The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (3 page)

Now, though, I was enjoying the kitchen. I bought a separate cutting board (no meat!) for my veggies, and I learned about quinoa, lentils, hemp, and the miracle of kale. I began to follow vegans on Twitter and Facebook, all of whom regularly shared delicious-sounding recipes. I was constantly printing off new recipes (ahem, with apologies to the environment—and Pinterest, which clearly I needed to join).

I prepared lemony quinoa with pine nuts and spinach; gingered quinoa with dates and watercress; fig and blue “cheese” pita sandwiches; a rainbow salad of kale, cabbage, oranges, red onion, bell pepper, and sunflower seeds in a Dijon mustard and orange juice dressing; a curried quinoa wrap with avocado-citrus slaw; and, every morning, a delicious, energizing kale (or other leafy green) smoothie. Mix up pineapple, mango, coconut water, kale, and chia seeds, and it was as if I were on a tropical vacation. Frozen bananas, almond butter, almond milk, and cinnamon whipped together was far more like a milkshake than the healthy drink it was. And frozen cherries, cabbage, and cinnamon blended with coconut water? 7-Eleven could sell it as a Slurpee.

I convinced a group of plant-curious friends to get together on Sundays and prepare various dishes that we could divide up and take with us for lunches at work over the next few days, in addition to enjoying one fabulous, healthy, energizing dinner together.

And, most importantly, Chris joined me for many of the meals. Occasionally he’d still insist on a chicken breast next to my quinoa creation, or he’d throw a steak on top of my kale concoction, but he was eating far better than I think he realized.
I
realized, though, exactly what was happening to my body.

My energy was way up, I was sleeping through the night, and as I told anyone who listened (willingly or not), everything chemo had done to my body, the plant-based diet reversed (except for the part about killing off the cancer cells…that part was sticking). I could have starred in any one of the food and health documentaries I’d been watching—the same documentaries that now had me thinking about the animals in our food system in a way I never had before

I still made mistakes—like forgetting that honey was an animal product. I had to research that one. Was there actually a health problem with eating honey? Turned out, opinions vary. Not everyone thinks an insect is an animal, for one. But there is the theory that honey is an animal protein that contains something distastefully (on purpose, I assume) known as “animal ferments” and therefore is not good for human health. I also learned that bees make honey by continually eating and regurgitating it. Lovely! And then there was the vegan approach—the production and harvesting of honey involves enslaving and exploiting the bees, which are removed from their natural environment and can be harmed in the harvest process; therefore, if one is vegan, one does not eat honey. Eating honey is apparently the gateway to the slippery slope away from a true vegan ethic (a bee’s pain is okay; therefore, maybe a fish’s is too, and then perhaps a quail, a rabbit, a pig…).

The difference between the plant-based diet I’d been following and a vegan lifestyle began to crystallize. A plant-based diet was about me. A vegan lifestyle was about the animals. I tucked that thought away in the back of my mind. And I tucked the honey away in the back of the pantry.

Then I went to a wine dinner at Chris’s wine shop. The winemaker from one of our favorite Paso Robles wineries, Dubost Winery, was there to share and discuss her wine while her husband grilled and served wild game he’d shot and prepared himself. We loved Kate and Curt and their wines, so there was no way I was missing this event, even with the thought of grilled boar to discourage me. Chris resolved my dilemma when he asked Curt to grill some additional vegetables for me.

The salad course was delicious, and while the others enjoyed the grilled oysters and Kate’s Sauvignon Blanc, I nibbled on bread in a delicious, garlicky olive oil dip. And then I had more bread. And then more. And perhaps some wine.

Chris stopped by my table to see how I was faring.

“I can’t believe you aren’t eating oysters. You love oysters,” he said.

“They’re an animal. I’m sticking to this.”

“I don’t think they even feel pain. Aren’t they lacking a central nervous system?”

“Well, that’s not really the point. Or true. I don’t think. Anyway, I’m fine. Besides, this bread and olive oil is delicious.”

“So you’ll eat anchovies but not oysters?”

I dropped my yummy-soaked bread. “Anchovies? What?” I vaguely recalled Kate mentioning anchovy-something when she discussed the menu. I had not thought anchovy equaled animal. Nor had I thought that salty, savory taste in my dipping sauce was anchovy.

Chris pointed to the nearly empty saucer in front of me. “May as well eat the oysters at this point.”

I was crestfallen. I’d done so well! First honey, now anchovies.
Who
knew?
Well, of course, anyone who thinks about what they’re eating before they stick it in their mouths would know. I pushed the bread plate away, though part of me wondered how much empathy I could really muster for an anchovy.

It was a learning process, and I had a lifetime of eating habits to get over. But I was determined to do it. I was vain enough to be inspired by the weight loss, but smart enough to know my physical well-being had greatly improved, so I was sticking to the plant-based diet, stumble though I may. I was just going to have to think things through a bit more.

Already it took me twice as long to grocery shop than it ever had before. I started shopping at Trader Joe’s and Sprouts, which were farther away from me, and fervently hoped for a Whole Foods or Gelson’s to magically appear in my city. I visited a local farm stand as frequently as I could and drove downtown on Saturday mornings for the farmers’ market. In the stores, I had to read ingredient lists diligently (they sneak milk, eggs, and cheese into just about everything, and why is there honey in wheat bread?), which meant a constant on-and-off with my reading glasses, which I viewed as a mocking symbol of my middle-aged-ness. I was also learning about ingredients I’d never heard of before. Where does one find nutritional yeast? Is it with bread yeast? (No, it’s with the vitamins and protein powder.) There is such a thing as dairy-free yogurt? Yes, yes there is; it’s made from nut milks. Tempeh? Seitan? Yep, over near the tofu, which is, ironically, over near the refrigerated dairy section. Chia seeds? Flaxseed? Hemp? Bags of it, and again over near the vitamins and supplements. And now, my favorite aisles were the bulk-food aisles: raw cashews, walnuts, grains, quinoa galore, all to my heart’s content. And fresh ground almond butter! And wait…macadamia nut butter? Heaven! I’d also discovered the joys and many uses of coconut oil, which I now cooked with and also used as a moisturizer and makeup remover. On the other hand, there were entire rows and sections at the grocery store that no longer applied to me. I could sail past all the processed foods and the dairy and meat departments (in other words, three-fourths of the grocery store).

The shopping part I was getting down pat; I’d have to work on eating out. But I’d get the hang of this sooner or later. I’d watched
Forks
Over
Knives
, the documentary Julieanna had recommended, and I was more determined than ever, both for my health and for the animals.

• • •

Buoyed by my new lifestyle, inspired by my ability to change, and with Seamus doing well, I had another life-changing idea around midsummer. I shared it with Chris in the hot tub one evening, perhaps surprising myself as much as him.

“I’m thinking of going to India.”

“Huh?”

Fair enough response. Chris and I both love to travel, and we’d both traveled a fair amount. There was a long and ever-expanding list of places we wanted to visit, but India was not yet on it. Given that some of my least favorite past travel experiences were in Asia, it’s understandable that “India” might catch him off guard.

“I can explain.”

“Please do.”

“One of the breast cancer blogs I follow is written by a young woman who, post–breast cancer, did a sort of trip around the world by volunteering. She went to something like four countries on three continents, volunteering in orphanages and whatnot, as a way to refocus her posttreatment life.”

“This is not explaining India at all. In fact the mention of ‘orphanages’ just makes me think you have a high fever and none of this can or should be explained. Though I do love your clarity on the stranger you met on the Internet who maybe sorta did, you know, stuff,” Chris said.

Dang, I hate it when he makes sense! That was perhaps not my best, most impassioned statement. I was new at this. I was not the kind of person who travels the globe doing volunteer work and living in youth hostels, and certainly not anywhere near an orphanage. I
want
to be that person; I just also want my blow-dryer, plenty of quiet, relaxing down time, room service, and cute outfits. And no children around. But I pressed on.

“So this young woman, Terri, she’s formed a nonprofit called A Fresh Chapter. And she’s putting together a group of twelve cancer survivors from around the world for a volunteer program for two weeks in India. Mornings are spent volunteering and afternoons are spent learning the culture and touring about, including a cancer center in Delhi. I think it sounds kind of amazing.”

“Who
are
you?”

“I know. I know. But—and this is key—the trip happens over my fiftieth birthday. So I kinda think it’s perfect. This is my first ‘big’ birthday since the whole cancer thing, and remember I said I wanted to do something spectacular, but something that wasn’t all about me. Not a party or a weekend away. Celebrating with other cancer survivors, doing hands-on volunteer work, and seeing one of the Wonders of the World in a country I consider both frightening and fascinating…that seems to fit the bill.”

“It does.” He was quiet for a short moment. “I’m kind of amazed. But it might be a great idea. Certainly an experience. How much does it cost?”

“Well, that’s being worked out. It’s a nonprofit and gets some grants that underwrite part of the trip, but we’re also supposed to raise funds. It’s like a crowdsourcing thing. I was thinking that if I get selected, I’d just tell friends and family if they want to know what to get me for my birthday, they can pitch in there.”

“Not a bad idea. Definitely a once-in-a-lifetime trip. I think you should do it.”

One of the many things I love about Chris is that he can respond like that. Just a supportive “you should do it,” without days of angst and agonizing or picking the idea apart, finding a million reasons why it was crazy. No, that would be my job, and he knew that. His job was the supportive, upbeat “go for it” part.

“I have to apply. I might not even get selected. I imagine she’ll have a lot of breast cancer survivors applying, just because of her blog. And she’s trying to get a good mix of people—men, women, folks from different countries, survivors of different cancers. So who knows?”

“Right. You won’t know unless you apply.”

“I’m going to seriously consider it.”

“You, India, forced togetherness with a group of strangers, touchy-feely cancer discussions, volunteer work with kids… What could possibly go wrong?”

One of the other things I love about Chris is his sarcasm. It’s a good thing I love that.

We literally and figuratively enjoyed the salad days of summer. My memoir would be published in October, and we were excitedly making plans for that. I even managed to not talk myself out of applying for the India trip. I was proud of myself for recognizing a great summer when it happened without simultaneously expecting a disastrous fall or winter.

I should never let my guard down like that.

In early September a photographer for a national magazine came to our home to photograph Seamus and me for an article on our story. He took several shots inside the house and then wanted to move to the back patio, which has an expansive view of the city.

“Can you pick him up?” he asked.

“Well, I can try, but he hates to be picked up. You’ll have to shoot fast before he starts struggling.”

I picked Seamus up, and he fought me just as expected. I wrestled him into position, and we faced the camera.

“Turn slightly to your right.”

I turned. Seamus squirmed. But I held him tight. Glancing at him, though, I noticed he was blinking. “I need to turn him out of the direct sun.”

“Just a few more.”

In a few more clicks of the shutter, it was over. I looked at Seamus, still holding him in my arms, and I saw it.

What
is
it
with
photographers
and
sunlight
and
pools
of
red
blood
in
this
dog’s eyes?
It seemed too ridiculous to be true. But by the end of the day, the eye was swollen and visibly bothering him. He was no longer blinking so much as holding the eye shut.

We took him to his specialist the next day, and they increased the eye drop medication. We were up to four drops a day. Then one morning shortly thereafter, I woke up and headed downstairs with Seamus following behind me as usual. When I turned on the kitchen light and looked down at him, I was horrified. His eye had swollen to nearly the size of a golf ball.

I had been hoping for more time. I had even begun to think the tumor might not come back, that we might beat this back with all we’d been doing. But now I knew: Seamus was going to lose his eye.

The vet made arrangements for the surgery two days later. And just like that, I was back in a vet’s office, waiting for the results of a cancer surgery and wondering where we’d gone wrong. Maybe the diet and supplements and exercise were why he had nine months instead of nine days. Or maybe they didn’t change a thing. Or maybe we’d irritated the eye and shortened the timeline. Who knew? Who ever knew with cancer?

I tried to distract myself from the worry and the anger by flipping through magazines in the waiting room. I’d come early so I could take Seamus home the moment he recovered enough to leave. I didn’t want to be stuck in traffic while he waited for me to come get him.

“Ms. Rhyne?”

I stood and walked toward the receptionist. “Yes. That’s me.”

“Great. Just follow me.”

She led me back to the exam room, the same room where Seamus had been diagnosed. “They will be with you shortly.”

I sat again. By now, I was familiar with the reading material in this room, and since I wasn’t in the market for a speed boat and couldn’t bear to see the photo album of the stages of eye surgery and recovery, I didn’t even bother to pick one up. Instead I texted Chris with an update, though I had little in the way of information. Just:
I’m here. Should have Seamus soon
.

I tried to ready myself for what Seamus might look like. Bandaged, of course. And woozy. But he’d always been such a trooper. Rarely did anything get him down or slow him down. But losing an eye was grave. He never knew he had cancer, but he’d certainly know he was missing an eye. What would the adjustment be like? Would he have balance issues? Would he be confused now that he couldn’t see on his left side? I hated that I couldn’t explain to him what had happened and why.

The vet tech came into the room.

“Seamus is doing great. Still a little groggy. We’ll bring him to you in a few minutes. First, I wanted to go over the medicines and aftercare with you.”

“Okay. Great. He’s doing okay?”

“Yes, he did well. Surgery was a success.” She explained the medications—pain pills, antibiotics, the usual—and handed me a small white bag filled with his prescriptions. “Now, because of the anesthesia, he may not want to eat tonight or even tomorrow morning. As long as he drinks a little water, that’s fine—totally normal.”

Seamus
not
eating?
I’d probably have to keep checking that it was really my dog. Seamus ate all the time. He was never not hungry. Not even after surgeries in the past, not after chemo, never. This dog always wants food. Always. I listened to her, but I was thinking,
If
he
doesn’t eat by tonight, I’m going to be freaked out.

“I can’t imagine that,” I said.

“Perfectly normal. He’s had anesthesia and he’ll be on pain medication. Sometimes that upsets their tummies too. So just remember it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Oh, I’ll be concerned
. “Okay.”

“If you want to pay at the front desk, I’ll go get Seamus and bring him to you there.”

At the front desk I handed over my credit card, adding to the frequent-flier miles Seamus and I had so regularly accrued in years past. As I signed the bill, I heard the jingle of his collar and the four-pawed pitter-patter come down the hallway. A little slower than usual, and no howling, but there was my boy. He picked up his pace when he saw me and came right to me. The bandage was not as frightening as I thought it would be, and I’d gotten used to the brightly colored wrap applied to the front leg where they insert the IV. I bent down to pet him, and in return he lifted his face to mine, sniffed me, wagged his tail, and then turned, went straight for the reception desk, put his two front paws up on the desk, and
AAARRROOOOOO
’d away at the treat jar.

I laughed. “So much for no appetite.”

“I guess so!” the vet tech said.

The receptionist opened the jar and handed him a treat. He ate it quickly and looked at her for another, wagging his tail in approval. Then he howled again. She gave him another cookie.

“Okay, that’s enough for now.” The tech turned back to me. “So, in Seamus’s case, since he
does
seem to have an appetite, just make sure he eats small portions. You don’t want to upset his stomach.”

“Nearly impossible. He has a stomach of steel, but I won’t take any chances.”

Seamus’s recovery was speedy. He needed only a day or two of rest before he was up to his usual antics. When we finally had the bandage removed—though of course he was missing an eye—I was impressed with the surgeon’s skill. Seamus looked like he was winking. There was no sunken hole, no jagged scar, nothing brutal or terrible-looking. He was still a diabolically cute dog. Now he just had a permanent wink. The vet told me Seamus had probably gradually lost sight in the eye in previous months, so the adjustment was likely already complete. As we watched Seamus’s swift return to normal, it was easy to believe that was true. He was breaking into cupboards, stealing our food, and howling his demands, just as he’d always done. And we, of course, were no better in our corrections of him. We’d lost that battle long ago, and now with his one-eyed swashbuckling look, we were entirely disarmed.

Two weeks after the surgery, he’d recovered well enough to be at the launch party when our memoir came out and even howled on cue when I read out loud from the scene wherein I first met and adopted Seamus.

“‘And again there was the howling. He sounded as though he’d suckled whiskey from his mother’s teats and had been chain-smoking since birth,’” I read.

“
AAAARRRRROOOOOO
,” Seamus said.

He was going to be just fine. He’d adjusted again—my little trooper. I was so proud.

And I could begin to look forward to my trip to India. With everything going on, and despite the fact that I’d driven all the way into Los Angeles to interview as part of my application, I’d nearly forgotten I’d applied. But then came the news: I’d been selected as one of the Delhi Dozen. I’d be leaving on Valentine’s Day.

• • •

My memoir was published, and from October through December, Seamus joined me at book events and, without fail, charmed the audience with his antics and energy. He hadn’t slowed down one bit. In January, we had one last book event to do before I left for India.

And even in that room full of beagles and other dogs, Seamus was the loudest. He stretched up on his hind legs, front paws on the table, and howled his indignation that the platters of appetizers had all been pushed back out of a beagle tongue’s reach. A well-dressed, petite woman reached for one of the multicolored dog treats, baked and decorated to look like doughnuts and cupcakes, and handed it to him, just as he knew would happen. He gulped it down and lunged for more. The woman laughed.

I tugged Seamus away from the table, but with half effort. After all, this was his party too. Seamus, Chris, and I had been on a tour we called “Words, Wine, and Wags.” We’d done over a dozen events, helping to raise funds for various animal rescues by combining my book signings with “celebrity” appearances and paw-tographing from Seamus (due to the popular demand, we’d had a stamp of Seamus’s paw print made), and a wine tasting from Chris Kern’s Forgotten Grapes. I was the words, Chris was the wine, and Seamus was the wag. It was the way our little family worked. And we were having a blast—much to my continued amazement.

Years ago, when I was going through a divorce, I’d said I wanted an alphabet life composed solely of A for “Alcohol,” B for “Books,” C for “Coffee,” and D for “Dogs.” Chris had thrown that off a bit by adding “L” for “Love,” and I’d taken a very circuitous route, but it seemed now I’d landed right where I wanted to be. This tour had brought it all together, and the event on this day was particularly special, because it was held at Ruff House, the doggie day care and resort where Seamus had the honor of being the first customer and, due to his severe separation anxiety, a regular visitor. In addition, the event was for an organization called Beagle Freedom Project.

I’d heard about Beagle Freedom Project from other beagle-loving friends. So when Chris and I put our tour together, I reached out to them. I knew they worked to rescue beagles used in animal experimentation in research laboratories. And I knew I wanted to help. I didn’t think too much more about “animal experimentation” or what that meant when I reached out to the organization. But at our event, there were two of these victims right in front of me. There was Bogart—rescued in May 2012 from a lab in San Diego, California, and now in the loving home of Kelle and her husband, Manos—who calmly greeted everyone. Bogart was the perfect yin of calm to Seamus’s yang of chaos. And then there was Comet, a little slip of a beagle with dark, almond-shaped eyes, long soft ears, and the cutest little way of sticking his paw out at you. Comet was there with his foster mom, Vanessa, who had been caring for him since he and ten other beagles were rescued from a Northern California laboratory on December 11, 2012. Barely a month free and here he was, standing, running, and playing in a crowd of people with several other dogs and a lot of food, noise, and commotion. He didn’t seem frightened at all, just reserved.

I saw Chris hold Comet more than a few times that afternoon, which made me smile. Beagles always make me smile, but Chris picking up and holding a beagle, well…that makes me glow with happiness.

When I first met Chris, he wasn’t much of a dog person. But after all the three of us had been through—years of fighting first Seamus’s and then my cancer—well, Chris came to love Seamus every bit as much as I did. He became a dog person. And more specifically, Chris became a beagle man.

Shannon Keith, founder and president of Beagle Freedom Project, stepped forward. In a soft but firm voice, she thanked the guests for attending and then began to explain the work of her organization.

“We work behind the scenes, legally, to rescue the animals that survive vivisection—that’s the term for testing on live animals.”

Shannon is a lawyer. I could recognize her training. Using the word “vivisection” gets the listeners’ attention. It got mine. “Animal testing” is vague and allows one to think the beagles are asked to identify flash cards or count to three with their paw. “Vivisection” is, well, vivid.

“Testing done on beagles in university and other research facilities includes medical, pharmaceutical, household products, and cosmetics. When the beagles are no longer wanted for research purposes, some labs kill the dogs.”

I noticed Kelle pulling Bogart closer.

“Other labs attempt to find homes for adoptable, healthy beagles. Working directly with these labs, Beagle Freedom Project is able to remove and transport beagles to place them in loving homes. All rescues are done legally with the cooperation of the facility,” she said.

Shannon was an attractive blond woman in her late thirties who radiated competence, compassion, and tenacity. I liked her instantly. I loved what she was doing, though hated that she had to. And, no surprise, I loved those beagles. Appalled by what I was hearing, I listened intently to the plight of these poor dogs. Shannon lifted Comet from Vanessa’s lap and picked up one of his floppy ears. She showed us inside, where a long number had been tattooed.

“This is the federal ID number that was given to Comet. This is as close to a name as he had until we rescued him in December. Bogart has a similar tattoo. And do you notice how quiet Comet is?”

I had noticed. Neither Comet nor Bogart made a noise—in stark contrast to the steady
AAARRRRROOOOOOOOO
coming from a certain beagle at the hors d’oeuvres table.

“They don’t howl because the labs have the beagles debarked—a cruel practice of cutting the vocal cords,” Shannon said.

I cringed. A beagle’s howl is intrinsic to a beagle. I couldn’t imagine Seamus without his signature howl. It had been one of the first things I’d noticed about him. Well before I had even seen him in his kennel at the shelter, I had heard him. My neighbors could have done without his howl, but that was beside the point. Beagles howl. It’s their thing.

I watched Bogart, cuddled in Kelle’s lap, content and calm, and Comet, now returned to Vanessa’s lap, leaning far into her and resting his head on her chest.