Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I)

by Teresa J. Rhyne

  Daphne slept soundly until the afternoon, when we went to visit Dr. Davis for her checkup. We were in a waiting room in no time at all and just as quickly, Dr. Davis joined us.

  “I got the biopsy report back.” He stood across the exam table from me, Daphne at our feet. “The lump on her side, the one I was worried about, is clear—just a lipoma.” Then he inhaled deeply. “But the one on her chest, I just…I can’t even believe it…it was a mast cell tumor.”

  There would be no step two in my pulling myself together. At least not today.

  I sucked in air but still felt unable to breathe. A mast cell tumor was what Seamus had the first time. The time they told me that with surgery and chemotherapy he’d live maybe a year. They were wrong of course, but it was a year of fighting, thousands of dollars of vet bills, constant nerves, heartache, and anxiety. Holy shit. Would cancer ever be out of my life? Even as I thought, Can I do this again? I knew that I would. In my mind, I was already allocating the funds and figuring out what we’d give up to fit it into our budget.

  “Okay. What do I need to do?”

  “Well, the good news is that this time I got clean margins. The pathology shows no cancer cells at the edges of the tumor I removed, so that’s good. I should have the full report back later this week to see if any further treatment is recommended.”

  “It’s possible there won’t be any more treatment?”

  “Yes. It’s entirely possible. I’ll let you know as soon as I get the report.”

  At home that night, my vow to pull it together already a historical footnote, I raged to Chris. I cursed out cancer with everything I had (and with my Irish ancestry, that’s saying a lot).

  Chris took over the role of rational adult. “He said he got clear margins. We know how important that is. And you know from before, some dogs get mast cell tumors and surgery is all it takes.”

  “I’m not that lucky.”

  “You don’t know that. And Daphne is lucky. She’s lucky she’s with us and it’s being taken care of for her. Imagine what would have happened if you hadn’t seen her photo that day?”

  I paused. There was no what if I hadn’t seen her scenario in my mind. I’d seen her. We’d rescued her. She was ours. I’d almost forgotten she was supposed to be a temporary foster dog.

  “Whatever it is, you know I’m going to fight it. Whatever we need to do.”

  “Oh, I know. Believe me, I know.”

  “And I made my checkup appointment today. So I’m sure we can all guess how that’s going to go.”

  Chris put his arms around me and drew me close. “I know this has to be scaring you, but it’s all going to be okay. It is.”

  I let the tears flow until my head ached and I had to blow my nose. When I left the couch to get a tissue, Daphne followed me. Percival hopped up and took my place next to Chris.

  • • •

  For the rest of the week, things seemed to improve, at least between the dogs. They did not regularly snarl at each other and had not fought for more than forty-eight hours. We’d begun to joke that it was like those signs in factories, “Over X days with no accidents,” only for us it was “incidents.” If, however, Chris and I decided to be on the couch together and the dogs joined us, eventually the snarling started (the dogs, not Chris and me). I knew this much was normal for dogs—they’d need to establish their position in our pack. But Daphne seemed intent on Percival’s not being in the pack at all, and Percival seemed terrorized and perhaps too aggressive for a simple territory “discussion.”

  So we instituted a “no dogs on the couch” rule and brought a second dog bed downstairs so they didn’t have to share. Neither dog was happy with the solution, but the old lawyer adage that a good settlement is one where neither party is happy seemed to apply here.

  Nights were more difficult. After more than a week of sleeping apart with one or the other of us on the couch, we were tired and I desperately wanted to be in our bed. We tried both sleeping in our bed with each dog in their own bed in the room with us, but were quickly woken with the now familiar sounds of a dogfight. We tried leaving Daphne alone in the library with a bed, a blanket, a pillow, and the door closed. She scratched maniacally at the door. We tried leaving Percival in the library instead, but within moments, his habit of shredding paper was once again demonstrated on those poor books on my lower shelves. We brought them both back into the bedroom, but put Daphne in her crate. She howled and growled and snarled through the gate. Apparently even the smell of Percival in the same room with her was enough to send her into a frenzy. I returned to the couch and took Daphne with me. It didn’t matter. Again, I was tossing, turning, and futilely attempting to block horrific images from my mind and calm my restless brain. Sleep eluded me no matter where I was.

  Finally, on Friday, Dr. Davis called. The pathology report showed clean margins, very low indicators of the myriad other things they test, and reports I couldn’t understand. What I did understand was the last part of his statement: “No other treatment is required or recommended.” No other treatment is required.

  “Seriously? No chemo? No additional surgery?”

  “No. We’ll watch the area of course. And any other bumps or lumps that appear.”

  “I always watch for bumps and lumps.”

  “I know you do. So, no different. She’s fine. And we’ll hope she stays that way.”

  I called Chris immediately. “I can’t even believe we finally got a break.”

  He laughed. “I’m so happy for Doodlebutt. And yes, we were due a break. So what about Beaglefest this weekend?”

  Ah, yes, what about Beaglefest this weekend?

  We’d attended Beaglefest—an annual gathering of beagle fanatics at a dog park in Huntington Beach—for the past two years, and even attended a Phoenix Beaglefest the week following my first chemo session. I had such plans for this next one, back when I foolishly thought I could simply rescue two dogs and go about my merry way. I’d made reservations at the Shorebreak Hotel—a dog-friendly hotel at the beach close by the park where Beaglefest would be held—so I could bring the dogs and participate in the “yappy hour” at the hotel bar patio the night before. I was relieved enough at the news about Daphne that I could almost…almost…laugh at my naïveté. I had not remembered to cancel my hotel reservations; I hadn’t even thought about the event.

  “Oh. Right. Well… I guess I could go and take just one of the dogs.”

  “So you and Daphne get to stay in the nice hotel and enjoy yappy hour while Percival and I sit home?”

  Good point. And I had so looked forward to this nice mini-vacation. The Shorebreak looked fabulous, and they even had a doggie yappy hour menu. In my (continually delusional) mind, when I made the reservations, all four of us would enjoy appetizers (two of us would have some cocktails) with some fellow beagle lovers, then have dinner and spend a relaxing evening in a luxurious hotel room with a oceanfront view from the balcony, before a room service breakfast followed by heading out to a rambunctious Beaglefest day at the park the next morning. How I had thought this was going to work with not just one, but two, new rescue beagles is beyond me now. It’s as if I’d never had dogs before.

  “Well, hmm. How about if I go and take Percival for the yappy hour part since he’s a bit more social with other dogs, then you and Daphne meet us there after you close up the shop? That way we’ll have two cars and if the two maniacs go at each other or they get kicked out of the hotel for snarling, snapping, and growling, one of us can take them home.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “No. Not at all. But maybe they’ll surprise us.”

  “And maybe you can bring Daphne’s crate in your car. Just in case.”

  • • •

  I arrived at the Shorebreak Hotel later than I had planned, but there was no hurrying Percival. He still needed to dis
embark from the car slowly and take a few moments to shake off the transportation trauma before he returned to his normal, happy self. I walked him over to a small planter with a palm tree in the middle and let him sniff about. The salt air and nearby restaurant smells inundated that famous beagle nose and pulled him out of his car reverie. He sniffed the tree, peed, and turned to face me, wagging his tail. He was ready to go.

  “Okay, buddy, let’s get checked in and get you to yappy hour!”

  The Shorebreak was gorgeous—contemporary and beachy and abundantly dog-friendly. I was not the only one at check-in with a dog, and I immediately noticed that two of the four other dogs in line were also beagles, no doubt also here for the Beaglefest yappy hour, which, it now occurred to me, was sure to be a loud one. Or, forgive me, a howling good time. The hotel clerk offered me a dog bed to take to the room. Sure, why not! I had no idea how or where Daphne and Percival would sleep, but an extra bed could not be a bad idea.

  I wheeled my suitcase to the elevator, carrying my purse, the dog bed, and Percival’s leash. Luckily, he followed along merrily. This would have been a terrible time for one of his four-paw braking moves. When the elevator door opened, I turned to him. Maybe I should pick him up? An elevator had to be a scary thing for any dog, but a dog that had been a science experiment and kept in a small enclosed space for eighteen months? While my concern (okay, let’s be real, my panic) built, Percival trotted forward into the elevator, still sniffing about. I followed him in and pushed the button for our floor. He sat and watched as the doors closed.

  “Good boy! You brave, good boy! Who’s getting appetizers tonight, huh?”

  Percival wagged his tail. The doors opened and we exited as though we’d been regular hotel guests. So far, so good. I found our room easily, on the beach side and not far from the elevator, which would be good if we needed to get the dogs outside in a hurry. I slid the card into the key slot and pressed down on the handle. And that’s when Percival decided a four-pawed reverse was appropriate. The elevator, sure, but apparently he was not going in any ocean-view suite with a heavy door and who knows what behind it. If the door didn’t open automatically, no way was he going through it. He pulled backward and I dropped the dog bed, then my purse, and when I saw he was trying to slip out of the harness, I lunged and knocked over my suitcase. The ruckus caused Percival to yelp and jump sideways, his harness now nearly over his head. I squatted down and tried to give some leeway to the leash, to reduce the resistance so he couldn’t slip out.

  “It’s okay, buddy. It’s safe. Come here, buddy.”

  He stopped pulling but did not move forward. I took that opportunity to stand and sweep him up into my arms. I opened the door again and, holding Percival and propping the door open with my rear end, used one arm to pull my luggage and the dog bed into the room.

  The room was worth it.

  We had a living room area with an eight-foot-long couch and plenty of room. The walls were adorned with gorgeous photographs of the sea, surfers and their boards, and, of course, a sunset. The king-size bed was in a separate room, with a small but inviting balcony with a view of the actual sea, and best of all, the bathroom was spacious, white, and well-equipped with an irresistibly huge, beckoning bathtub. I had not seen a bathtub that large since the one in the townhome I’d rented when I’d first gotten Seamus. The one Chris and I, in our early courtship days, frequently spent romantic candlelight evenings in, champagne in hand (howling Seamus in another room…if he wasn’t busy stealing food from the kitchen while we were otherwise occupied). Oh how I missed that tub! Our hot tub was wonderful, but there was something different about an actual bathtub.

  “Percival, if you and Daphne could just get along long enough for Chris and me to take a much-needed, long, romantic bath tonight, I’ll buy you toys, give you treats, whatever you want all day tomorrow. Think we could work that out, buddy?”

  Percival jumped up on the bed and pawed at me. I rubbed his head and he fell over onto the fluffy white comforter, exposing his belly for more rubbing.

  “I’m going to just take that as a yes, okay?”

  He pawed at my hand for more. Or to, you know, shake on it. I’m sure.

  We joined the Beaglefesters on the bar patio. I was so late there were only about ten folks still there, but I’ll take a small crowd over a large, noisy one any day. And for Percival, small crowds were probably better as well.

  I greeted the group, but as is the case with beagle lovers, it was really all about the dogs. Most of the group had known Seamus and read our story—either in book form or on my blog. And most of them knew of our adoption of Percival. There was great crossover between the Beaglefest group and Beagle Freedom Project supporters. So everyone was excited to meet and start kissin’ on Percival. Percival, I was pleased to note, was just as excited to greet the humans. He immediately hopped up on the patio couch and introduced himself.

  I love a good happy hour, but I was far more excited to see the doggie menu. It featured chicken stew, bacon strips dipped in yogurt, a grilled burger patty and gravy, and even Skippy-treats with a nondairy ice cream and scoop of peanut butter for doggie dessert—but no canine crudités plate. So adorable! But then I had a moment of anxiety as I was faced with the vegan dog-companion’s dilemma. While I searched the human happy hour menu, I also searched my conscience for what to order for Percival. Even though I did not feed them vegan meals, I tried to keep their treats vegan. As I looked around, I could see that my fellow beagle-peeps were feeding their beagles the chicken, the burger, bacon. I could just imagine trying to get Percival to settle for broccoli.

  I ordered the pita and hummus for me, and the bacon and yogurt for Percival. I shouldn’t have, and I felt horrible immediately after doing it—all I could see was the adorable face of a pig who gave her life. Her life so that my dog could enjoy a snack at yappy hour in a beachside hotel? Oh good lord, what had I done? Who was I? I turned in my chair and searched for the already-departed server. No! My dog would eat broccoli! And carrots!! And sprouts! Bring him sprouts! Wait! Peanut butter and nondairy ice cream is an option!! Why hadn’t I ordered that? Percival must have sensed what was about to happen—how his dining delicacies were about to change—instantly he engaged the braking system and flung himself backward with all of his might. And this time he slipped out of the harness in one easy maneuver. His practicing had paid off. Before I even had time to shout his name or “No!” or any command that he might possibly acknowledge, he turned and bolted, as alarmed by his instantaneous freedom as I was. He ran to the indoor restaurant area and made a beeline for the kitchen, whether out of fear, luck, or that beagle sniffing skill that would always identify the scent of food, I didn’t know. And it didn’t matter.

  I leapt from my chair and chased after him. My long, flowing orange patio dress and gold sandals, while no doubt making quite the flamboyant scene, were not allowing me to gain much ground on the exuberant beagle. The diners, casually but smartly dressed couples out for date night and safely away from the dog cacophony on the patio, all turned and stared, first at the blur of a dog, then at the lunatic woman in bright orange chasing the blur. And if there was ever a time one needed a quick, cute, nonembarrassing name to shout for their dog, this was it. Instead, I was running through the dining area of an elegant oceanside restaurant, on a busy Friday night, shouting, “Percival! Perc-AH-VAL!!!” I may as well have been yelling, “Percival Ramonce, young man, you get back here. You get back here right now. I’m going to count to three!” from my front porch, in a robe, with curlers in my hair and swirling a highball.

  Luckily, the maitre d’ (yes, of course there was a maitre d’, and of course he saw this all happen) headed Percival off at the pass to the kitchen, and though the dog, true to his college-football-based middle name, made a sharp, nimble ninety-degree turn, he was at a loss as to what end zone he could run to. Instead, blessedly, he stopped.

  “Percival, stay!” I said,
apologizing as I stepped around one table and the bemused diners to get to Percival.

  Apparently my command translated to “Please introduce yourself to the diners” in beagle-speak because Percival walked to the closest table and put his two front paws up on the woman’s lap to steady himself while he sniffed at her entrée. I can only hope the red in my face was complementary to the orange of my dress.

  I grabbed Percival and picked him up. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, no worries, he’s adorable,” the very kind, very patient, very wonderful woman said.

  I was completely prepared to launch into his lab experiment background to garner sympathy for him (and me) if need be, but this woman was the epitome of laid-back beach cool. Percival, you are one lucky dog.

  “Thank you. And again, I’m so sorry.”

  I carried Percival back out to the patio and had one of our group hold him while I tightened his harness. Just as I got the harness set and Percival strapped back into it, the server arrived with my drink (yay!) and Percival’s yogurt-dipped bacon (groan).

  Forgive me, beautiful pig. And forgive me, every dog trainer in the universe. I gave a strip of bacon to Percival.

  Oblivious to my moral dilemma, or perhaps sensing it, he dropped the bacon on the ground and instead turned to play with his new buddy, an adorable female beagle named Daisy. Daisy’s sister Jaxie gobbled up the bacon strip.

  Chris and Daphne arrived well after yappy hour, but while some of us were still contentedly hanging out on the patio and letting the dogs play. Daphne, naturally, began to bark at the other dogs and sniffed at Percival frantically. She could tell some fun, and perhaps some food, had been enjoyed without her, and clearly this was intolerable. Against. The. Rules. She barked.

  I took Daphne for a little walk and left Chris to enjoy his cocktail in peace, albeit with Percival standing on his lap. Percival was clearly beside himself with joy at Chris’s arrival and had immediately laid claim to him. There was no risk Percival would be running off anywhere now that Chris had arrived. Percival wanted nothing more than to bask in the glory of Chris. And lick his face.