Happy Birthday up in Heaven

Photo courtesy of Two Birds Photography

To my sweet Princess--

Happy Birthday, sweet girl! Today is the first April 21st that I haven't spent with you in 15 years.  It's not quite half my life, but it's close.  

Every year for six years prior to this one, your Dad and I would be getting ready for your party--a party to celebrate the miracle that you were, the special soul that touched so many people.  It's been hard this year, not having a party to plan.  I know I always went overboard, but it made me feel like I was giving something back to you, because you always gave so much to me. 

I've tried to keep busy this year, during your "birthday season." I threw myself into getting Cimba and I ready for a big horse show.  That helped a lot.  Papa and I have been fostering cats too, sweet boys without a family of their own, who just need a place to get their bearings before finding their forever home.  We got tattoos of your paw print this week.  Sometimes I wish I had taken the stamp of your paw before you died, but now, knowing that this print is a lasting part of your physical being, it's not bittersweet.  I remember taking the print from your cold, stiff paws.  I remember crying while doing it, wishing all the love and pain in my heart could bring that paw back to life.  Knowing that whatever print I put to paper would be forever inked onto my skin, just like you are inked forever onto my heart.  But I feel more complete having your print on my forever.  It doesn't make me sad.  It reminds me of you every time I see it--like you reached down from heaven and burned your image onto me--and it's a happy reminder.  A reminder of what you gave to me, who you helped me become.  I'm a better person because of you, and I know your Dad is too.

It's impossible to be angry that you're not with us today.  You were old and tired, and you chose your time and place to go.  How could I be angry with you for that? But I miss you every single day.  Papa does too.  We talk about you a lot, and we try to remember your legacy, and we strive to be better parents and better people.  I know that sounds cheesy, but it's completely true.  That's part of what made you so special.  No dog is "just a dog." But you were even more than that.  I can't explain it.  I know everyone who loved you understands what I mean.  

So, while I sit here with tears in my eyes, my heart breaking that you are not with me today, I remind myself of what you would want.  You wouldn't want me to cry and be sad--that always upset you.  You'd want me to be happy.  You'd be happy that some of your favorite people are coming over today to keep us company.  You always loved when your friends came to visit.  So we'll be together on this day, all thinking of you, but living our lives and continuing on.  

You'll be forever in my heart, and in Papa's heart.  I hope there is a huge celebration for you in heaven today--a huge theme party like Mama would have done.  A party filled with food and games, but most importantly, with your friends, surrounding you with love. 

Happy 15th Birthday, my sweet angel.

That Time of Year

Every year around this time, I would begin preparations for a huge themed party for Indiana's birthday, something I have done every year since she was diagnosed with cancer back in 2006.  These parties were big affairs, with lots of her friends (and ours), lots of food, games, and prizes, and lots and lots of theme.  I typically started planning months in advance, picking a theme and then designing invitations, ordering decorations, planning a menu, choosing and designing games, buying prizes and party favors, and spending days getting the house and all of the food ready. In the early weeks of planning, I would become consumed (we might even call it obsessed) with planning.  Everything had to be perfect.  Every detail.  Every plan.

I loved planning those parties.  It gave me joy to create something for her, even though she didn't care about all of the details.  She loved her friends though--her eyes would light up with each one who walked through the door.

I remember last year's party--a fitting princess theme for The Princess.  Indiana's health was declining, and we knew it was most likely her last birthday party.  So bittersweet, but we threw ourselves and our love into every bit of it.

I will carry with me forever the memory of my beautiful old dog, laying on her favorite bed, like The Princess she always was, surrounded by dozens of friends and family, all people so dear to us, and to her.  Everyone was singing "Happy Birthday" to her, and the joy on her face, the truly palpable feeling of love flowing through the room--I will love every single person at that party forever for giving me that memory.

And now, nearly a year later, I feel lost.  I don't have a party to plan.  I don't want to plan a party.

Her birthday has been on my mind lately.  After 6 birthday parties, this year there will be none.  How will I spend that day? Do I celebrate her life? Do I keep busy with other things? Everything will hurt.  What will hurt the least?

As I navigate this spring, trying to keep my mind off of something that has become such a habit, such a joy, I know there will be pain.  I know I will miss her.  I know I will miss giving the gift of a party to her.  But I will think about parties past, about her beautiful smile, and room full of people who gave me a gift I cannot even express--the gift of pure, kind love.

Albert

Albert, photo courtesy of Two Birds Photography

Yesterday I shared the story of how Alfred temporarily joined our family as a foster.  A few days later, I felt the urge to foster another cat.  Alfred needed a buddy, didn't he? Jim didn't have any big objections, but instead asked that we wait a bit to see how fostering worked out for us.  That seemed like a reasonable request.  

Friends and family know by now that I am not reasonable.  

Less than a week after we took in Alfred, I went on a "shopping trip" of sorts to a local animal control to pick up a cat that St. Sophia's had committed to.  While there, we shopped around for other cats, not really having a place for one, but needing one for an upcoming cat show into which we had already entered two cats.  One had come down with a minor illness, which meant a spot was open.  It seemed a shame to let that spot go to waste.  As we looked through the isolation room--the place where cats are held until their stray holds are up or until they are healthy enough to be adopted out--I noticed a black cat in the corner of the room, and by the smell of him, we was an unaltered male with some digestive issues.  

Upon approaching this little guy, I was taken by how friendly he was.  He came to the door of the cage immediately and turned on the charm.  I'm a sucker for charm.  So I opened his door, and this large, smelly cat was a puddle in my arms.  The animal control workers came over, all of whom were very fond of this stray tom cat.  He had chronic diarrhea that they were working hard to prevent--even going so far as to feed him expensive limited ingredient canned food and probiotics.  I summoned my friend over, who was skeptical that this smelly, big-headed tom cat was the one for us.  "But he's so sweet!" I cried.  So we waited to hear back from the director of St. Sophia's--what did she think about taking this cat?

Another issue was a foster home for him.  We really didn't have an open spot.  Who would take him? I felt responsible, as I had all but begged my friend to rescue him.  Jim and I had just discussed waiting to take in another foster, but this guy was so sweet, and surely he wouldn't be that much work. Still, I wondered what Jim would say.  On a whim, I emailed him at work.  Minutes later, this kind man that I married instantly agreed to take in another cat.  Just when I thought I couldn't love him any more than I already did...

Soon after came a text from the director--we could take him, and we would place him in the cat show.  My friend thought she was nuts, and both of us got a huge laugh out of a smelly, pooey tom cat off the streets being entered into a cat show.  But he had the personality for it.  And he was safe! 

Albert was committed to on Tuesday, neutered and brought to rescue on Wednesday, groomed on Friday, and spent all weekend at the cat show, placing as high as second place out of ten cats! Everyone fell in love with this calm, cool cat.  

Since that weekend, Albert has lived with us, and more specifically, with Alfred.  He never ceases to amaze us with his calm demeanor.  (Can cats be narcoleptic? Because sometimes I wonder.)  He loves to snuggle.  He loves to rub his face against yours.  He will sleep next to you in bed. His greatest joy is being near people.  But he isn't clingy or needy--quite simply, he is the best friend a person could ask for.  

Also, he wears bow ties.  

Albert is fully vetted and is ready for his forever home.  You can learn more about him on Petfinder or visit St. Sophia's Forgotten Felines on Facebook.  

Albert's official bio:

Albert is an easy-going, loving adult black shorthair male. Found as a stray, Albert has touched all those who meet him with his calm and affectionate demeanor. He was entered into a cat show in the housecat division for St. Sophia's soon after entering our program, and he amazed everyone with how relaxed he always seemed to be. He even took 2nd place out of 10 cats!

Albert is incredibly loving, happy to snuggle next to his people, or sleep curled up next to them in bed. He loves to rub his head against people and receive kisses. His great joy in life is being loved.

Albert is good with other cats and remains relaxed and calm even around small children! He will make the perfect companion for anyone looking for a devoted, patient best friend.

Alfred

Alfred, photo courtesy of Two Birds Photography

About a month ago, my neighbor contacted me, inquiring about how to catch two cats who were living in her back yard.  They didn't seem feral but weren't coming close either.  It was the dead of winter, and though she was feeding them, she was concerned about their well-being long term and wanted to catch them.  Not long after, I awoke one morning to meowing coming from the kitchen.  It was strange, because the meow wasn't familiar to me, yet I wasn't imagining it.  I got up to explore it further, and saw a streak of black tail run through the kitchen towards the open pet door.  Ramona is our only cat with a black tail, so I wondered where in the world she was headed in such a hurry, yet a glance at her favorite spot revealed she was fast asleep.  I knew instantly we had an intruder! Sure enough, I looked outside on the deck, and saw a wide-eyed black and white cat staring at me.  Having a strange cat in your house in and of itself is weird enough.  But we have a nearly impenetrable cat fence, which we call the Kitty Gulag, which makes any movement, in or out, virtually impossible.  How had this cat gotten in? 

Over the next few days, I didn't see him.  Surely he was there, as it's difficult to get in the cat fence but even harder to get out.  Yet, a day or two later, my neighbor informed me that he was back at her house.  Amazed, I figured he wasn't coming back to our place.  Until a few days later, when he walked in while Jim and I were watching TV on the couch.  

Jim and I agreed to try to catch the little guy and try to find him a home.  Our neighbor had already discovered that he was trap savvy, so trapping him wasn't an option; we were left with feeding him and slowly trying to earn his trust.  I knew this could take a while, as cats are difficult creatures.

So for several days, this cat would show up at my house for dinner and would show up at my neighbor's house (a quarter of a mile away) for breakfast.  We still had no idea how he was getting in and out of our cat fence with such ease.  A walk of the perimeter revealed no holes or obvious points of entry.  It remains a mystery to us to this day!

On the third or fourth night of feeding this cat, he allowed me to pet him, and he even came out from under a bench to see me.  Instinctively, I decided to try picking him up.  He let me.  With a strange, stray cat in my arms, out in the bitter cold, I suddenly wondered what to do.  We had intended to catch him eventually and find him a home--this was just sooner than I expected.  With Jim off at work, I simply made the decision to take him inside, marching him up the stairs into our spare bedroom.  And there he has stayed.

A very kind friend heard his story, and being the intake coordinator for a rescue organization, she arranged for Alfred to be taken into their program.  They had a foster home available; did we want to surrender him to the organization? This didn't sit right with Jim and me.  It felt like we would simply be passing him off, happy that he wasn't our problem any more.  And leaving that foster home open meant another life could be saved from Animal Control.  So in an instant, without much discussion, Jim and I decided to become foster parents for St. Sophia's Forgotten Felines. We also knew with little discussion that Alfred wouldn't be our last foster.  After filling out the paperwork, we were officially a foster family.  And a few days later, along came Albert (but he's a story for tomorrow).  We don't have any more room in our family for pets (6 cats is really at our max), but we certainly have room in our hearts and our home to help cats become united with their forever families.  It's a lot of work, but it's absolutely right for us.

So, we welcome Alfred to our foster family, and we hope he finds his way to his perfect family soon.  He tried so hard to make his way to us--he just wants to be loved.  He will make some family incredibly lucky.

Alfred is fully vetted--neutered, vaccinated, and viral tested.  He is ready for his loving forever home. Alfred is available on Petfinder, but you can also visit St. Sophia's on Facebook to learn more about how to adopt him.

Welcome Mona

Mona

Late last summer, Jim and I learned of a family of cats being neglected at a home near my parents' house.  There was a mother and several very young kittens.  They were living outdoors and not being provided with any food or water.  My gut instinct told me that these kittens would die if not cared for, and I was right.  Jim and I committed to taking the family in and caring for them.  The very first night, one of the kittens became gravely ill.  I rushed her to the vet, but she was too far gone and had to be euthanized.  Do you know how heartbreaking that is? To make the decision to end the life of a kitten only a few weeks old? 

With food, shelter, TLC, and a small financial commitment, two of the kittens survived and flourished.  Though other health issues cropped up (as they are bound to do in stray cats), Jim and I were bound and determined to raise healthy, happy kittens who would make wonderful pets for some lucky family.

The biggest hurdle (beyond the chronic infection issues of one of the kittens--a respiratory issue that was stubborn to go away) was the mother: a young cat herself, likely raising her first litter of kittens--and very frightened and very angry.

We named her Ramona, and we treated her with love and respect.  Yet she hissed and growled every time we walked in the room, threatening to attack.  After a few weeks, we took to wearing rubber boots around her, to protect our legs from the inevitable swipes from her claws.  We couldn't touch her at all--not even while she was eating.  The vet and I discussed the possibility of separating her from her kittens, so they would be able to be socialized without her negative influence.  We worried we would have to spay her and release her back into the wild.  She seemed untameable.  

Yet Jim and I persisted.  We weren't willing to give up on her yet.  One day, with hatred and fear in her eyes, she lashed out at me while I was wearing the boots.  I thought, "I am afraid of you, and you know it.  You are taking advantage of me. I have to take back the power.  Go ahead and attack me all you want.  I won't be afraid any more." And attack she did.  But when I didn't react, she became calm, looked me in the eye, and walked away.  From then on, because I showed no fear, she showed less aggression.  And one day, while she was eating her dinner, I reached out and touched her back, just once.  Over time, once became twice, which became three times, and so on and so on, until miraculously, this feral, angry cat was tamed.  

Once Mona wasn't angry, and I wasn't afraid, we slowly became friends.  She seemed excited to see me, grateful for food and attention.

The day came when her kittens were ready for their forever home--with a perfect, loving family who wanted them both.  I worried about how she would react (I tend to anthropomorphize animals); would she miss them? Would she be sad?

While I wept at saying goodbye to the kittens, Mona seemed unfazed, even relieved.  Jim and I couldn't bear to keep her locked up by herself, and she seemed to need the socialization, so we allowed her into the general population of cats in our home.  She seemed really excited and happy and took to our cats right away.  Everyone accepted her like she had been there forever.  

Mona discovered the cat tree in the corner of our living room, and she fell in love.  She claimed it for her own and rarely leaves it.  And this angry, feral cat somehow became one of the most loving cats I know.  She is patient and loving, gives kisses with abandon, and is easy-going and simple to care for.  How could we not keep her? Her life had been uprooted enough, and we loved her.  So she has stayed and is now a full member of our family--the last to join before the doors were closed on cats.  We're full up.  But we have full hearts.  

Always Learning From You

When I first started writing a blog, and was trying to decide what to call it, I knew that the dog I was learning things from--Indiana--wouldn't be around forever.  Could I still dedicate my blog to her? Would the title still have relevance after she was gone?

The answer, of course, was yes.  I haven't posted much in the months since Indy died.  How can I talk about my life, my feelings, when I don't even understand them myself? It's been 8 months since Indy left us, and I still think about her every day.  I miss her.  I would give almost anything to put my arms around that precious body one more time and inhale the scent that was completely and absolutely her.

But I can't.  That fantasy has to live on in my memories.  I hope every single day that I never forget the sensation of her fur, or the comfort of her smell.

And this blog?  I am still learning things every day--how to care for my pets, how to understand them, how to make their lives even more fulfilling.  All because of one very special black dog.  She inspired me to become more.  That's never going to stop.

As the months pass, I find myself wanting to honor her by being a better person.  Not just a better pet parent, but a better human being all around.  I want to be kinder, more patient, more loving and understanding.  More accepting of others and their differences.  Because as cheesy as it sounds, that's the kind of dog Indiana was.  If she had been human, she would have been the best of the best.  I'll never live up to that, but I can sure try.

Now, as life has continued on, and I have gone on this journey to become the true me, Jim and I have been inspired to become cat foster parents.  With six felines of our own, we feel like we're at our max.  But our desire to save, and our desire to fix has not wavered.  Maybe we can't welcome more animals into our home permanently, but we have room in our lives, and in our hearts, for these little beings who are lost and trying to find their way to a permanent, loving forever home.

Because if Indiana taught me anything, it's that love is important above all.  And I will always, always honor that lesson.

Eulogy

Hello, everyone, and thank you from the bottom of our hearts for joining us today. At first, the thought of having a memorial service for a dog seemed odd. We’d never heard of anyone doing it before, and we worried that no one would come. But then we remembered, Indiana wasn’t just a dog. She was so much more. She conquered so much in her short life. She inspired. She encouraged. She brought people together. For Jim and I, she made us better people.

Sitting down to write out what I wanted to say today was probably one of the hardest things I have ever done. How do you condense 14 years of such intense love and friendship into one speech? I don’t think the right words exist to say what is in my heart. I hope my words can do her justice.

My life was changed forever the day I brought home a tiny, fuzzy little black dog back in the summer of 1998. I had had dogs my whole life, but now, about to start my senior year of college, I was ready for a dog of my very own. I remember choosing her because she seemed sweet, and calm. Maybe she chose me as much as I chose her. And as I drove away with her, leaving her mother and sister behind, I cried, and I promised her that I would always take care of her the very best that I could.

I made a lot of sacrifices for Indiana--and in the early years, I think that says a lot for a college student. But I had wonderful friends and a wonderful boyfriend, and they spent a lot of time at my house, so I could be home with Indiana during my down time.

She was a spirited puppy, to say the least. Though she wasn’t destructive to furniture and personal goods, the inside of my house was covered with as many, if not more, sticks than the outside of my house, all chewed into tiny little bits. I think there were times we couldn’t see the carpeting.

Indiana was your typical puppy--she loved to play with toys, to take walks, to nap on the couch. She was whip smart from the beginning and was housetrained in less than a week. And when the time came to expand our family, she enthusiastically welcomed baby Isis, gently playing with her and teaching her everything she knew.

Indiana was there through all of the major milestones of our adult lives. College graduation, new jobs, new homes, marriage (where she proudly acted as ring bearer, a job Isis could not be trusted with). She was there during happy moments and sad. Indiana was very sensitive to emotion, picking up on our feelings, and, I believe, even taking them on from time to time. As she aged, we learned to avoid being sad around her; it simply made her too sad as well.

Our lives and hers changed forever in June 2006, when we almost died from cancer. I think everyone here knows the story, but her survival during that period really was a miracle. None of the doctors expected it. But we knew we owed her a chance to fight; her time here wasn’t done. So we fought for her, and she fought back. And we were blessed with nearly 6 more years with her, during which time we grew as parents, and as people.

I know I made a lot of mistakes with Indiana in the years before cancer. I was doing the best I could with the information I had, and for the most part, I have forgiven myself for my ignorance. I know Indiana did.

As the years passed, Indiana’s needs grew. She faced a new health obstacle with every turn. First cancer, then a mass in her heart. Next came arthritis, Cushing’s Disease, hypothyroidism, hip dysplasia, then kidney disease and cancer yet again. She almost died again in 2009, and again in the fall of 2011. But still she persevered. And did it all with a smile.

That is the thing I’ll always remember most about my baby girl: her smile. When she smiled, her whole face lit up. And she smiled a lot. She faced every challenge with grace and dignity, and always, always with that smile.

I dedicated most of the last two years of her life, and certainly the last 8 months, to her health and happiness. I suppose I sacrificed a lot, but it never seemed that way--doing the right thing for Indiana was always so easy, because she inspired that in me. I wanted to be a better person for her, to give her everything. Because that is what she gave to those she loved.

The time eventually came when we were more focused on the quality of her life than the quantity. We agreed to stop any invasive treatments and only do the things that would make her comfortable. It seems like it would be hard to make that decision--to stop medical treatment for someone you’d fought so hard for--but it wasn’t. Indiana was nothing if not completely clear at all times about what she wanted, and this was no exception. We knew she was getting tired, and that this was what she wanted. It was easy to simply abide by her wishes.

Every parent of a pet dreads those final days. You wonder, “How will this end? What will take her? Will we have to make the decision to let her go?” I honestly thought we would. I feared it would be because she would be unable to walk. But would it be the cancer? Or the kidney disease?

But in the end, it was none of those. On June 5, 2012, Indiana simply left this world on her own accord. She was tired, and she was done.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the last two months thinking about her life. Who she was. What she gave me. What she gave others. I am a better person because of her--not only a better parent, but a human being better able to understand love and sacrifice. She inspired me to help others struggling with cancer, as I am now able to help others who are caring for an older pet or those who are grieving.

Indiana was so many things to so many people. She was beautiful, inside and out. I never stopped being proud when a stranger would comment on her beauty, or when one of our vet staff commented on her calm, sweet demeanor. Because she was those things--beautiful, calm, sweet. She was the most intelligent dog I have ever met. Her spirit was unlike any other. I always felt like God made a mistake when he made her--putting a human spirit into a dog’s body, but taking out all of what makes humans flawed. What he created was one beautiful, perfect creature. One of a kind. And I was so blessed to have her as my daughter, my best friend.

When Indiana left, she took a huge part of my heart with her, a part that I will never get back. My life is certainly worse for losing her, but, in the end, it is exponentially better for having had her in it.

Normal? (Gulp)

Isis is licking off Indiana's breakfast.

Things are going shockingly well here. Life, in Indiana's mind, is back to normal. (With the exception of bandage changes--she does hate those) She is feeling good, eating well, getting around probably slightly better than normal (but still having trouble getting up). Maybe she knows she has a hole in her back. I know she knows she has a bandage on it. Indy has always hated wearing anything, be it bandages or clothes. This is why I walked into the hallway last night to find her fast asleep with her bandage pulled off and all the honey licked off. Booger.

Months and months ago, my family and I decided to spend the Thanksgiving holiday at my parents' cabin on a lake in central Illinois. Jim and I try to take the dogs there 2-3 times a year, to relax, and to get a change of scenery. It's kind of my happy place, a place that represents togetherness and family, and a lack of stress. We've never spent a holiday down there, but have been talking about it since my aunt died in 2009. Holidays in our own homes bring back too many memories, not that memories are bad. But the loss is still fresh enough that recreating the holidays, but without one of the essential parts, is just too painful. We knew we'd enjoy the holiday more by creating something new.

Our plans were thrown into question last week when Indiana got sick. We weren't sure if we'd still be able to go. But with Indiana's miraculous upswing, and the fact that her illness and our treatment of it wouldn't require an emergency vet visit, we realized we'd be safe to keep our plans.

The bandages are going with. So are all the medicines and treatments that are keeping her alive and healthy. But so are my parents, and their dog, and our best friends, and their dog. (And yes, for those keeping track, that's 6 adults and 4 dogs, all in a 900 square-foot, 2-bedroom cabin). And we'll be creating memories: new, happy memories.

Life throws you curve balls. Life is hard. Sometimes life sucks. But we soldier on. What was once normal no longer is, but we adapt and create a new normal.

This may be our last Thanksgiving with Indiana, but we don't want to dwell on the sadness of that. Instead, we'll be thankful to spend this holiday with her, making new memories and filling the time with love.

Keep on Keepin' On

So much fighting spirit!

Big developments over the weekend: the skin over the tumor fell off Sunday morning, and most of the tumor did too.  There's just a tiny bit left.  (And I haven't looked at it yet this morning, so, who knows?)  The last time I looked at it, which was last night, the mass was maybe the size of half a mushed-up kiwi.  (Does that make sense?  It does to me.)  And this is down from its large grapefruit size on Tuesday. 

I am astonished.

What we are left with now is a large, gaping wound.  It's probably 4 inches in diameter, so, I guess, fairly big.  But without flappy skin and a large tumor, it's actually pretty easy to clean.  Nolvasan, Manuka honey, bandage.  Repeat, repeat, repeat. 

I started a website to post pictures of the progress of the tumor.  Because of this experimental drug we're using, I wanted to keep track of the tumor's death.  I also wanted to keep track of how well the tumor responds to the Manuka honey, because I've heard it can do amazing things.  Anyway, I set up the page but haven't made the link public other than to mention it, once, on Facebook.  (If any of you want access, let me know, and I'll share it privately)  I'm not one to hide who I am or what I'm going through.  I blog about what's going on, and I post VERY frequent updates to Facebook to share with 215 of my closest friends.  But the pictures?  I was afraid to show that.  I still am.  I'm secure in what I'm doing, in the treatment choices that Jim and I have made.  But I'm fragile, people.  I'm an artiste.  We don't like being questioned or, God forbid, disagreed with.  What if the pictures got out and people didn't understand?  What if they thought I was letting my dog suffer?  That I was allowing her to be in pain?

I know what we're doing is right.  Indiana tells me every day, and, believe me, I'm looking for her response.  But I'm getting through this by sheer will and the love and support of more friends and family than I can count.  (How did I end up with so many wonderful animal people in my life?  I am overwhelmed!)  But I don't have room for negativity or disharmony right now.  If people think I'm wrong (and thankfully, no one has expressed that view to me), I don't want to know.  Which is why I'm keeping the photos semi-private for now.  Maybe I'll get brave later.  Who knows.

Back on track to the tumor, and, more importantly, the dog:  tumor = small/almost gone; hole left = kinda huge; dog = eating well, bright and perky, and completely kick-ass. 

Oh, how I love her so.

Hope, or, When Will I Learn

The Princess and The Papa

Cancer is always a roller coaster.  I learned that five and a half years ago, and, it seems, it's still true today. 

Though Indiana's been feeling pretty good, despite the soon-to-be-gaping hole in her back, it's always hard to tell what's going on inside a body.  Bleeding?  Organ failure?  Other tumors?  Plus, when you open up a large wound on the body of a living organism, other organisms, i.e. bacteria, want to live there.  So despite the fact the the tumor itself is not going to kill Indiana, secondary infection might.

In my head, and, well, in my eyes--this tumor looks nasty--I've been wondering how much time we have left, and this is the consummate question for any parent dealing with cancer.  How much time do we have?  I've known forever that this is variable, and often dogs can do much better than their stated prognosis; I've seen it many times.  But when it's your own pet, all previous knowledge is lost.  Advice you've given to others over the course of almost six years?  Out the door.  Suddenly, you're back to square one, turning to your support system for help.  You can't remember anything, and you're scared all over again. 

So after speaking with both of our vets over the last few days, I had a really unclear picture of where Indiana is headed.  What's going to take her, in the end?  Systemic infection?  Kidney failure?  Anemia?  And how quickly?  Any day?  Any week?  Any month? 

During a visit with our primary vet today, we discussed wound care and put a plan in place for keeping infection at bay.  The tumor will be losing its protective skin any time now, which isn't necessarily a bad thing.  We want the whole darn thing to slough off.  Gross, I know, but it's our best chance for survival.  But it opens up a huge wound--I'm anticipating about 4" in diameter--which will be difficult, though not impossible, to keep free of infection.  Twice-daily debridement with Nolvasan, followed by a healthy slathering of Manuka honey, and thrice-daily bandage changes are the plan.  This doesn't sound like a lot of work on paper, but I understand that wound care is terribly time-consuming.  Essentially, I'm clearing my schedule for the near future to deal with this. 

The best part?  My vet told us to expect an open wound for at least two months.  My reaction?  "We have two months?" I seriously didn't think she'd last that long.  Apparently, if we keep her free of infection, she definitely could still be with us.  I was floored.  And thrilled.

I know that our time with our girl is limited.  I know that at any time things could change.  I know that keeping the wound from becoming infected will be harder than it sounds.  But I am up for the challenge.  And so is Indiana.  How could I ever have doubted that?

Continuing the Fight

Can't tell she's sick, huh?

Indiana has cancer. 

She's actually had it--well, we've known about it--for over a year.  At the time, it was a tiny little dot on her back.  Like a tiny grape under her skin.  Biopsy came back as an unspecified sarcoma.  The prognosis seemed good, as these types of cancer tend only to metastasize locally.  We opted to leave it alone.  Consults with both a kidney specialist and a cardiologist left us uneasy.  Anaesthesia is hard on the body.  What would it do to a 12-year old dog with a heart arrhythmia and kidney disease?  In consulting with an anaesthesiologist, the best she could tell me was that Indy had only a "slightly higher" risk of death from anaesthesia.  I didn't find that comforting.  In the presence of a localized, small tumor, it seemed prudent to avoid that path that potentially lead to instant death.

Now, 13 months later,  I am of course questioning that decision.  I knew where leaving the tumor alone could lead.  Did  I choose this for Indiana?  Did I give her cancer? 

A good friend said some very comforting words the other day.  She told me that at that juncture, where we had to make a decision, we were given two bad choices.  There wasn't a good, clear choice.  I didn't pass up a good choice and choose a bad one.  I chose the path that, while it might not end somewhere good, was a happier path with a quality of life.  But honestly, neither path had a happy ending.

Knowing all of this, I still struggle.  As parents, as good parents, we should always question our own decisions, to learn and to make sure we're always thinking of our pet's best interest.  It doesn't mean I won't feel guilt along the way, even if I know in my heart I did the right thing.  We want our pets to feel happy, to always protect them.  That's not always easy or even possible. 

We've been through a lot with Indiana in the last five and a half years.  She has proven herself to be a fighter, and indeed, even in this dark, scary time, she continues to fight.  Her eyes tell me so.  But it breaks my heart to see the open wound on her back, the hair shaved away.  I probably will never see it grow back.  As the blood oozes out of the holes in the tumor, the smell of death and decay oozes along with it, turning my stomach.  I am sick at not only the mass of deadly cells on her back but also at my own weakness.  I shouldn't be afraid of the blood, of the smell, of the torn skin.  But I am.  It gets harder every day, and I have to talk myself through removing the bandages in the morning, unsure of what I'll find.  I am angry at my weakness.  I am ashamed.

It's also hard to come to terms with the fact that we are in an endgame.  What parent doesn't want their child to live forever, even if we know they can't? 

This morning, when Jim and I awoke and walked into the living room, Indiana was lying on her bed, very still.  Jim approached her first, and as I got closer, I saw she was breathing but not moving.  We looked at each other, fear and heartache in our eyes.  We tried to rouse her, and she was slow to do so.  Was this her time?  Was this the end?  No, it wasn't.  Indiana was simply sleeping peacefully, exhausted after a busy day prior.  She eventually woke, and over the course of several hours, she walked outside, sat in the grass to survey her kingdom, and ate a hearty breakfast with much aplumb.  She even took her pills. 

Were we overreacting?  Sure.  But we also both know that our time is limited more than ever before.  I can't think about that much, because I know my heart will break into a thousand pieces if I do.  My coping mechanism?  Making Indiana's life perfect.  Jim and I are completely focused on creating a happy, peaceful home, free from stress.  Making the most of every day.  Of every moment. 

Some things in my life will have to go.  If it causes me stress, it has to go.  I can't bring that into my home.  I know that will make some people in my life unhappy.  But I am fortunate to know a huge number of animal lovers, who understand what I'm dealing with.  And ultimately, I don't care.  I have to make decisions that I can live with.  I alone have to deal with the consequences of my actions.  When Indy is gone, I need to make sure I can do that.  I will look back on my decisions and question them, dissect them.  Some will be good and some will not.  But I have to know that I gave all I had to her, that I fought just as hard as she, that when it came down to it, I gave her everything I had to give, as she has done for me every day of her life. 

We are down, but we are not out.

A Lazy Copy and Paste of My Facebook Update

I just got back with Indiana from a vet appointment with another vet. I ran into a friend who used to be Indy's vet over the weekend. (She only stopped being our bet because she moved away). Long story short, she saw my posts about Indiana's tumor and offered to give Indiana injections of a drug she is starting a trial on. It is pretty cool and seems like it could have fantastic implications for both humans and animals. Anyway, we went up to the suburbs to start the first of four weekly injections.

The trip was actually pretty great because (1) my good friend and personal vet tech Amanda went with us, (2) Indy had eaten well just before we left and was feeling really good, (3) another friend, who is a Reiki Master, was our vet tech, and we go to chat with her while Indy got Reiki, and (4) my vet friend is amazing.

She believes that Indy's tumor is just that--all new tumor growth. The quick advancement could mean that the tumor has become aggressive. She told me that Jim and I should begin to prepare...which I think we have already started to do anyway.

The tumor opened up some last night, causing an open wound and thus some bleeding. If we can keep it under control, the bleeding shouldn't be a big deal. If we can stop the tumor from growing, we should be able to minimize the risk of infection, which is our biggest long-term worry. I realize that wound care will be a part of the rest of her life. This is a bigger deal for me than for her. I know she's ready for a fight, and so am I.

I am hopeful that this new drug can help reduce tumor inflammation but will also help her arthritis. Indy is alert and happy and is able to walk and eat with gusto. I know our time is limited, and this is hard to wrap my mind around. I apologize in advance for being a bad friend/daughter/employee/mother to my other animals as I move into this new chapter with Indiana. I know I'm going to struggle for a while.

Thanks to everyone who has expressed their concern, love, and support thus far. It means so much. Truly, it does. Indy, Jim, and I are so fortunate to have so many people in our lives who are willing to help and support us.

Indy is a tough girl who has cheated death more than once. We're not writing her off yet.

Trial and Errors

As many of my friends know, we're going through a rough patch with Indiana right now. Her cancerous tumor, known to us for over a year, and stable for at least six months, ballooned over the weekend. Friday morning, when I left for a weekend veterinary conference, the tumor was as it always is, able to fit in the palm of my hand. When I returned home Sunday night, the tumor was as large as my hand.

I was stunned. How could this mass, a sarcoma not known for aggressive growth, increase in size so rapidly?

I scrambled to find a way to protect it until morning, when I could take her in to the vet. The mass has always had a thin spot, where the layers of skin are weaker, more fragile. I knew that if the mass kept growing, the tumor would rupture in that spot.

Thanks to some friends, we got the mass protected and put a plan into place, should the tumor break open over night. It didn't though. I was able to get in to see the new vet in our practice, as my regular vet no longer works Mondays.

We've known for a while that there is a hematoma around the tumor--basically a capsule of blood caused by trauma. How much of the mass was blood and how much cancerous tissue, we've never known.

My first instinct when I saw this growing tumor was that much of it had to be blood. How could a sarcoma, not known for being aggressive, grow so exponentially? For over an hour, our vet tried to extract blood from the mass, wanting to provide Indiana's poor stretched skin some relief, wanting to provide relief to me, my panic and desperation evident. But no blood would come. No relief.

Our options: surgery, which we decided against a year ago, due to both the size of the tumor and Indiana's delicate health status, or letting it go, treating with a Chinese herb to reduce the blood. I felt there was a third option: debulking the mass under local anaesthetic, something Indiana has allowed on the past. I'll be calling my vet this morning to discuss this option, as the vet I saw yesterday, young and new to my medically-challenging dog, wasn't eager to take this treatment path.

The tumor continued to grow yesterday, and while I think it might be slightly larger this morning, the growth seems to have slowed, thanks to the Yunnan Paiyao we've been giving her. Indy slept poorly last night, wandering a lot, and this morning we found her against the wall, unable to get up on her own, urine leaking as soon as we lifted her up. Her legs aren't working today. This could be due to exhaustion, or even the UTI I am fairly certain she just developed. Or something worse, though I am hoping with all my heart that it is not.

I can't help but feel that I sent her down this path, knowing a year ago that this is where my choice could lead. I had hoped that it would not. I was naive. I still think we made he right choice. Surgery could kill her. But I still feel responsible for her current state. That's hard to live with.

For now, I am doing at least twice-daily bandage changes. Miraculously, her skin didn't split over night, as I expected it to. I am trying to keep her comfortable and to lift her back legs for her so she can go outside. Puppy urine pads can help in the in-between times, and grooming bath wipes can help clean her up. Thankfully I have all these supplies already.

I'll be calling the vet at 9am sharp to update them. Beyond that, I just don't know. I will do what has to be done. Though Jim had to leave for work, we briefly discussed a sleep plan so that Indy wouldn't have to be left alone. I anticipate little sleep in my future. That's okay.

And I'll not leave her side. The rest of the world will still be there when this crisis has passed. I belong with Indy right now, which is exactly where I want to be.

Why Lily Belongs With Your Family

This is Lily, the precious pitbull mix looking up at the camera, sweet, gentle eyes staring right at you, with her adorable, floppy deaf ears high in the air.  Yep, you read that right.  Lily is deaf.

Lily came into my life three weeks ago, after she was dumped in the country, not far from my house, by a family who no longer wanted her.  They were having a baby, you see, and simply couldn't manage a special needs dog and a baby at the same time.  How could I possibly know this, you ask?  Let's just say it's a phenomenally stupid idea to list your dog on a Facebook rehoming page and then dump her. 

Lily was stopped in the road, confused and scared, and after the car in front of me simply drove off after she moved, I stopped my car and got out to check on her.  She was terrified, as her body language clearly indicated, and I was nervous to approach her.  But she looked lost, and I couldn't just leave her on the side of the road.  After speaking softly to her for several minutes, she suddenly looked me in the eye, perked up her head, and was my best friend.  I opened the door to my car, and she jumped in straight away.  Suddenly I had a 40-something-pound dog in my car and no where to take her. 

Because Isis is 12-years old and dog-aggressive, I knew she wouldn't accept a young female into her pack.  So taking Lily home to live with us was out of the question (regular readers of my blog know that this is my preferred method of cat rescue).  I also couldn't send her to Animal Control, given that she's both a pitbull mix and deaf.  The solution, thanks to a few friends, was to house her in a horse barn for a few weeks.  This was not ideal, but it was better than on the streets or in a cage.  I visited Lily three times a day, for about an hour each time, so I got to know, and to love, her very well. 

Lily is now with a foster home, though it is only temporary.  They love her but have three large dogs already and are moving to a small apartment in Kentucky in a few short weeks.  She can stay until this Saturday, but needs to find a new foster (or better yet, a permanent home) by then. 

I still spend a lot of time with Lily.  Jim or I go every day and pick up Lily for 2-3 hours.  We go for a walk, a run, or take her to my Mom and Dad's house to play with their dog.  Between Lily's foster Mom and I, we know just about everything there is to know about Lily.

What do I know about her?  I know I love her and would keep her in a heartbeat if I could.  I have cried many tears already over the fact that I can't keep her.  I know that I am incredibly jealous of whichever family she ends up with.  With a little bit of training and a lot of love, Lily is going to make someone the perfect dog.  And I'm not exaggerating when I use the word perfect  folks.  She's amazing.

What else do I know? 

• The basics:  Lily is an 11-month old pitbull/blue heeler mix who is completely deaf.  She weighs somewhere around 45 pounds. 
• Lily's biggest pleasure in life is being with people and/or dogs.  Preferably both at the same time.  She loves to give kisses. 
• She has not an aggressive bone in her body.  She loves people.  She loves kids.  She loves dogs.  She loves cats.  She loves horses.  She needs to learn manners (but is greatly improving in this arena), but she is submissive and will back away when told to do so. 
• She will play fetch for hours if you let her.  She can destroy a cloth toy in seconds (thanks to those pittie jaws) but does really well with rubber toys.  However, if she puts something in her mouth that she shouldn't have (and she frequently does), those same strong jaws will easily let you pull tiny cat toys out of her mouth, with nary a scratch to your hand. 
• Lily will make a wonderful running companion.  Jim has taken her running, and though she needs to learn a little more focus (she's still young, plus she needs to learn some more walking manners), she is great at running.  She runs behind Jim so she can see where he's going, since she can't hear him. 
• She will play for hours and hours and hours without tiring.  But she's also happy to snuggle up on the couch with you.  In fact, as I write this, she's snuggled up next to me on the couch, with her head resting on my knee.  Over the weekend, she fell asleep on my Mom's lap, in her recliner.
• Lily is capable of being crated but much prefers to lay next to you. 
• She is housebroken.
• She loves water.  Pools, creeks, puddles.  She will be a mess afterwards, but she has Teflon fur, and she will be clean and dry within hours.  It's weird.
• Lily is a bull in a china shop.  Because she's so young, she doesn't have much control over her body yet.  There is a huge mind-butt disconnect.  This means she knocks things down wherever she goes, but it's so adorable, you don't get mad at all. 
• When she's really excited, she'll run and run and run.  I've never seen a dog run so fast, in great big circles.
• She loves sticking her head out the window when you're in the car.  She alternates between sitting between the front seat and giving you kisses and sitting by the window with her head out.  The wind makes her sooooooooo happy.
• She has no food, treat, toy, or bone aggressions.
• She has the cutest spots on her ears.  Ever.
• Lily likes being groomed.  She stands perfectly still for bathing, isn't afraid of the dryer (because she can't hear it, of course), and when I saw her getting her nails clipped, I thought she had been drugged (kidding, kidding).
• She is amazingly resilient and adaptable.  In the past three and a half weeks, Lily has lived at two different barns and one home.  She has been tended to by three different barn workers, loads of barn boarders, her foster family, Jim and myself (who take her once a day now), and she spends several hours with my parents.  All with a smile and never any fear.
• She is without a doubt one of the smartest dogs I have ever met.  She is training very quickly and easily and already understands a lot of hand signals.  What has she learned?  She can sit, lay, drop her ball, come, go to her bed, and wait to go in or out the door. Someone who has her as part of their family could teach her all she needs to know within a few months.  Seriously.
• Even though you know Lily can't hear you, you can't resist talking to her.  She's so adorable that you want to use a cutesy voice too.

Wanna see some more pictures?

Lily and her foster sister Mal.  Lily apparently is with Mal 24/7. 

They sleep together, often in a pile.

See?

Here are those ears I was talking about.  I just want to chew on them.

A very tired Lily, getting belly rubs from Jim.  I didn't mention in my

bullet points about, but she loooooves belly rubs.

So, a general overview: Lily loves everything.  Lily will love you.  You will love Lily.  Lily will be an amazing family pet. 

We are looking for a kind, loving family for Lily.  You can have dogs or cats or not.  Lily needs quite a bit of training at this point, and therefore, time.  Obviously, it's okay if you work a full-time job, but she needs to be walked/played with/trained several times a day.  If you have a fenced-in yard, this is a bonus.  Mostly, we want you to love her as much as she'll love you. 

If you're interested, please email me at cancersupport@greatgoodheart.org.  I am seriously willing to transport her, anywhere in the Continental United States, for the right family.  I am not even kidding.

Even if you aren't in a position to help Lily, please share this blog post with others, so we can find Lily the family she so richly deserves.

Bonk.

Lets protect that pretty head, 'kay?

Indiana has a habit which, while strange and completely new to me, is apparently fairly common among older dogs.  Jim and I will be peacefully resting on the couch, watching television, and we will suddenly hear the most brain-rattling bonk you can ever hope to hear.  For a while it confused us.  What was that noise?  Where is it coming from?  But eventually, we figured it out.

Our dog throws herself to the ground to lay down, and that loud noise we hear?  It's her head hitting the hardwood floor.

Jim and I were horrified at first.  Surely such trauma would cause brain injury?  Oddly enough, I guess it doesn't.  She continues to do it and doesn't seem to be any worse for the wear.

At my last vet appointment, I mentioned this odd habit to our vet.  I expected her to be as incredulous about the whole thing as we were.  But her response surprised me.  "Oh, yeah.  I see that all the time in older dogs.  In fact, I have seen a few come in with huge bruises on their heads."  Waaahhhh? 

I couldn't wrap my brain around why my own dog was whacking her precious skull against the floor, on purpose, let alone why a whole subset of a species was doing it.  And why didn't I know about this? 

My vet replied that there was no hard-and-fast explanation for this odd phenomenon.  Her theory is that laying down all the way is painful or uncomfortable for most old dogs.  They know this, and so to avoid it, or at least combat it, they approach laying down with the ripping-off-a-band-aid theory--the faster you do it, the sooner it's over. 

This theory makes complete sense to me.  I'm still horrified by it, and I can't help but cringe every time I hear that distinctive whack of skull against wood.  The best I can offer is a soft rug underneath, to at least turn that crack into a dull thud.

Busy Days

Q*bert, not being busy

I've been long absent from my blog, even though I promised myself I would write every day.  To paraphrase my friend Caitte, I've been busy living life instead of writing about it.  Shame on me.  Just kidding--I feel guilty, but only just a little.

I'll try to spend this week catching up.  I've had a lot on my mind.  This time of year does that to me.  Lots of anniversaries of sad events, the holidays just around the corner, the changing of the seasons (which I love with all of my heart, I really do). 

I know the first thing on my regular readers minds: how is Indiana?  In a nutshell, good.  Things were a little dicey a few weeks ago.  She suddenly started struggling to lay down.  Not stand up.  Lay down.  This is for several reasons.  One, it has to do with tight muscles in her legs, which make laying down kind of painful, or at least uncomfortable.  It got so bad that Indiana would wander around the house for a long time (and at 13 1/2, Indy doesn't wander much anymore at all), exhausting herself, panting.  It was really hard to see.  And it's not like standing up, where we can assist her.  Laying down, she's on her own.  It's crushing and sad to see.

So we've had her in for chiropractic and acupuncture, which have helped.  But we also put her back on Adequan (which we had run out of a few weeks ago) and a new joint supplement called Glyco-flex III, a chewable pill that she actually likes eating.  I think these things have helped.  She's no longer struggling so much to lay down (it still takes her a while though, but she's like the equivalent of 80 years old in human years, so what can you expect?), and the wandering has all but ended, thanks to an herb we've been giving her called Rhodiola. 

Jim and I determined that Indy's wandering was caused by anxiety, which sounds really weird, because, what does a dog have to be anxious about?  But if you think about all of the older people you've ever known--grandparents, for instance--I bet you can think of several times they got nervous for no good reason.  Wanting to stay close to home.  Needing to be on a schedule.  Feeling overwhelmed by lots of noise.  It's the same for older pets too. 

To combat the anxiety (which seems the worst during meal times), Jim and I have set up a quiet atmosphere.  The TV goes off.  All unnecessary lights are switched off.  We both sit with her while she eats.  (She likes to be hand fed, so one parent feeds her, and usually the second sits by, watching.  It's torture for a herding dog not to be able to see all of her charges, so staying close reduces that worry).  But I swear the Rhodiola has helped too.  It's amazing the change we've seen.

We're lucky to have a vet who understands aging dogs, in a way I've never seen before.  Having a senior dog is harder than I ever imagined.  It requires lots of patience, lots of time, lots of attention, and the ability to turn off your "ick" sensor--you'll be touching things you never thought you would, and with your bare hands to boot.  Raw meat, feces, urine.  Whatever.  It doesn't faze me now.

Indiana has a lot to teach us about growing old.  But Jim and I try very hard to listen to her.  She's clear in her communications, if you just pay attention.  We have a lot to learn, but we're very eager pupils.

Best of Friends

Cimba and Garth, with Boogie in the back

Cimba lives at a boarding facility and has done for 5-6 years.  He's well taken care of there.  He's happy with the owners and staff, and, best of all, he's made friends. 

During the day, Cimba runs in a herd of other geldings.  Garth is his best friend and is owned by the barn owners.  Garth is the Alpha male of the herd and therefore calls the shots.  Garth's call most of the time?  Pay attention to Cimba.  He loves Cimba, and Cimba loves him.  This leaves the other members of the herd, Boogie and Pary, out in the cold more often than Boogie would like.  (Pary doesn't care--he's happy to follow the rest of the herd around)  The picture I posted with this story pretty well exemplifies the relationship of the herd.  Cimba standing around,  Garth nibbling on him, Boogie trying to get some attention too, and Pary off who knows where. 

I find this relationship funny for several reasons.  One, Garth is the Alpha yet lavishes his attention on Cimba.  He's constantly gently nibbling on his back, nudging him on the shoulder, or resting his head on Cimba's back.  And two, Garth is huge, and beautiful, and he's enthralled with a tiny little Arab.  Cimba seems to like the attention, as he rarely walks away from Garth.  I don't know if that's because my vain horse likes the attention, or if he's happier that the attention is driving Boogie crazy.  I wouldn't put that past him.

Last week, Cimba was tranquilized for a veterinary procedure.  After we were done, Cimba was starting to wake up, and we put him outside with his herd, so the fresh air and breeze could help him wake up faster.  Nikki, the owner of the barn (and also Garth), said, "Cimba will be fine outside.  Garth will take care of him."

And take care of him he did.

It's not unusual for the herd to rally around another member who is returning to the pen.  What melted my heart is the fact that Garth wouldn't leave Cimba's side.  He walked alongside him, lavishing his usual attention, but in a gentler manner.  Keeping the other horses from Cimba, making sure he was safe.  And when I left, an hour later, Garth was still at Cimba's side.

Cimba is lucky to have such a good friend. 

Oh, It's a Guilt Trip, Is It?

There's been a lot of manipulation around our house lately.  And I don't mean between the humans.  Oh, no.  It's the four-legged critters who have been putting on their best guilt faces.  And you know what?  It works every time. 

Indiana is, well, Indy.  When you've battled cancer...twice...and won, you get pretty much whatever you want.

Isis has a new obsession with running.  Jim started running with her several months ago in an effort to get her into shape.  She's always been a horrible walker (she loves to stop and sniff every two feet, plus she has weird rules about where she will and won't walk--if you try to force the issue, she lays all 60 of her pounds down in the middle of the road.)  But surprisingly, she's a good runner.  And she loves it.  Fairly frequently, she sees Jim getting on his workout gear and is convinced they're going running, even if Jim only intends to work out in the house.  But when faced with such unbridled enthusiasm, and an, "Oh, Jim..." from me, Isis wins every time.

Mr. Squiggles, like Indiana, has a built in guilt-trip excuse--when you reappear after being missing for over a year, you want for very little.  But still, he has a trick that gets us every time.  Stage One of his trick is an expectant, very quiet meow, complete with an intense, expectant stare.  This trick means he wants you to sit down on the couch so he can snuggle with you.  Stage Two of the trick, from which we have no immunity, involves the quiet meow along with him standing up on his back legs, pawing at your legs as desperately as he can.  I'm pretty sure I'd commit a crime, if that's what he was asking for.

Gus doesn't really pile on guilt, per se, but he's got the whole disability thing that makes him impossible to resist.  Plus, he takes what he wants.  So if he wants to lay on your lap, you sit there until he's done.

Samson's trick is really handy, as it's what got him adopted by us in the first place.  Samson, like every Maine Coon, is very smart and very dexterous with his hands.  So when he wants something, he reaches his huge paw out to get it.  This includes people most of the time.  Who can resist 15 pounds of cat reaching out and lovingly placing a paw on your arm?  I sure can't.

Q*bert is newest to the household and therefore less equipped with guilt trips.  He's not sick/disabled/previously missing, so those tricks are out.  He's also not super smart, but honestly, that's what wins us over most of the time.  He's so...ummm...simple, that we can't resist him when he wants something.  His needs are so simple, basically food and an occasional lap, so who are we to say no?  Bless his heart.

Though he doesn't live in our house, Cimba has tricks of his own too.  I don't ignore him often, but sometimes I will walk away from his stall to pet another horse, and this makes him mad.  I'm his Mom, after all.  Most of the time, if he's craving attention, and some other horse is getting it, I'll hear a stern smack against his stall wall, and I'll turn around to see a very annoyed horse staring me down.  Flared nostrils, perked ears, and the brightest, sweetest eyes you've ever seen on a horse.  I am powerless against him.

Society has the idea that humankind is smarter and superior to the animal race.  Looking at all of this, though, I often wonder. 

Back to Work

Sam's staring at a large bug on the other side of the

pet door.  Can you see it?

The last few weeks have been crazy busy in the Schneider household, and by crazy busy, I mean I've been travelling and generally being a kept woman.  Oh, and Jim started a sort-of-new job.  Somebody's gotta pay for the horse, and it ain't me. 

Anyway, in Jim news, the new job is really a new position within the same company/department, and it's been a looooooooooong time coming.  When Jim was hired by Exelon (then ComEd) back in 2000, this new position (Licensed Control Room Operator) was the ultimate goal.  We were told by the company that Jim and his fellow newly hired co-workers could expect to be non-licensed operators for 3-5 years.  It's been 11.  So we're very happy that this new position finally came open (and it's based on seniority, not merit, so that's partly what's taken so long).  Jim is currently in Reactor Operator Training, which will take between 18-24 months.  For the time being, he works 7-3 Monday through Friday, and cannot be forced to work extra shifts.  He also gets holidays off.  After 11 years, we're finally living what is a relatively normal life.  Once he's passed the training, he'll go back to 12-hour shift work again, but it's still nice to have a break from that routine. 

Jim is now able to pursue interests he previously had no time for (12-hour shifts don't allow for much else in your day), like training for a half-marathon.  He also has time to take riding lessons and go for bike rides with me.  We can run errands and go grocery shopping together.  Oh, and lots more time for Criminal Minds.  Whew.  Don't forget that!

This new job will put a bit of a damper on our travel schedule, as he's not really able to take vacation days right now.  He can't really miss classroom training, so our travel, for the time being, will be relegated to weekends and holiday weeks.  That'll be the hardest part for us, honestly, but it's not forever.

Meanwhile, our critters are loving the new schedule.  Daddy is home at 3:30 every day, so if Mom is out, Daddy can feed them lunch, and give them snuggle time.  They have two parents home more of the time.  It's a win-win for them.

In other news, Indiana is doing well.  She's bright-eyed and alert, eating pretty well (though picky), and getting around as well as can be expected.  She has recovered from her earlier UTI, and we're waiting on test results to tell us how her kidneys are doing.  Her tumor on her back is larger now, and it's carrying a lot of heat.  This could mean one of several things: that the tumor has grown larger, that the hematoma around it has grown, or that there is some kind of abscess around it.  Our vet doesn't want to poke it to find out, so for now, we're simply putting a clay mask on it to draw out the heat, and adding in a drop of Frankincense, which is an essential oil with anti-tumor properties. 

Our horse, Cimba, was diagnosed with bursitis in his neck last month.  That's a swelling of the joint--for him, it's just behind his left ear.  He has a rather large lump there, and I know it causes him some discomfort.  Today, the equine vet is coming out to take an x-ray, to see if there is any arthritis, and to see what the extent of the lump is.  My poor boy has to be tranquilized, which freaks me out a little but is probably totally safe.  Anyway, I'm crossing my fingers for good results--nothing we've done to the lump so far has changed it in any way, so I'm anxious to find a treatment that works. 

I don't know why my lot in life is to have animals with every sort of lump or bump known to man.  Between Indy and Cimba, I'm gaining a pretty good knowledge of lumps.  Surely we have to run out of types pretty soon?