Kirkepiscatoid

Bo returned from the veterinary hospital last Tuesday. They decided to give him a rest from the remaining two chemo treatments for a week. He is weak, but rallying b/c his "hoomans" are feeding him small meals of chicken and rice. This will be the week that he will return for chemo treatment #3. They did not see an increase in the size of his tumors, but they did not decrease, either.

At this point, Bo's mom and dad realize this week will tell the tale in whether or not the chemo makes him sick. It has been kind of a "toss-up" whether his taking sick earlier is the chemo, or the effects of the tumor pressing on his digestive tract. I was "practicing veterinary medicine without a license" a little by asking them "How digested is the stuff he was throwing up?" My concern was that much of the food was undigested, which tells me he is having problems simply physically getting it to his stomach.

If this treatment causes him to get sick again, Bo's folks have a decision to make. In this last episode, they were quite worried he was not even going to make it to Columbia. They may have to make a decision on whether or not to even finish the last treatment.

This has been tough on everyone. These days, there are far more options in treating sick pets. The problem, of course, is with beloved pets, there is always a certain amount of anthropomorphism that happens when we interact with our pets. Also, it is not always easy to see if our pets are in pain or not (they tend to be more stoic as they can't always express how they feel), or they may react differently. Some pets carry different burdens on our heart, as they represent the survival of more desperate times in our life, or their lives and our lives were entwined in "more unique than usual" ways. "Farm people" tend to behave differently about pets than "town people." Some of the decisions may be based on "how much money one has to spend." Some of the decisions are based on our own pure fear of losing our pet. Every situation is unique. These are not easy decisions in Bo's family.

When I think about all these decisions that Bo's folks are going through, I think back to a day when I had no options--the last day of my beloved retriever cross Sam. I was 14 years old. Sam had been riding on the farm wagon, as many farm dogs do. We hit a bump and Sam fell out of the wagon and the wagon wheels went over him and broke his back. When we got out of the truck, it was obvious Sam was paralyzed. We were miles from town; if we went into town to put Sam down, our woodcutting would not be finished. We lived in a house with a wood stove for our main source of heat. If we didn't cut wood, we didn't have wood to heat the house later on. My dad did not have many weekends off that time of year, being in the building trades. Every weekend he could get out to cut wood, we cut wood. There wasn't much anyone could have done anyway.

My dad looked at me, got the .22 rifle out of the truck, handed it to me, and said, "He's YOUR dog. If I do this, you will never forgive me. But you know what has to be done. Put it behind his head so he can't see you." Then he walked away to leave me alone with the situation. So I petted Sam a while and talked to him; it was obvious he was in pain and a long goodbye would only make it worse for him. Then I quietly stepped behind him, scared to death I had so many tears in my eyes I would embarrassingly miss at point blank range. I was an excellent shot at age 14, and was absolutely afraid I would miss. But I did not, and the end came very quickly.

"He's YOUR dog." The same words I had heard a year prior when my rat terrier Peetee, who was "my dog" before I was even born, got congestive heart failure and we had to decide to take him in to the vet to be euthanized. That time it was my grandfather and me. Peetee could no longer hardly walk 25 yards before having to sit and rest, his tongue popsicle purple from lack of circulation, despite giving him digitalis every day. My grandfather looked at me and said, "He's not enjoying being a dog anymore."

"Do you think it's time to have him put down?"

"It's not what I think; it's what YOU think. He's YOUR dog. The day you were born, he was your dog. We bought him for you. He trusts you above all of us. It's up to you."

I knew in my heart it was time, and we loaded Peetee up to go to the vet.

Both of these are hard lessons--hard adult lessons--when you are 13-14 years old. I have never forgotten those hard lessons, and sometimes, as I am a peripheral player in the life of "someone else's dog", I think to myself that somehow, all the decisions like this I had to make on subsequent dogs in my life are easier than watching others sort their way through their decisions about their dog. I would have to sort through the same decision tree as Bo's parents, but for some odd reason it feels like it would be easier for me to sort through them if Bo were my dog. I'm sure it is because when you are someone's friend, you realize it is so incredibly important not to just say "what you'd do if it were you." They're NOT you...and he's not YOUR dog. It seems more taxing, somehow, when intuitively it would seem easier that you get to sit on the sidelines to some extent.

I have also felt badly for Bo's buddy, Miss Zera Ruth. She does not understand why her buddy Bo no longer wants to play, or why he gets grumpy and snarly with her these days. It does not register with her that there is a possibility that Bo could get to feeling better for a while if his tumor shrinks. She lives in the now, and tomorrow is not even a feature of the dog planet. She just knows her world has changed a lot.

She did not understand fully a week ago Sunday when I showed up to take her outside and her folks and Bo were not with me. I stayed with her for a while afterwards and she was very "clingy." I knew it was important for me to just let her cling for a bit.

I keep thinking about something that happened the day before Bo really took sick. I was over at his folks' house, and he was very adamant that I pay attention to him and pet him, was almost annoying about it. When I was petting him, I looked at him, and it was suddenly evident. It's funny. I am much better at reading dogs than people. But I realized in his own way, Bo was telling me goodbye. It took me a little by surprise, as he did not look sick at the time. I can't describe it, but it was the same look my dogs have given me when their face says, "I'm not having a good time of it right now but I am sure glad you're here." It is a different look than the usual "loving dog look." But the next day was when he took sick and almost died.

Even though he is a little on the mend now, I realize that whether Bo is able to tolerate the rest of the chemo, or not able to tolerate the chemo, whether he has a week, a month, or a year, that he and I have already said our goodbyes and he and I are okay with the time he has left, whether it is long or short, whether he can tolerate more treatment or not.

I realize at this point, Bo is "in the game for his people." it is his loyalty to his pack that is keeping him here on this earth; to treat or not to treat is almost a moot point at this junction, and in that sense, maybe it will make whatever decisions come on the decision tree easier on his folks. He will stay as long as he can stay, because he's glad to be with his people. He will take what comes. It's all us people who have the issues.