken shopping shortly after arriving so we could purchase traditional, appropriate clothing for our volunteer time. Still, I had to bring something to wear, and it was
hard to figure out what made sense. This was unlike any travel I’d done before.

  I was diligently eliminating any leather. (That would be rude, wouldn’t it? In a country that revered cows?) I bought my first pair of canvas TOMS Shoes and even managed to resist buying the sparkly silver ones in favor of a simple cornflower blue pair. I dug out a fabric purse I had in the closet and packed jeans, khakis, T-shirts. Then I unpacked a sundress, sandals, a silk blouse, and two tank tops.

  After a few hours of decision making, folding, unfolding, packing, unpacking, I decided to give it a rest. I had two more nights to get it right. I got dressed for bed and joined Chris.

  “Have you noticed Seamus’s breathing tonight?”

  I looked over at Seamus, lying curled up in his bed. “Not really. Why?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds funny to me. Shallow or something.”

  I walked over to Seamus’s bed and listened. Chris was right. Seamus was taking shorter breaths. “Did you just notice that tonight?”

  “No. I noticed it last night too, and when he was at the shop with me today.”

  “That’s not good. I guess I was too busy with all this India stuff.” I wanted to pet Seamus now, but I resisted. I didn’t want to wake him. Normally I noticed every change in Seamus’s behavior or body. I was shocked I hadn’t noticed this one.

  “I think maybe we should take him to Dr. Davis. Do dogs get colds?” Chris said.

  “I don’t think so.” I’d long ago learned not to panic with every lump, bump, or change in Seamus. I tried not to rush him to the vet constantly, though with his history that was often hard to do. Four months had passed since his eye surgery, and other than checkups for that, he’d been vet-free and doing fine. Up until that moment, he seemed healthy and happy. “I’ll call Dr. Davis’s office in the morning.”