“Sorry, Moose. We’ll get home and cuddle like mad.” I took my place in the passenger seat while Chris finished loading my luggage.
“You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” he said.
I kissed him. “I’m glad to see you too. It’s been a very long two weeks.”
“Tell me about it. Every minute for two weeks, I’ve worried about keeping this dog alive. I promised you he’d be here when you got back and I had to make that happen.”
“Were there problems?”
“No. Just in my imagination. If he sneezed, I panicked. When he slept, I worried he wouldn’t wake up. When he was awake, I worried he wasn’t sleeping enough. Let’s just say it was a stressful two weeks.”
“Agreed. Very, very much agreed.” I reached across and rested my hand on his thigh. Seamus’s tail tapped against the crate wall. I was exhausted and injured, but I was home.
• • •
Since Seamus was supposed to be kept calm, and I was recovering from…well, from India…we spent the next several days on the couch watching documentaries. (Okay, Seamus may have slept.)
The movies I’d been stockpiling were documentaries about food. Not “foodie” travel documentaries—not at all. No, these were films about where our food comes from—the abuse and torture of the animals that are the food “products” we eat. I’d watched Forks Over Knives at the suggestion of Julieanna, my plant-based diet guru, and now I moved on to Vegucated; Food, Inc.; and others. Each was progressively more explicit about the horrors inflicted on these animals during their short lives and at the moment of death, which was, I now knew, no short, quick “moment” as we’d all like to believe.
Considering what I was watching—and when I wasn’t watching I was reading—it’s a wonder I didn’t pet the fur right off the poor dog in a frenzy of love and protection. In my post-India state, knowing that my trip had been rescued by the vision of a dog, I contemplated more deeply my feelings about animals. I’d always felt a strong connection to all animals, but most of my focus had been on dogs. But now I was confronted with the subject of the animals we eat and how they suffer. I contemplated becoming completely vegan, but I was unsure where to start, and I had a dying dog home with me that took most of my focus and energy.
After each documentary, I turned off the television to look away from the images of dead pigs left to rot on piles of garbage, no more consideration given to what had been live, sentient beings than was given to the paper cups and rags in the piles below them. I had to look away from the “fryers”—chickens bred and held captive with their bodies pumped so full of growth hormones that they grow rapidly to a size their legs can’t support, leaving them crippled and in pain in the few short months they are allowed to live. I had to look away from the breeding sows kept for years in gestation crates so tiny they cannot turn around, covered in their own waste, breathing noxious fumes. I looked away from the former “family farmer,” now unable to compete against the large agri-business farm, going against her very soul by turning her own farm into a corporate-controlled factory farm, forcing her to treat “her” animals in a way so horrid that filming isn’t permitted because she’ll lose the farm if she allows it. I had to look away from it all. And yet I could not. I’d start another documentary or pick up another book until I couldn’t take it anymore.
I held Seamus close and let my tears fall into his fur—tears for him, for the cows, for the pigs, the chickens, the turkeys. I got up and poured myself a glass of wine, choosing to overlook that alcohol is a depressant and that was the last thing I needed then. Further into the bottle, I was crying for all of mankind, for what we’d become and berating myself for having been duped all these years, for not knowing where my food came from. I would do better. I had to.
Before I left for India, I had been having headaches and what I thought was probably anxiety attacks—waking up in the middle of the night, my temples pulsing, nightmares vaguely recalled, and my brain seemingly vibrating. In India, the insomnia and a bit of the shaking brain continued, I assumed because of exhaustion and perhaps the grief that was quickly enveloping me. Once I was home, I thought it would all stop. It soon became clear that my choice of “entertainment” was not helping. My nightmares became more violent.
When I was in treatment for breast cancer, I had nightmares that typically involved me losing control—sitting in the backseat of a car, unable to reach the steering wheel or brake to control the spinning, speeding vehicle; or the tried-and-true nightmare of showing up at school completely unprepared for the test to be taken and unable to find the room; and sometimes, of course, I was naked or half-dressed in these dreams. But the animal nightmares were worse because it wasn’t only me suffering. It was everyone around me. I’d be screaming at people to look at what was happening—the dog in the middle of the road with traffic swerving around it, the baby pigs squealing in pain as they were picked up by large bulldozers and thrown into mass graves—but no one saw what I saw. No one heard me. I’d wake, frightened, distraught, and unable to sleep for hours. Seamus followed me to the library and we’d sit together in the recliner. He’d fall back asleep and I’d read.
I read Main Street Vegan: Everything You Need to Know to Eat Healthfully and Live Compassionately in the Real World by Victoria Moran because that title was exactly what I wanted. Tell me how to do this in the real world. Tell me about compassion, because at that moment, I felt like hurting people (who, I don’t know…whoever was responsible for abusing and torturing those poor farm animals). I liked her take on being vegan—she too has a partner who is not vegan, and she makes no apologies for that. Her approach was much less “in my face” about the abuse of the animals, so I relaxed into the book.
Decide, then, that you can do this, because you can. You learned how to drive a car, program the DVR, and use your iGadgets; compared to those accomplishments, going vegan is a piece of Wacky Cake… The biggest obstacle most would-be vegans face is feeling different from other people, but you can change how you see that by replacing “different” with “pioneering.”
At three in the morning, this resonated with me. Pioneering! Yes, I can do this! I can be a pioneer and save all of those cows and chickens and those adorable little piglets! Although, actually, I never have learned how to program the DVR…
• • •
The following week, Chris and I both took Seamus for his next chemo appointment, and I was able to speak to the doctor myself. She was kind, tender with Seamus and with me. Since returning from India, I’d felt calmer about what I knew was inevitable. We would lose Seamus. But I was determined to give him as much time and as much quality of life as I could. I thought often of the dog at the Taj Mahal, so quiet and dignified, and somehow so natural there before the Monument to Love that is the Taj. But that did not make hearing that my own dog’s disease was terminal any easier. I sat, tears rolling down my face, as Chris rubbed my back and choked back his own tears. Seamus was returned to us, his left leg sporting a bright purple bandage from where the IV had been inserted and the chemo pumped into him. This scene had been so oft repeated, with him, with me, and now with him again, that I wondered if chemotherapy, doctor’s offices, and IVs would forever be a part of my life.
Our next stop was the holistic pet food shop, PetStaurant. I’d become friends with Kelle—“Mom” to Bogart from the Beagle Freedom Project—after meeting her at our Words, Wine, and Wags event, and she had referred me to Marc and his shop. Marc, she told me, was a genius with supplements and holistic diets that fight cancer.
When I called Marc and explained Seamus’s situation, he asked me what my goal was.
“I want to give him as much time as possible. I want as much quality of life as possible.”
“You know this is incurable, right?” he said.
“Yes. I know.”
“Okay. Because I don’t want to lead you on. I don’t want you thinking we can cure cancer
with food or supplements.”
I was relieved to hear him say that. While I was more open and certainly more interested in food and natural supplements for improving health, I had not come so far as to abandon Western medicine altogether, nor did I believe we could eliminate all disease simply by eating better. If he had promised to cure cancer with dog food, I would not have listened to anything more he had to say. I would have thought he was a nut. Instead, I listened to him. He disagreed with chemo for Seamus and suggested we stop it. The chemo, he said, would lessen his quality of life. Chemo was hard on the body.
I knew this, of course. Firsthand and from watching Seamus the first time, I knew this, but I also believed that chemo had saved Seamus the first time and had quite possibly saved me, so I had made an appointment to see Marc after the second chemo appointment. The vet had agreed that after three chemo rounds, we’d be able to tell if it was helping. We’d be in a better place to know whether to continue. I wanted to hear what Marc had to say; maybe traditional and holistic medicines would tell us to stop.
Marc’s shop was only ten minutes from the cancer center in Los Angeles. It was small but well stocked. He greeted us immediately and bent down to pet Seamus, who was straining at his leash to get at the food—any of it.
“He seems to have good energy,” Marc said.
“He does. He loves his food,” Chris said.
“That’s a good sign.” Marc stood up again. “So tell me about his diagnosis.”
I began to tell him. When my voice cracked and the tears started again, Chris took over. Marc listened carefully, periodically handing Seamus a treat and petting his domed head.
“This is hard,” Marc said. “But there are some things we can do. Definitely, I’d stop the chemo. And we’ll add supplements—enzymes, colostrums, and probiotics.”
I looked up. I remembered my online acquaintance, not-old-man River. He’d suggested the very same thing. What if I had listened to him then? Was this all my fault?
“Okay. Yes. We’ll do that. Do you have those things?” I said.
“Absolutely. And can you make a raw diet for him?”
“We feed him The Honest Kitchen.”
“That’s a very good food. But let me show you something better in this case.” He showed me the frozen containers of his own raw diet for dogs, prepared by hand with a menu that sounded like it came from a Michelin-starred restaurant. Then he gave me a list of foods to add to Seamus’s diet wherever I could. Many of them were the foods I’d been adding to my own diet: broccoli, spinach, cabbage, bok choy, red and yellow bell peppers.
We bought the supplements, loaded up on the frozen raw diet containers, and selected several packages of treats that were also on the “approved” list. I wanted Seamus to have a good quality of life, and to a beagle, food is quality of life.
The next morning, before I made myself a kale smoothie, I made Seamus’s breakfast. I reached for the containers we’d brought home from Marc’s store and read the labels: lamb, pheasant, quail, Cornish game hen, Angus beef. The ingredients were quite literally the stuff of my nightmares. And yet, suddenly, I could only make myself feel vaguely guilty over these animals. The documentaries I watched, the reading I’d done—that was enough to keep me on the plant-based diet without being tempted to cheat. If I thought about adding cheese or having a burger, all I had to do was think of the animals and the moment passed. But now, all I cared about was giving Seamus every possible moment of life. Did this make me a hypocrite? Probably. Or perhaps I had much more to consider about the cycle of life and the food chain. I don’t know. I just knew I wanted the best for Seamus. Selfish? Yes. Perhaps.
I remembered a hilarious comment we heard while traveling a couple of years back when Chris led wine tours in the South of France. A couple on this particular trip with us was vegan, though that hadn’t been mentioned in advance. Our French friends who helped make the arrangements for the group scrambled to get the meals taken care of. Rachel, who is American but married to a Frenchman and living in rural Southern France, called the owner of the restaurant where we had a twelve-course meal with wine pairings arranged. This meal had been the highlight of trips past, and there was nothing vegan about it. We heard only Rachel’s side of the phone conversation, and it was clear she was having trouble explaining the concept of “vegan” to this Frenchwoman. Suddenly Rachel burst out laughing. She shared the conversation with us, describing the Frenchwoman’s frustration, which had culminated in the totally French, exasperated exclamation, “But they will eat foie gras, no?”
Right. They don’t eat animals or animal products, but if you force-feed and torture the animal, then rip its organs out and serve them—sure, that they will eat. It was such an impossibly French statement, we had to laugh. (And no, our guests did not eat foie gras, but they did have a delicious meal. The French prepare vegetables really well also.) But I felt like that French restaurateur now. When it came to my little cancer-fighting beagle, I’d be scooping up the livers, bones, and body parts of various animals and serving them with a side of veggies. I couldn’t see not doing it.
I pureed vegetables and mixed in a little cottage cheese and coconut oil, as Marc had suggested. Seamus turned his nose up at it. I can’t say I blame him. I mixed it with the Angus beef and bok choy container, and Seamus consumed every last morsel, though I’m fairly certain he was a tad disappointed I messed with the perfection of his beef. I put the vegetable puree in the empty beef container and stored it in the refrigerator for later use. It's good for him, I thought, and if it supplements the animal product, I can perhaps assuage a little guilt.
Seamus ate his gourmet meals for another week, devouring each one and happily requesting more with his usual head-thrown-back howl at me, followed by an appalled look at his empty bowl. I wanted to take this as a sign he was doing well and this was the right diet for him. But the truth was, he was in chemotherapy. He had terminal cancer.
I returned to Main Street Vegan to read the section on whether dogs can eat a vegan diet. The author gives an enthusiastic “yes” to this question, and her daughter keeps her own dogs on a vegan diet. I could not find enough support in other books or online for switching a dog to a vegan diet—particularly not a dog in the end stage of life, battling terminal cancer. Torn, I stuck with the diet Marc had prescribed (and Seamus loved).
The annual Walk with the Animals event, benefiting the Mary S. Roberts Pet Adoption Center, occurred that same week. We debated whether to take Seamus. I’d adopted Seamus from this very place, and I’d served on their board of directors for over twenty years. I’d gone every year since the event started, missing only the 2009 event when I was in chemotherapy and too tired to go. Seamus, however, did not seem tired. And since I was again scheduled to be the co-emcee of the event, as I had been for the last several years, we decided we’d all go, but Chris would not take Seamus on the long walk. Instead he’d sit at our booth that came with my sponsorship. We’d donated the booth to Beagle Freedom Project, but Chris had a spot where he sat selling my books for me as well. Seamus helped draw folks to the booth, and during breaks from my emcee duties, I was able to talk more with Shannon, the founder of BFP, whom I hadn’t seen since our Words, Wine, and Wags fund-raiser for them two months earlier.
There were a lot of animal and animal-rights issues swarming about in my head then, but I had not forgotten about the beagles in the laboratories. I had not forgotten Bogart or Comet or the thousands of dogs subjected to painful testing for things like mascara and shampoo. There was no way I could forget those dogs.
“I’ve been thinking about Beagle Freedom Project a lot since I heard you talk. I feel so naive that I didn’t know they tested on beagles,” I said.
“Most people don’t know. I didn’t realize the extent of it until I looked into it. Seventy thousand beagles a year. That’s when I knew I had to do something,” Shannon said.
“It’s astounding. I�
��m so glad you are doing it. And I want to help. I just haven’t quite figured out how yet. Except, of course, donations.”
“You help by helping us spread the word. Like you, most people don’t know. They don’t know how many products are unnecessarily tested on animals. They don’t know they can help by simply being careful to shop cruelty-free.”
“I’m paying more attention to that now myself.”
“Good for you.”
“And I would seriously love to adopt one of the Beagle Freedom Project dogs one day.” I looked over at Seamus. He was noticeably thinner but still happily greeted the many folks who stopped by to see him. He was well-known at this event, since he was usually on stage with me every year, but since the book came out with his adorable face on the cover, he was even more popular. “We just have our hands full now with Seamus.” I could feel the tears welling up and my throat closing—not good for my emcee duties.
“I know,” she said. “I know. But when you’re ready, when the time comes, we’d be happy to have you adopt.”
“Thanks.” I picked up the material they were handing out, put on my sunglasses, and returned to the stage. Chris and I had long ago agreed—in the midst of our worst struggles with Seamus’s separation anxiety—that when we next adopted, we’d get two dogs so they had each other on the days we couldn’t take them with us to work. I determined then that one of those would be a Beagle Freedom Project dog. I just didn’t mention that to Chris.
Later at the event, I saw Dr. Davis, who, as the referring vet, had been kept up-to-date on Seamus’s prognosis and treatment by the cancer center. He’d already visited with Seamus and Chris.
“He looks good,” he said.
“Chris? Or Seamus?”
“Both. Both seemed in good spirits.”
“Yeah, I think Seamus is doing well. We took him to a holistic nutriti—”
“You did not put him on a vegan diet, did you?”
Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) Page 9