April 2017: My rescue Dogue de Bordeaux has a mammary gland tumor. It’s removed and biopsied. It’s malignant. Sophie was a stray, obviously used for breeding. When a female dog isn’t spayed before her first heat, there is a 30% chance she will develop a mammary gland tumor. When they occur, half of them will be benign — which sounds good until you do the math and realize that the rest will be malignant. Malignant tumors can be caused by one specific, or many different kinds, of cancer. The number of possible cancers and the spectrum of their malignancies is boggling.
Sophie’s was in the “not so bad” range, but my vet points out that only one mammary gland has been removed. Sophie still has nine — each one has that 30% chance.
Great, I think. Now I have something to dread.
To balance out that dread, I decide I need something to look forward to. I invite Cousin Becky, a closet Nascar fan (like me), to the Watkins Glen Nascar races in August.
We’d had an unexpectedly good time there two years previous, even though I had worried out loud, “What if it’s awful? What if we hate it?”
Becky, ever the pragmatic one, had said, “Well, in that case, we just won’t go again.”
She is pumped to go again, ready to fly in from Olympia, Washington – even after I reveal the whole scope of my intentions.
“Hey, Becky! How about visiting for two weeks this year instead of just one? You could be here for my gum graft surgery on the Tuesday after the race.
“I’ll need somebody to drive, and Sophie’s separation anxiety is still so bad that it requires a dogsitter. Scheduling a driver and a dogsitter is way complicated – but if you’re here, you can be both!”
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Tues. Aug. 1
Becky’s plane is late, so I take Sophie to the DIY dog wash. She’s beautiful, shimmering golden-copper red in the sunshine (and still a little damp) when Becky arrives two hours later.
Wed. Aug. 2
A week earlier, rubbing Sophie’s belly, I felt what could be a new mass.
Her energy and stamina had been declining throughout June and July. I’d taken her to the vet three or four times, but there was nothing conclusive. My best guess was that the summer is hotter and more humid than last year. Sophie was quicker to overheat than my two previous Dogues de Bordeaux. Looking back, I realize that a couple weeks before I found the new mass, her appetite at mealtimes (but not for treats) had been starting to drop off. I tried a different flavor of kibble. It made a difference for a few days.
On my vet’s recommendation, I take her to the Colonial Vet Hospital to see the surgeon who repaired her torn CCL six months ago. He examines her, schedules x-rays, gets her on the schedule for a sonogram that afternoon. But he does not seem to be paying attention to the new mass. Another lump that he can barely feel concerns him more.
Sophie drags him out the door, eagerly looking forward to her next adventure. I really don’t remember what Becky and I did for the remainder of the morning, or the rest of the day.
When we pick her up at the end of the day, her lungs are clear in the x-rays. If there had been cancer in her lungs, the remaining x-rays and the sonogram would have been canceled and I probably would be making an appointment to talk with someone about palliative care.
Unfortunately, the x-rays and sonogram reveal that the lump he could barely feel is in fact what he expected – a “severely” enlarged sub-lumbar lymph node, which is a lymph node so interior that by the time it’s big enough to feel, it’s of major concern. And it’s a node too complicated by arteries, organs, etc. to remove safely.
He has taken a fine needle biopsy. However. Even if the aspirate comes back clean, and the results won’t be back till Friday, or Monday at the latest, the lymph node is still most probably swollen from metastasized cancer – at some point it got into the lymph system.
I double check: is he saying that there is no possible way for this to be okay? Although he does want to wait for the biopsy results, he says yes – the news is probably bad. He says he’s very concerned about the way things look. And so very sorry.
Although I knew something was wrong – I had taken her to the vet in May, and again in June and July – somehow it never, ever occurred to me that what was wrong might be something that could kill her. I am heartbroken. I am furious. I cry all the way home, and off and on all night. And off and on all week.
Thurs. Aug. 3
Becky, Sophie and I go to Long Point State Park. Sophie swims. I try not to cry. Becky and I look for and find lots and lots of “lucky stones.”
Fri. Aug. 4
But not nearly enough, apparently. I get the call – there were cancer cells. If an oncologist determines which cancer it is, the surgeon says, the most they will be able to do is shrink, but not eradicate, the tumor.
But not for very long. It’s inoperable. It was inoperable the minute cancer cells got into that particular lymph node.
Sat. Aug. 5
Sophie stays with a friend while Becky and I spend the day at the minor league Nascar race. I am relieved to have a diversion. Our favorite driver, Kyle Busch, wins!
Sun. Aug. 6
Sophie stays with a friend while Becky and I spend the day at the major league Nascar race. I am relieved to have another diversion. Our favorite driver, Kyle Busch, loses!
Mon. Aug. 7
My vet emails me after receiving the report to say she is sorry and please call or email if I want. I make an appointment with her to find out how she can support Sophie and me through this. I schedule time with Angela to talk about alternative therapies that may have helped when her previous poodle had cancer. I also arrange to bring Sophie to Korana’s on Friday at 10:30am. It turns out that she is taking Thursday and Friday off to be at home with a friend’s sick dog.
Tues. Aug. 8
11:00am: I have gum surgery while Sophie and Becky amble around the medical complex grounds. When I come out of the office, they are sitting under a tree in dappled sunlight. It breaks my heart now that I didn’t think to take a picture.
Becky drives us to the pharmacy. I ask her to hold the painkillers for me, dispense them only as prescribed. My mouth burns, my head hurts, my heart is splintering – it almost seems like a double or triple dose of painkillers would be a good idea right now. I am grateful beyond words that my cousin is here with me.
The three of us hang out at my house in the country for the rest of the day.
Wed. Aug. 9
noon: When we visit, my vet tells me she can monitor Sophie’s condition, talk with me about how to know when it’s time… she can even come to my house to put Sophie down, if that’s what I want. She gives me her cell number. Sophie likes the vet’s treats, so I leave the office with the whole bag. And some painkillers for Sophie, and some pill wraps.
1:00pm: Angela says acupuncture benefited her dog, might help Sophie, and, come to think of it, might help me, too. It’s the first time Sophie has been in Angela’s house. She has a great time smelling all the new things. She goes back a number of times to look at herself in the floor mirror. Although she smacks the dog gate a few times, she doesn’t knock it over, so she doesn’t get to discover Angela’s new poodle sequestered in the crate in the guest room.
Thurs. Aug. 10
10:00am-noon: I go to writing group while Becky Sophie-sits.
1:00pm: I return home and Sophie is panting shallowly, indicating physical distress. She’s panted like that a little, off and on, throughout the week, but not so consistently. We manage to get a painkiller into her. I call Korana to reschedule from tomorrow to ASAP. I am so grateful that she just happened to be at home these two days.
We are on the road before 2pm. The day is beautiful. The wind is soft, the sky is perfectly blue. While Sophie ambles, sniffing, around Korana’s field that afternoon, Korana offers to bury Sophie on her property, to come to my house to do a transition ritual for Sophie, to help any way she can.
She tells Becky about Sophie at a women’s gathering. After an extremely deep, heartfelt story about finding one’s voice, everyone sits, quietly thoughtful. The silent minutes drag on, the air around the bonfire becomes increasingly emotionally charged, until… Sophie must have heard a noise. She barks. The women are startled back to the here and now. Sophie barks again. And again and again and again, in a deep, gruff, watchdog bark that I hadn’t heard before. Sophie had found her voice, and used it to announce that the contemplative time was over and that something (probably herself) needed attending to.
5:30pm: I email my vet to ask if she can come out Friday and arrange for cremation later. But the office is closed and I don’t hear back.
8:30pm: I leave a message on her cell phone that Sophie’s panting, declining. When she calls back, she says she can come out Friday after an 11am meeting, but let’s not make plans right now, just call and update her tomorrow morning between 8:30-10:30am.
Fri. Aug. 11
For the first time ever, Sophie doesn’t get up in the morning with me. Shallow breathing, no appetite, looking more uncomfortable than yesterday.
9:30am: I update my vet. She agrees that it’s worsening quickly. She will be out after her meeting. I call Korana. She can come over at noon.
Because I don’t want Sophie hiding in the back of her crate or under the dining table, we move her bedding to the upstairs living room, where she recovered from knee surgery in February. I change out of my nightclothes because Korana and the vet are coming over, forgetting that Sophie still gets anxious whenever I get dressed – it used to mean I would be leaving soon and she would be alone. I sit on a footstool to pet her and calm her while Sophie and I watch Becky declutter the upstairs living room.
I go outside to cut flowers. Sophie watches from the sun porch. I fill many vases. The upstairs living room is bright and airy, lovelier than it’s ever been.
Korana arrives. Sophie, looking suddenly very young, very robust, gets up to say hi. Korana’s greeting to her is strong and sweet. She unpacks her transition pipe and the herbs, then lights a candle and some sage, smudging first the room, then Sophie, Becky and me with smoke.
Then she kneels down, takes Sophie’s big blocky head in her hands, looks into her eyes and tells her what is going to happen: where she will go, who will greet her when she leaves her body, when she leaves this house.
Korana sings and chants for a while. I relax. Sophie falls asleep, dreams. Her toes twitch. Her tail thumps. When my vet arrives, Sophie wakes up and stands to greet her enthusiastically, wagging her tail vigorously.
My vet tells me to call her Chris. She talks about what will happen, explains that the first knock-out shot is followed by a second, lethal shot. When she gets the first shot in her flank, Sophie surprises everybody by turning to look at Chris and barking sharply a few times. Chris calms her. She quickly becomes wobbly, and Korana helps her lay down. Sophie snuggles against my feet and the footstool. I hope I was talking to her while I petted and petted and petted her.
A few minutes later she gets the second shot, the heavy-duty killing shot. There is no reaction. It is truly as if she has gone back to sleep. As I pet her massive head, her thick neck, her strong back, as I stroke and stroke her soft red-gold ears for the last time, I feel her body slowly, slowly, irreversibly, cooling.
Korana says Sophie’s still here for a little bit. I tell Sophie I love her and I’m so sorry she got so sick. I try to tell her I’ll be all right, don’t worry, it’s okay if you go. I want it to be all about her, about ending her pain.
But I really want her to stay with me. Losing her hurts too much.
But I also want to do the right thing. I don’t want her to suffer any more. She was not well. It would only get worse.
I just didn’t expect her time with me to be so short. But sadly, it was, and now it’s time to wrap things up. I just hope I kissed the top of her head one last time.
“Goodbye, sweetie,” I say like always. “Be good.”
She was only with me for a year and a half.
Becky and I leave the room before Chris and Korana move her body onto the collapsible stretcher.
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My heart is a shambles. No wonder. Eighteen months ago, I had to say goodbye to Shiloh, my rescue Dogue de Bordeaux. It was inoperable cancer. She was with me (and Buster) a too-short three and a half years.
Nineteen months before Shiloh died: Buster, my French Bulldog, sickened on a Friday and died on a Sunday. He was almost 10. He was with me (and Liza, and then Shiloh), a little over nine years.
Twenty months before Buster died: Liza, my Dogue de Bordeaux from the SPCA, aged out. Things had been hard for her for a while. She was the first dog I had to make the decision for. She was middle-aged when I brought her home. She lived with me (and Buster), for seven and a half years.
Four fiercely-loved dogs in six years.
And today, August 11th, is two days shy of the date my mom died on last year.
It is no wonder my heart is wrecked. But knowing why it hurts does nothing to soften the pain.
Becky will leave on Monday.
I can pick up Sophie’s ashes up on Thursday.
When Friday comes around again, my sweaty sticky toddler problem child rescue Dogue de Bordeaux Sophie will have been dead for a week.
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August 2017
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