We went to our room around ten that night. We’d had enough cocktails to not be stressed about navigating a hotel lobby, elevator, and new environs with two rescue beagles we’d had for only weeks. And the dogs seemed content to merely follow us along. All cheer yappy hour!
Chris and Daphne were as thrilled with our room as Percival and I had been. Daphne sniffed about and then very quickly made herself at home on the couch. Much to our surprise, Percival jumped up and joined her. Sure, he was four feet away and it likely only happened because the couch was as long as it was, but still—they were on the same couch! I took advantage of the moment.
“Wait till you see this!” I grabbed Chris’s hand and led him to the bathroom. “Look at that tub!”
“Wow. Wow. I haven’t seen a tub like that since your old place!”
“Exactly! So…dare we try?”
We both poked our heads back into the living room. The beagles were asleep. Daphne’s snore was loud and deep.
“Oh yeah. We’re goin’ in,” Chris said.
The dogs did not wake as we filled the tub. They did not wake when we opened the bottle of wine that Chris brought with him. They did not wake as we turned out the lights in the room, dimmed the bathroom light, undressed, and slipped into the tub.
As far as we knew, they didn’t wake the rest of the night either. Not that we were paying a lot of attention to them…
But once the sun streamed through the windows of our gorgeous room, the beagles were up and ready for breakfast. They used their newfound tolerance of each other to gang up on us. Percival leapt onto Chris’s head and began to paw at his face, while Daphne took the more subtle approach of lying down next to me, her head sharing my pillow and her tongue licking my face—urging me to wake. I was so happy they were happy and not fighting that I overlooked my headache and lack of sleep. I got up and got their breakfast out of the bag we’d packed and stored away high up on a shelf in the closet. I fed Daphne in the bathroom and Percival in the living room, shutting the bathroom door between them. No point in testing our luck.
• • •
Close to one hundred beagles and nearly twice as many humans converged on the dog park in Huntington Beach in the morning. You could hear the howling from blocks away. Aaarrrooooooooo!!! Aaarrrooooooooooooooo!!! Aaarrrooooooooooooooooo!! Daphne joined the fracas from the backseat of my car while Percival concentrated on not vomiting. We found parking several blocks from the park and got the dogs out, together with our blanket and the dogs’ water bottle and snacks, and set out toward the festivities.
Beagles with their telltale white-tipped tails swarmed the lawn, with many of them congregating, not at all surprisingly, near the picnic tables and barbecue area. Daphne howled and pulled at her leash, straining to join the melee. Percival was a bit more interested in sniffing the grass and taking his time before meeting the masses. I walked ahead with Daphne while Chris let Percival do his stop-and-smell-the-flowers—or, well, the grass blades—thing.
We found some of our online friends easily (I’d met them at last year’s Beaglefest). With others it took hearing the beagle’s name to be able to place the human. It was just like going for walks with the dogs in our neighborhood. We may not know our neighbors’ names, but we know their dogs’ names. One of the best parts of Beaglefest is that no one can be in a bad mood with that many howling clown dogs around. Not even those of us who may have enjoyed yappy hour a bit too much. (I’m not naming names.)
We took Daphne and Percival to the fenced off-leash area, figuring that running a little energy out of them would not be a bad thing. Percival was thrilled to be let loose and, much to our surprise, immediately began to chase and play with the other dogs—beagles, poodles, corgis, shelties, mixed breeds of all sorts, it did not matter. Percival was happy to be free and running wild. And run he did. Daphne, on the other hand, put her nose to the ground and very methodically began to sweep the premises, carefully identifying each and every scent. “Yep, beagle pee. Yep, that’s a poodle. Ooh, dachshund, and that’s a pug over here. Yep, yep, lots going on in this yard.” Chris and I took a seat on a park bench with some friends. Daphne joined us after about twenty minutes of nonstop sniffing. Even a beagle nose needs a break now and then. She hopped up next to me on the bench and surveyed the park from her new vantage point.
We watched for Percival, who seemed blissfully happy to run about. I spotted him in one corner facing two dogs that were crouching in play position. Or at least, I hoped it was play position. Two more dogs ran over, and then a fifth. Percival seemed lost in the dog pile, and I was just about to hurry in Percival’s direction, offering aid, when Daphne leapt up, let out a bellowing howl, and ran toward Percival. I watched in amazement as she flung herself between Percival (now backed all the way up against the fence) and the four other dogs and howled. There was no mistaking her message: Leave him alone! Or you will have me to deal with! Back off, dudes!
Chris turned to me. “Did you see what just happened?”
“I did! I’m so proud of her!”
“She came to his defense! She’s looking out for him!”
“I guess it really is like family. Family can pick on each other but nobody else gets to.”
Daphne and Percival together came sprinting back toward us, tongues hanging sideways, eyes wide, and tails wagging. This is the best time!
“I think they’re going to be fine,” I said, petting Daphne while she licked my face.
Chris responded as best he could given the tongue washing Percival was now giving his face. “You may mmfphtfmmm be right. We’ll pffmhphhmmm see.”
Chris was seeing a glimmer of hope, while I was already booking our family Christmas photo, which somehow involved trained beagles, cuddling, smiling, and posing. I don’t even like Christmas, but why should that interfere with my hallucinations? If I was going to be having brain issues, at least some of it should be enjoyable.
Chapter 22
A Piece of My Mind
I waited on the exam table in my customary and oh-so-fashionable paper towel dress. I practiced how I’d mention my restless brain syndrome and considered not saying anything at all. I hadn’t had the problem lately, so perhaps it was just stress. Normally, I never like blaming things on stress—it seems like such a cop-out. But hey, I was looking for a cop-out on this one. When the alternative is cancer metastasized to the brain, stress is my friend. Well, maybe my frenemy.
Denise, the physician’s assistant, came into the exam room. The further out I got from my diagnosis, the less I saw the oncologist himself. I liked the oncologist just fine, but I was happy to see the PA—I liked her and I liked thinking they weren’t as concerned about my health status now. I was no longer a DEFCON 1 patient. Maybe more like a 4.
She did her usual exam and began the list of usual questions. How was I feeling? Great, I’m good. Things are fine. Any pains? Nope. No pain. Any digestive or bowel issues? Nope. All good there too.
“Great. So any complaints in general? Any changes?”
Weeeeeell… “Um. Well. I’ve been having headaches. Well, not really headaches, more like head vibrations. I call it restless brain syndrome.” Her left eyebrow shot up, but I pushed on, hoping that was only because of the name I’d given my symptoms. “It doesn’t really hurt; it just feels like my brain is pulsating. I can’t concentrate and I can’t sleep.”
“That’s not good.”
DEFCON 3.
“No, I know. It doesn’t happen all the time, though.” Because it’s okay if your brain only shakes once in a while, right?
“How often?”
“Uh. Um. Well, maybe a couple of times a week? Usually at night but sometimes at work.”
“That’s not good.” She closed my file. “Let me get the doctor.”
DEFCON 2.
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
Dr. Glaspy joined us a few minu
tes later and I repeated my story.
“I don’t think this is anything serious. I’m not concerned this is a recurrence of your cancer,” he said.
It’s not MY cancer! I gave it back! I do not accept it!
The doctor continued, “But it’s something we should check out. Just for peace of mind.”
He was not the kind of doctor to make a pun, but I heard it that way anyway—yes, definitely, I want my mind at peace. The war zone in my head was not really working for me.
“Check it how?”
“I’m going to send you for a brain MRI.”
DEFCON 1 had been reached.
“A brain MRI?”
Over lunch I explained it to Kelle. At least she got the “peace of mind” pun, though she wasn’t really laughing.
“That’s pretty terrifying,” she said.
“Well, yes and no. I mean, it’s not like it hurts or anything.”
“Still. It’s your brain. That’s kind of serious.”
“I do use it for a few things.”
She laughed. We both paused while the waiter set down our vegan “bac-un” cheeseburgers and sweet potato fries.
“Do you think it could be stress-related?”
“Stress? What stress?” I mimicked a facial twitch.
“Right. Well, it sounds like maybe things haven’t been going so well with the dogs. I’m sure that’s stressing you out.”
She didn’t start with my job, or family things, or even my “cancer patient” status. Nope. It was the dogs. She understood what they meant to me. And since she’d had her Bogart for more than a year by then, she understood what it meant to have a Beagle Freedom Project dog too. So at last, I had someone to talk to about Percival.
“Well, it’s gotten a lot better. A lot. I think they just need time to adjust. Percival has these horrible night terrors, and it’s heartbreaking and frightening. And of course it scares Daphne. But he’s getting better with time. How did Bogart adjust when you got him? Did he and Jack get along right away?”
“I’m not a good one to ask. We just got really, really lucky with Bogart. He was easy from the moment he was rescued, so we’ve never had any issues at all. I know that’s not even fair, and Shannon teases me about taking the easiest dog, but it just turned out that way.”
“Wanna trade?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t trade Percival!”
I took a hearty bite from my burger and contemplated. “No, I would not. He’s really adorable, and I love his spirit. But Chris might want to trade.”
“No! I can’t believe that. From all the pictures you post on Facebook it looks like they’re totally in love.”
“It might be unrequited love for Percival at this point. He is obsessed with Chris. He’ll sit with me and cuddle for a while, but the moment Chris is around, Percival bolts from my lap and launches at Chris. He climbs all over him. It’s like he wants to be absorbed by Chris.”
“Awww.”
“I know. But Chris assures me it’s cuter to watch than it is to experience. He may have been scratched more than once. Especially as Percival continues to paw at Chris’s face.”
We ate in silence for a few moments until Kelle spoke up again. “I’m not forgetting about this brain MRI thing. When is your appointment?”
“I don’t have an appointment yet. They’ve got to get insurance approval first, then we’ll schedule.”
“If you want, I’ll go with you.”
I hadn’t known Kelle that long, so this was a generous offer. We’d met only months before at the Words, Wine, and Wags benefit Chris, Seamus, and I did for Beagle Freedom Project. It was easy to see we had not only a shared passion for beagles, but also a remarkably similar sense of humor. “No, just meet me for a drink after.”
“You’re on. I’m always up for that.”
“I don’t think it’s really going to be anything. Things have been better with the dogs and hence better with my brain, so that tells me something. Now, if I could just stop the nightmares and get some sleep, I’ll be just fine.”
She put her burger down. “Nightmares?”
I put my burger down too. “I told you I’d been watching all these documentaries and reading about factory farming, animal testing, and all the reasons to stay vegan? Like, you know, saving the world and all?”
“I recall.”
“Turns out, that’s kind of stressful.”
“You think? Maybe, I don’t know…stop?”
“I know, but I feel like I need to know this. I’d been in denial all this time about what I was eating, about what was happening to literally billions of animals, about what it was doing to my body. And did I tell you I finally watched Maximum Tolerated Dose?”
“No, you did not. I can’t watch that.”
“I can’t get the images out of my head.”
“And hence the headaches maybe?”
“Well, the nightmares anyway. It was all I could do to refrain from describing to everyone I dine with where their meal came from—what happened to the cow, the pig, the poor chicken they’re chowing down on. But now I want to talk about animal testing constantly. I need to tell everyone—even random strangers.”
“Oh no, don’t become that person. Is Chris vegan with you?”
I’d gotten used to answering this question. Used to it, but not comfortable with it. “He’s one-third vegan. He has vegan smoothies for breakfast with me. And he’s eating a lot better. A lot. But no, definitely not vegan.”
“So you can’t really get in the habit of discussing the animals suffering at every meal.”
“No. I can’t. I want to. But I can’t.”
“I know people who do that. It’s not effective. All it does is alienate everyone from ever dining out with you. And, you know, I’ve seen a lot of people really burn out from just throwing their all into animal rescue or advocacy—whether it’s the people rescuing the beagles, or going into shelters, or protesting circuses. You just have to be really careful to not stress yourself out. I mean, I know it’s all horrible. I know this. But you have to watch your own health too.”
“I am. I’m vegan!”
“You know what I mean.”
I did know what she meant. I did want to stop reading about mass-produced and mass-slaughtered animals. I didn’t want to read or see images of man’s depravity toward animals anymore. But I felt like I had to bear witness. I needed to really, deeply understand the things I’d so blindly ignored in the past. People were regularly asking me if I was “still” vegan. Like it was a fashion trend I’d tried on. And it was, originally. But I knew now I’d stay vegan. And I knew that because I’d painstakingly and painfully educated myself. I’d have nightmares, sure, but I’d stay vegan.
“I do know. But, you know, I’ve got this cute little beagle at home looking me right in the face and reminding me daily of the horrors humans inflict on animals. I can’t look away. None of us should look away.”
“Just be kind to yourself,” she said.
Back at home, I told Chris about the MRI and my conversation with Kelle. And then the next morning I did something really dumb. I posted my status update to Facebook and mentioned the impending MRI.
This was dumb for two reasons: the first is of course that random strangers (also known as Facebook “friends” I don’t know in real life) post medical advice including such useful tidbits as MRIs cause cancer!—and the other is that while my father isn’t on Facebook, his wife is. She let him know about my referral for an MRI about two-fifths of a second after I posted it. Three-fifths of a second after that my cell phone rang.
“You can’t even call your poor ol’ dad and tell him you’re going in for a checkup? And I need to find out on this Face-thing that you need an MRI?”
My dad was neither poor nor old, but he was sarcastic. “Sorry. Right. Yes, I went for my
checkup and everything looks fine, but they want to do the MRI for peace of mind.”
“Well, why? There must have been a reason.”
Oh. That. Right. I explained my restless brain syndrome.
“When did this start?”
“Maybe six months ago?”
“When did you turn vegan?”
I had thought it was odd that my oncologist didn’t ask about any change in diet—not even when my weigh-in showed me at least twenty pounds lighter. (I may have gained back a bit of the initial weight I lost. Wine will do that.) But now I didn’t want my veganism blamed for anything.
“No, that’s been well over a year ago now.” Or, you know, thirteen months ago. That’s more than a year.
“When did you learn Seamus was terminal?”
Tears sprung to my eyes. I knew where my dad was going…that ol’ favorite “stress” bully. “February. Three months ago.”
“You need magnesium. I’ll bet that’s what it is.”
“Magnesium?”
“Magnesium is a mineral, stress depletes it from your body, and you may not have been getting enough in the first place. When your magnesium gets low, you can suffer from depression and muscle spasms. And insomnia.”
A spasm was a good way to describe what my brain had been doing, but “brain spasm” did not sound better than restless brain syndrome. On the other hand, “take magnesium supplement” sounded much, much better than “brain MRI” or “cancer recurrence.”
My dad is a chiropractor and has been one for over forty years. He believes in vitamins and supplements, eating right, and holistic health methods. He also paid careful attention when I went through cancer treatments, gave me excellent advice on handling the side effects of chemo, and believed in my surgeon and my oncologist, but closely followed what they were doing. I get my logic from him. My penchant for fainting over the sight of blood or the mention of the word “stit…” I do not get from him. I don’t know where that comes from; I just know it isn’t going anywhere.
Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) Page 21