Dog Lived (and So Will I) (12 page)

She may as well have been rubbing my belly, for all the comfort I felt. She was empathetic, and I could tell she’d been watching Seamus and caring for him, and even worrying about him, for the time he’d been there. And finally, I had the conversation I’d been needing to have.

“This was all because of the new chemo, right?”

“This rarely happens, but yes, this was a reaction to the chemo. His white blood cell count dropped dangerously low. Unfortunately, chemo doesn’t just attack the bad cancer cells; it attacks the good ones too. Usually, the good ones can regenerate faster.”

“But not this time? Not with Seamus?”

“Not with this chemo. It happens in less than 5 percent of the patients.”

“We’re not giving it to him again, right?”

“No. Definitely not. We’ll change the protocol.”

“Why not go back to the old chemo? Why do something different?” I didn’t know if I could give him another chemo. What if it happened again? What if the cure was worse than the disease? Was that even possible?

“Here’s the thing: Seamus has—or had—an aggressive type of cancer, given where it was located. We want to give him the very best chance, so we need to fight it with everything we have. The first chemo may have worked, but it may not. We have no way of knowing yet. Another chemo gives us another weapon.”

“What if this happens again?”

“The protocol we’d like to switch him to has much less of a chance for a reaction.”

“But there’s still a chance he’ll react badly again?”

“I know you’re worried. I understand. It’s a lot to go through. There’s always a chance of a bad reaction, so I can’t say there isn’t. He did really well with the first one, so chances are very good he’ll do well with this next one. It’s what we recommend, but it’s your choice.”

At least she was acknowledging that I had a choice.

When the time came, I made two choices.

When Dr. Roberts came back in to see me and Seamus, I agreed to try one more chemo.

“But I have a condition. I want Seamus’s care assigned to Dr. Dutelle. I don’t have any faith in Dr. Gilbert, and frankly, I don’t care for her style. I can’t go through this again if Dr. Gilbert is involved.”

“That’s fine. Not everyone is a good personality match. That’s why we have several doctors here you can choose from.”

“It’s not just a personality problem. She has not been looking out for my dog’s best interest.”

Dr. Roberts nodded, but I could see that she was not agreeing with me but rather choosing not to engage. “It’s your choice, of course. I have no problem switching you to another doctor.”

“Now that I understand what good care should be like, I choose Dr. Dutelle.”

Instantaneously as I spoke, I was relieved to be done with the cold, uncaring, unresponsive veterinarian. I was also satisfied that I’d finally taken control of the situation. Bring on the teenage wonder vet! Dr. Roberts then advised me that Dr. Dutelle had just completed her residency and was brand new. So in fact, Seamus’s care would be assigned to Dr. Dutelle but overseen by Dr. Roberts. Even better.

Many more airline miles on my credit card later, Seamus and I both bounded out of the clinic. The total count of toys and treats I showered on Seamus that weekend may have run into the thousands as well. If I was going bankrupt saving the life of a diabolically cute beagle, we may as well have fun with it. Seamus tore around the house throwing his peach, mint green, and lavender lobster into the air before catching it and attempting to rip its guts out. Just for good measure, he also rifled through every trash can in the house to see if anything had been left behind in his absence. His appetite was back.

I called Chris.

“Seamus is home with me now and doing really well.”

“Glad to hear it. I’m telling you, the dog is indestructible.”

“I’d rather not keep testing that theory.”

“True.”

“And I finally dealt with Dr. Sorority Chick.”

“You saw her?”

“No, of course not. But I did ask to have Seamus reassigned to the doctor who treated him this last weekend. She’s really wonderful.”

“I’m glad to hear it. That will be better for both of you.”

Yes. Yes, it would.

I checked on Seamus every couple of hours throughout that night and the next. When Chris came for the weekend, I noticed he too checked on, petted, and indulged Seamus more frequently. And on Saturday morning, Chris cooked all three of us scrambled eggs and bacon.

Each morning I donned the rubber medical gloves to handle the chemotherapy medication, and each morning I wondered if I was killing Seamus. Then I would remind myself: the pills were killing cancer. I was trusting Dr. Dutelle and doing what I had to do. I stuffed the pill into a chunk of cheese and held it out to Seamus. He sniffed at it and gently took it from me, not with a bite. Instead he held it in his mouth, walked away from me, set the pill-stuffed cheeseball on the floor, and began to disassemble it.

“Seamus, buddy, I’m sorry,” I said, picking the cheese back up and stuffing the pill farther down. I tore off a piece to make it smaller in hopes he’d swallow it all more quickly. I handed it back to him.

The newest chemo regime involved the Vinblastine given intravenously at the cancer center, alternating with Cytoxan given at home in pills, every two weeks. Seamus was also still on the prednisone steroid, which I also gave him in a pill. Although true to his beagle nature, Seamus would eat just about anything, he was now on to me. His nose was strong enough to sniff out the pill smell no matter what I hid it in. He’d deconstruct the food, spit out the pills, and then gobble up the treat. I’d changed up the food I hid his pills in every third or fourth dosage so that his excitement over new food would cause him to simply inhale, rather than dissect, the new pill-stuffed treat. But after two or three pills, he’d know that the hot dog, the ball of cream cheese, the roast beef slice, the American cheese, all held a nasty, bitter pill, and he’d return to his investigative techniques.

“It’s for your own good, buddy. I promise.” I held his muzzle, forcing him to swallow the pill. His eyes demonstrated the betrayal he felt, and I’m sure mine looked as sad as his.

But Seamus did not react badly to the Cytoxan chemo pills. Instead, he seemed to have an increased appetite and energy. I worried that he was gaining too much weight. And, it seemed, he had too much energy. I was walking him every morning and usually in the evenings as well. But still, he would run around the house frantically chasing his toys, or sit, rocking back and forth, letting out frustrated sighs, signaling he needed attention. No amount of attention seemed enough.

One evening, a month into the new chemotherapy protocol, I finally felt Seamus was doing well enough (or more likely, I was doing well enough) that he could be left alone in the evening. Chris and I went out to dinner and pretended, as best we could, to be a normal couple out on a date.

When we arrived home, there was a voice mail message. Chris hit the play button while I petted and talked to a wiggling, howling Seamus.

“Teresa, I’m so sorry to call. I really am. I love dogs, but your dog has been barking at the gate since six this evening.”

I looked up at Chris. We’d left for dinner at six. Chris was shaking his head slowly as the message continued.

“He’s still barking…” The message was left at quarter to eight. “I’m so sorry, but we just can’t take it anymore and we thought you should know, it’s not the first time. It’s been going on when you leave for work as well.”

This was not the neighbor who had originally complained and whom, we were fairly certain, had left the note on my gate. This was Judy, the quiet neighbor on the other side of us—she and her husband were home and working in their yard (her) or garage (him) most every day, best we could tell.

Barking all day? I lay down on the floor. “I give up. This dog is going to be the death of me.”

Clearly, I had created a monster. The dog might well survive the cancer, but now he’d gotten so used to my constant attention and instantaneous response to any and all howled demands that he’d developed a severe case of separation anxiety. I’d been doing a nice job of ignoring that problem, having convinced myself the howling was only as I came and left and only when the dog was recovering from some sort of medical procedure. The phone call made it hard to maintain that denial.

“I’m sorry, baby, but you knew this was coming. You need to stop spoiling the dog and get in control of him. I think it’s obvious he’s going to beat his cancer. He probably just needs more exercise.”

I had begun to think Seamus was going to beat the cancer, but I had yet to voice that thought. My relief at Chris’s opinion of Seamus’s survival allowed me to overlook his (obviously correct) statement that I was spoiling the dog. “Okay. You’re probably right.”

“To start, the three of us can start walking these hills around here. A longer, more intense walk will do us all good.”

We began a regular walking routine, and Chris began staying most of the week at my house, taking Seamus for additional, longer walks. We also tried various treats to distract him when we left, hoping that would eliminate the howling. Sometimes we left him with a chew stick, sometimes it was a peanut-butter-stuffed Kong toy, and sometimes a steak bone.

We came home from grocery shopping one afternoon to Judy’s husband, a retired Marine, standing at our front gate looking none too happy. He politely but firmly explained that my dog was preventing them from enjoying their yard. They couldn’t be outside because of the nonstop racket from the dog. I, humiliated and cowering, took the still howling, frantic dog into the house while Chris tried to explain that we were trying to deal with the problem. The neighbor held firm that we were failing in our efforts.

I knew what I had to do. Because the dog had not yet cost me my entire life savings, I hired a dog trainer for help. And not just any trainer. Oh no. One who had been trained by one who’d been trained by none other than Cesar Milan. The Dog Whisperer himself, twice removed.

The moment Nicole walked into the house, Seamus knew there was a problem. Normally he happily howls, run toward the visitor, jumps up (bad, bad dog), and sniffs around waiting to be petted or to rifle through the visitor’s purse. When Nicole walked in the house, Seamus stopped, backed up, and returned to his bed in the corner of the living room. The one with the pile of toys and several blankets. He glared at her from the safety of his turf.

Nicole and I sat down on the couch.

“So, is this how Seamus lives?”

I looked around the room. He had a comfortable bed, a pile of toys, and another bed in the laundry room (a mere twenty feet from the other bed). There was a canister of treats on one counter, a collection of pill bottles on another, and there was a baby (read: beagle) lock on the kitchen cupboard below the sink, where the trash can was. I was sure I didn’t like where this was going.

“Yes. Pretty much. Well, he’s been sick. Remember, I mentioned he has or…well…he had…cancer? He’s in chemo right now? So, um. Well, yeah. This is how we live.”

“And these blankets?” She patted the blankets on the couch—two of them, folded up to be the size of, for example, a beagle. “Does Seamus come up on the couch with you?”

“Sometimes.”

“When he wants to?”

Um, yes. Those times.

Seamus also could see where this was going. So just to embarrass me further or to have his say, or both, he joined us on the couch and snuggled in next to me, paw thrown across my leg.

“See that?” Nicole said, pointing to the paw on my leg.

“Yes. He does that all the time. Most of my other beagles never cuddled like Seamus,” I said, beaming. My dog is absolutely the cutest. She surely could see that. He’d melt that icy exterior of hers.

“That’s a claim. He’s claiming you as part of his pack. He’s the boss here, and he’s letting you know that.”

It’s not cute??!!!

She went on to explain some pack leader/follower thing and something about my lack of leadership skills, while I rubbed Seamus’s belly, cooed at him, and was generally dismayed that Nicole could overlook how totally adorable Seamus was. It’s a good thing I didn’t have children.

Nicole made it clear she was training me, not the dog (and Seamus and I both balked at the concept that he was merely a dog). First, she ordered me to remove all comforts I had been providing Seamus except one bed. Apparently four beds and two couches in one small townhome was more than any dog needed. The theory was that I had allowed Seamus the run of the house, and it was time to make him earn his rewards. No toys, no time on the couch, no human food, no jumping on my bed, only one dog bed, and worst of all, no petting until he had done something that deserved a reward or occasionally when I felt like it, but only at my own instigation and only very occasionally. Seamus had a lot to learn. And, she seemed intent on telling me, so did I.

“But he had cancer. Cancer! And he’s still in treatment. He’s on chemo. Even right now.”

“Yes, and if he had only that year to live, I’d probably agree with you. Spoil away. But, he likely has another ten years or so, and this behavior cannot continue.”

Seamus skulked off to a corner. I briefly considered moving to the country, but I live in a townhome for a reason. (Or several, namely I’m not big on yard work, housekeeping, maintenance, and dark, scary places with no neighbors. Also, I need a Starbucks nearby at all times.) This training regime looked like it might prove more deadly than the cancer.

Other than turning my home into what appeared to Seamus and I both to be Guantanamo Doggie Bay, our training consisted of a lot of exercises that involved rewarding Seamus with treats when he did what I was instructing him to do—sit, stay, come, follow me without straining on the leash. And walking. A lot of walking.

I was to walk Seamus for at least an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening, and at all times I was to have complete control of the dog—he was not to be sniffing, pulling, howling, smelling, “marking” territory, or in any way…well, enjoying the walk. Or that’s how it seemed to us. I was not getting any enjoyment out of the walks either. I was nowhere near an hour in the morning (let’s call it twenty minutes) and only getting about a half hour in the evening. But it felt like more. A walk spent tugging, barking commands, and battling for control was no fun for Seamus or me (and we took turns doing each of those things).

This wasn’t supposed to be fun, Nicole assured me. The fun would come later. This was the exercise and discipline parts. The parts that had been missing from Seamus’s life and the reason he was terrorizing my neighbors.

I did pretty well, for me, getting up and walking Seamus each morning. My townhouse was about one-third of the way up a very steep hill. I walked Seamus to the top and then stood trying to catch my breath and breaking the rules by letting Seamus sniff and enjoy the grass in the small park at the top of the hill. Then we followed the road up and around, circling the tree and boulders several times, which I told myself amounted to a real walk without having to leave the safety of my townhouse complex. Plus, if I dropped dead from cardiac arrest, someone would see me, and Seamus could easily find his way back home.

I told myself that Seamus was in chemo and didn’t have much energy and thus the twenty-minute morning walks should be fine. But after about the tenth time we arrived home and Seamus ran howling and racing through the house, stopping at my feet to howl and herd me toward his empty bowl, I had to be a bit more honest with myself. He was having no trouble with this chemo. The steroids seemed to be the only pills affecting him, as he was now a solid thirty-seven pounds with the usual voracious beagle appetite.

Nicole’s suggestion was a backpack. Luckily, she meant for Seamus. I bought a cute little dark green “Outward Hound” backpack and, as instructed, put a full twelve-ounce water bottle in each side pocket. This added three pounds to Seamus and was supposed to make him work harder and burn extra energy. And of course, I was supposed to increase that walk to at least a half hour. At least.

On weekends, Chris took Seamus for serious hour-long walks up and down hills throughout our neighborhood. It was a testament to my leadership that when Chris reached for the backpack, Seamus ran to hide behind my legs.

I worked up to a half hour in the morning and about the same in the evenings. Eventually, over a few months, I also lost ten pounds so I felt I must have been doing something right.

I wasn’t.

The neighbor complaints continued to roll in. If Chris and I went to dinner or a movie or ran an errand, however short, I was constantly checking my cell phone to see if the neighbors had called. I dreaded coming back home. As I approached my garage I’d slow up the car, roll down my windows, and listen for the inevitable howling. If I didn’t hear it, I could breathe again, but then as soon as the garage door opener was pressed, the frantic howling would begin and I’d know Seamus was at the gate. I’d race out of the car and into the house, hurrying Seamus inside. Next I’d check the answering machine—if the light was flashing, I knew the neighbors had called. I called them back; I left notes; I emailed them. I implored them:
I’m working on it, I swear. I’ve hired a trainer. We’re trying everything. But for the love of god people, call me on my cell phone so I can come home and stop the dog! I can’t do anything about it if I don’t know it’s happening. And if he’s howling, it’s because I’m not at home. You see how leaving a message on my home phone does not help??
But, I was learning, my neighbors are of a generation that doesn’t use cell phones. And my dog was driving them more in the direction of pitchforks.

The answering machine message light continued to flash.

I phoned Nicole desperate for more help. Nothing seemed to be working. She returned for more training. This time when she came in the house she called Seamus out from his bed where he had retreated the moment her car was parked. He came to her, tail tucked, ears back. I couldn’t see that she was doing anything in particular. Sure, her voice was firm and her demeanor calm, but I did not sense whatever it was that Seamus sensed.

She ordered him to sit. He looked at me, eyes huge.
Do
something!
I looked away. Seamus sat.

Then she made him lie down. This was accomplished by showing him a treat, bringing it down to floor level so that his eyes—when not pleading with me—followed. She then brought the treat out a few inches so that Seamus extended himself forward, eventually reaching a prone position. She gave him the treat and ordered him to stay. He stayed.