Dog Lived (and So Will I) (13 page)

“Wow,” I said.

“This is a very stubborn dog,” she said.

“Yes, I know. He’s a beagle.”

“It’s not just the breed. Are you walking him?”

“Yes.”

“An hour in the morning?”

I looked down at Seamus, and he immediately began to get up. Without looking at him, she ordered him back down. He looked at me. I looked at her. Seamus slunk back down.

“Um, no. I don’t have an hour in the morning.”

“Then you shouldn’t have a dog.”

After everything I’ve done for this dog? Are you kidding me? If I didn’t have this dog, he’d be dead twice over! He was a street beagle with cancer, for godssake!

“I’m doing the best I can.” That’s all I could muster. I looked as pathetic as Seamus. She may as well have ordered me down.

“Seamus is still very much in control in this house. He’s a real problem, and you’ve got to learn to handle this. Watch.”

She used her boot-clad foot to roll Seamus over onto his back. Seamus curled his lips back. I’d never seen those canine teeth before unless food was being pried from his mouth. And I’d never heard a growl like that one. She held him in place.

“You see that?”

“Yes. I do. Let him up!”

“No. He needs to know he’s not the leader here. He needs to learn respect.”

The growls increased, and Seamus snapped at her boot.

“Oh my god! I’ve never seen him do anything like that!”

“This is a red zone dog,” she said, still calmly holding down what was now an enraged, fangs-bared, snapping beagle under a boot. “This is not acceptable behavior, and if you do not do anything about this, you will have a much bigger problem on your hands than just the howling.”

Yes, I would. If anyone broke into my house, rolled my dog onto his back, and held him there under their boot, my dog was likely to bite them. I’m not seeing the problem. He’s a beagle. A beagle! Snoopy? Shiloh? A beagle!

“Let go of him. Let him up. This is ridiculous.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ll let him up when he stops fighting.” She then explained that “red zone” meant a dangerous dog. A dog out of balance. A dog that could become a serious problem. And if his dominance continued, he may… And that’s where she lost me. He may keep howling? He may be completely ornery? Sure. Okay. But that’s not a vicious, snarling danger to society. Or me. Or even himself.

“Don’t hurt him. He’s been through enough.”

“I would never hurt an animal. I’m not hurting him.”

I couldn’t even watch. I walked away while she said something to me about my energy level and a dog’s ability to perceive emotions or stability or mental health. Something like that. Then she called me back into the room.

Seamus had stopped fighting. He lay, exhausted, under her boot, not looking at her or me.

“That’s submissive behavior. That’s what you want to accomplish.”

“I’m not sure it is.” I was pretty sure it wasn’t. Seamus looked miserable.

She took her foot off the dog. “Stay.” He didn’t get up.

“This whole thing seems to take all the fun out of having a dog.”

“For now. You have to get…stay…in control of the dog…stay…first.” Seamus had made a few lame attempts to get up. Again, without looking at him, she had given commands that he obeyed. It was just sad. Hadn’t this dog been through enough?

Finally she said, “Okay. Up.” Seamus got up slowly, not trusting that there wouldn’t be another command. He slunk over to me, and, of course, I went to pet him.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t pet him?”

“He didn’t do anything to deserve petting.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. Petting should be a reward for now. He was a very bad dog. Did you see how long it took him to submit? That’s not behavior you reward. Tell him to sit. When he sits and holds the sit, you can pet him.”

This was perhaps the perfect storm of bad behavior—Seamus’s stubbornness, my unwillingness and inability to discipline him, and an overly strident, unreasonable trainer. I was at a loss.

At Chris’s suggestion, we began watching
The
Dog
Whisperer
on television. I even read his book. Chris, who had never been a dog person, decided that the training made sense and he began to seriously follow the techniques. Seamus and I decided the Dog Whisperer was Satan himself.

Chris became a freelance writer full time, which allowed him to spend more time at my place. (It also made his Los Angeles apartment unnecessary, but I wasn’t focusing on that just yet.) That also meant he was taking Seamus on longer walks, which did at least burn up some of that beagle energy. Chris also learned the training exercises from Nicole, and we took Seamus to the large lawn in front of the townhouse complex and practiced. I figured it couldn’t hurt if the neighbors at least saw how hard I was trying. And I was trying. No matter what Nicole thought.

I bought a thirty-foot lead and used it to teach Seamus to sit, stay, and come when called. On the large front lawn at the entrance to my townhome complex, Seamus sat, on the leash, with me thirty feet away circling around him. If he tried to come toward me, he was ordered back. When he sat long enough that I could walk a full circle around him, I was allowed to call him to me and reward him with a treat. This was supposed to use up some of the dog’s mental energy as well as physical. And, of course, it was to assert my dominance. We practiced regularly. Eventually, Seamus figured out the game and merely sat, looking bored and not even following me with his eyes, until I returned to my original spot, at which point he’d perk up, wait for me to say come, and then charge at my hand that held the treat. He’d give me tolerance, but not submission.
Fine, lady. You’ve got me on a leash. I can wait you out.

I was certain we were not making progress on the separation anxiety and howling front, but I had to keep trying.

When I wasn’t walking Seamus, exercising Seamus, running Seamus through boot camp drills, and avoiding anything as harmful as petting him or letting him on my bed or couch or other couch or any of his extra beds or feeding him table scraps, I was marking off days on the paper calendar and checking the boxes after giving him the correct tapering dosages of steroid, and then the Cytoxan itself on days eight, nine, ten, and eleven only (and wait, does the day of the appointment count as day one or is that day zero?), getting his blood checked, and then driving back to the cancer center for the IV chemo only to start the process over again. This went on for four more months. Other than a weight gain that pushed him close to forty pounds, there was no evidence Seamus was in treatment for cancer. He was full of energy, howling, eating voraciously, and feeling fine.

Still though, I was cautious and a bit apprehensive about the state of my life. Seamus’s health may have been improving, but the problems with Chris’s family were not. True to his word, Chris had not spoken to his parents for several months. While he seemed unaffected by this, I was worried.

The three of us fell into a pattern of sorts, isolating our trio and spending our days walking, training, and drugging (Seamus only, and all prescription, I swear). On those walks and, of course, in the hot tub, Chris and I began to talk about moving in together.

Without paying rent on his apartment and driving 120 miles round-trip a couple of times a week, Chris would have the chance to focus more on his writing. He now wrote two monthly wine columns and was working on a novel, in addition to the freelance copywriting work he did for his prior employer. And I found I liked having Chris around more than I liked being alone. Seamus liked having Chris around, too. That was obvious.

Seamus was coming to the end of his chemotherapy, we were not actively battling Chris’s family’s opinions, and my friends who had voiced disapproval had, if not changed those opinions entirely, at least stopped voicing them. It was a peaceful time for us. We felt ready to move forward. Though I still worried about the situation with his family, I couldn’t deny there was a certain freedom that came with having no outside opinions or negativity to contend with. We decided that he’d move in at the end of summer. I silently wondered if he’d contact his parents with his new address, but I didn’t ask. Our living together was only going to add insult to that injury.

Emboldened by our decision and Seamus’s improving health, we went out one evening after Chris had taken Seamus for a particularly long walk and we were convinced the dog was tired enough to stay calm. When we got home, Seamus happily greeted us at the garage door, wagging his tail and putting his front paws up on my thighs, the better to reach up and inhale my scent when I bent down to pet him. He seemed fine. Not anxious and not spinning in circles or howling into my face. Nonetheless, I trudged upstairs to the master bedroom to check the answering machine.

The dreaded red light was blinking. I hated to push “play,” but I had to. At the beep the original complaining neighbor launched into a plaintive wail describing Seamus’s reign of terror.

“Here, listen, it’s horrible. It’s just horrible. We can’t take this. Listen!” She held the phone out and recorded, from her home, Seamus’s incessant, frantic, and distinct whiskey howl. Even played back on tape the howling was intolerable.

Point made—and made well.

I hung my head. “I don’t even know what to do anymore. We just can’t win.”

“We’ll figure this out,” Chris said. “We’ve got to figure out what triggers it. He doesn’t howl every single time we leave. That’s impossible.”

“I don’t know that it is. He’s a pretty stubborn dog.”

For the next several weeks, we tried to map out when or what set off the separation anxiety. It seemed that the morning walks were at least keeping Seamus calm and quiet during the day. Or maybe that was the medication. But by evening, once I was home, he was not willing to let me leave again. We were also able to tell that if I left and sometime later Chris left, the dog did not howl. But if Chris left and then I left, the dog howled. And if Chris and I left together, the dog howled.

On the evenings we wanted to go out together, I started to leave the house before Chris, drive down the street, park, and wait for Chris to come fifteen to twenty minutes later. Soon though, Seamus caught on to that as well and began to howl when Chris was only twenty feet or so away from the house. And I could never leave the house at night if Chris was not there.

Feeling trapped, I turned to Dr. Davis, Seamus’s veterinarian for all things noncancer. Dr. Davis suggested what we came to call “doggie Prozac,” but I hesitated to add more drugs to Seamus’s system. Instead, I stopped working with the trainer I could no longer afford and hired my friend’s teenaged son to come over and sit with Seamus. It seemed like an easy enough job for a college kid—bring your homework, your girlfriend, whatever you’d like, just be there so my dog doesn’t bark.

The first evening he dog-sat, Mitchell brought his girlfriend with him. We ordered pizza for them, heated the hot tub, told them to feel free to use it, and showed them how to work the television. Enjoy, kids! We’d just like an adult evening out, whatever it takes.

When we returned home the teenagers were still on the couch, right where they’d been when we left, only looking a lot less relaxed. Seamus had barked so much they had to keep him in the house with them, blocking his access to the doggie door and the outside. Mitchell’s girlfriend, an accomplished singer, tried singing lullabies to calm Seamus. That didn’t work. They filled his bowl with kibble—that did not distract him. They petted him and brought him up onto the couch between them—that didn’t last. Nothing worked for longer than a few minutes. Seamus clearly did not feel that a pair of teenagers was adequate companionship, and he voiced that opinion all night.

On subsequent evenings my twenty-something single office assistant dog-sat. Seamus liked Kelly well enough and seemed to remain calm, but soon Kelly’s schedule got too busy for a beagle-sitting job. A single friend who at the time had no dogs of her own also occasionally babysat as well, but I felt ridiculous calling an adult who refused any payment to come simply sit in my house with my neurotic dog while I went out for drinks with other friends or dinner with Chris.

Just as I thought that after giving up nearly all of my savings for this dog I was now going to have to give up any social life for him as well, a solution presented itself. I learned that a client of mine was opening a doggie day care business right down the street from me.

Seamus and I were first in line to be “interviewed,” and when that day came, I was no calmer than a parent with a toddler in need of the perfect Manhattan private preschool. The truth was, I didn’t really know how Seamus got along with other dogs. Most of his interactions with other animals took place in clinic waiting rooms. And would they take him knowing he needed medication regularly? Would he howl and cause hysteria among the other dogs? And in the back of my mind also was the obvious fact that this was not going to be cheap.

For once, my worries were overblown. Seamus passed his doggie civility test and became the first overnight guest at Ruff House Pet Resort. Since 6:30 p.m. was the latest pickup time, it would be necessary to leave him overnight any night we were going out to dinner or a movie or any of those things normal people with normal dogs did. Any date Chris and I had would have an extra $35 tagged on—the price of an overnight stay for Seamus.

The first time I tried out Ruff House, Chris and I attended a fund-raiser for a battered woman’s shelter on whose board of directors I served. I checked my phone for calls or urgent messages every fifteen minutes or so, fully expecting a demand that I come get my dog. I could almost hear the “we can’t take it anymore” complaint.

My phone did not ring.

Waking on my own the next morning with only Chris beside me, no beagle face in mine, no urgent howling, and no pressure to get downstairs and into the laundry room where the kibble was kept, was unsettling. I suddenly had all this time on my own. And such quiet! But I had only one cup of coffee before leaving the house to pick up the dog. I didn’t need the quiet nearly as much as I needed to know that Seamus was okay.

“He did great!” Denise, the owner, said.

“He did?” I said.

“Yes. He’s wonderful. I’ve never seen such a cuddly beagle. We didn’t have too many dogs, and he was the only one staying the night, so Karen, our overnight staffer, just let him sleep on her bed with her.”

Uh oh. “She did? All night?”

“Yes. He loved it.”

“I’m sure he did. How was he during the day? Did he play with the other dogs?”

“He did for a bit. But every time he saw me, he howled until I came over. He’s so funny!” She seemed to be laughing, but I had a suspicion this was not going to end well.

“He is definitely a funny dog. Sorry for the howling.”

“Oh, no worries. We’re a doggie day care. There’s going to be noise. I just went and got him, and he hung out in my office with me, followed me around. He’s great company. He’s a cuddle monster.”

Thus did Seamus complete his dominance. While I had found a solution—a thirty-five-dollar-a-night solution, but a solution—to my problem with the neighbors, every time Seamus stayed at Ruff House he howled his demands that he not be left with the other dogs and his demands were met. I’d arrive to pick him up and he’d be sitting in the receptionist’s lap or lounging on a dog bed in Denise’s office. Occasionally he’d be running in the yard with the other dogs, but on those times, always, he’d be running the fence perimeter howling. Everyone knew he was battling cancer, so everyone spoiled him. Everyone. Even other dogs’ owners, if they knew of his battle, would give him treats, pet him, and mention how the howling was understandable. Sure, as long as you aren’t our neighbors.

I told myself that once the treatments were over and we knew he was cancer-free and not dying within the year, we could really dedicate ourselves to breaking the codependence. I’d find a new trainer with more realistic techniques—after all, this was not an exercise problem. Just one more round of the two chemotherapy drugs, and we’d start anew. I also told myself we’d deal with Chris’s family after Seamus’s treatments finished as well. One crisis at a time, we’d move forward.

On June 2, Seamus trotted into the veterinarian cancer clinic, flinging out that back right leg and looking fit, if not trim. He was now at 38.5 pounds. He’d gained nearly 20 percent of his body weight. No matter how much walking and how much training we did, Seamus gained weight and kept howling. Maybe it was me who couldn’t get it right. Maybe I did lack leadership skills. Maybe I fed him too much. Sure, he was on steroids and weight gain was a common side effect, but it’s a common side effect of toast, burritos, cheese, pizza, bacon, potato chips, and fried chicken, too.

Dr. Dutelle greeted Seamus with her usual cheery hello and handful of green cookies. She didn’t seem concerned about his weight gain. The last round of Vinblastine was administered intravenously, and Seamus got his last bandage—bright green again—wrapped around his right front leg. All that was left were the Cytoxan pills on days eight, nine, ten, and eleven, and it was over. I was feeling giddy. The finish line was in sight.

“His next appointment will be in a month, and that’s when we should do his re-staging,” Dr. Dutelle said.

“Re-staging?”

“What we recommend is an aspiration of the liver and spleen, a complete blood workup, and an abdominal ultrasound. This way we can see whether there are any signs the disease metastasized. They will give you a patient care plan with the estimate of costs at the front desk when you check out.”

Estimate of cost? We’re not done yet? The finish line was slipping away.

I could estimate the cost myself—a lot. More than I could spend. As I paid for that visit, I was handed the estimate anyway: $1,059. About $2,000 more than I could afford.

When day eight came, I put on the rubber gloves to give Seamus the first of the last four Cytoxan pills. I felt a moment of relief. Whatever these future tests and costs meant, at least Seamus was through the treatments. I was determined that we’d finish up and enjoy a summer without medical worries.

A week later Seamus jumped on my bed, walked between Chris and me, and put his face up into mine, making sure I was awake and knew it was time for breakfast. Immediately, I noticed a bump on his eyelid. The bump was small, black, and mole-like, but it was definitely new. I pointed it out to Chris.

“How does a new cancer appear in the midst of all of that chemotherapy? How is that possible?” I said. “Maybe I gave it to him wrong?”

“Whoa. Hold on a minute. You don’t know that’s cancer. Just have Dr. Dutelle check it when you bring him for his next checkup,” Chris said.

“That’s two weeks away.” Despite all I’d done for the dog already and despite all he was doing to ruin my life, I was still willing to drop everything, put him in my car, and drive off to the veterinarian cancer specialist, particularly when the dog cuddled up and snuggled into the blankets with me as he was doing then.

Chris played the role of rational thinking adult. “I don’t think that’s cancer. But even if it is, you just finished his last chemo pill a few days ago. What else would they do for him right now? You can wait for his next appointment.”

I spun anxiously and considered my options. Chris was probably right, but then I’d nearly waited too long to bring Seamus in when he’d had the white blood cell crash. What if time was of the essence here again? What if he needed surgery immediately? And if he did, how would I pay for more surgery? And more chemotherapy? Because of course I’d do that. Wouldn’t I? Could I? Could Seamus tolerate more? Could I tolerate more?

A reasonable compromise, somewhere between overreacting hysteria and cold, heartless bitch, is what I settled on. I took Seamus to see Dr. Davis for another blood test to see how his white blood cell count was doing and to have the eyelid bump examined.

“I don’t think this is cancer,” he said.

I didn’t respond. I just stared at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I know you’re thinking that’s what I said last time, but this is different. And he’s been in chemo for how long now?”

“Six months. Or a hundred years. I can’t really remember.”

“I’m going to give you a prescription for an ointment. And Valium.”

“Valium?”

“For you. And I’m kidding.”

I managed a laugh. Dr. Davis and I had always joked around. I hated to think I was losing my sense of humor along with my savings. “Okay, I deserved that. I might be a little stressed.”

“Put the ointment on his eyelid twice a day. If it doesn’t clear up, we’ll excise it.”

I knew excise meant biopsy, but I appreciated that he was choosing his words carefully.

I was not optimistic. At $13.80 the ointment seemed almost silly. How could something that didn’t cost thousands of dollars possibly help this dog? Not this dog. This dog only gets very, very expensive care. What chance did a little tube of goo have?