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.

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.

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.

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?

Happy Birthday, Gus!

Seriously, is there a cuter cat on the planet?

Today is Gus' birthday.  He's three-ish years old. 

Jim and I always like to do something special for the animals on their birthdays.  For the dogs, we go out for a Culver's hamburger, followed by Dairy Queen.  For the cats...not so simple.

What do you give the cat who has everything?  Hates riding in the car?  Gets everything he wants?  Hates affection?

We instituted a rule that you couldn't give a cat a hard time on his birthday, so in Gus' case, no making fun of his disability.  Not that we do...ummm...

We also decided that since Gus hates affection, we wouldn't pick him up at all on his birthday.  Or pet him unless invited to do so. 

Indiana is playing her part and allowing Gus to snuggle with her whenever he wants, which has been quite frequently the last couple of days.  What a kind sister. 

But Q*bert just literally attacked Gus as I am typing this.  Apparently he didn't get the birthday memo. 

So Happy Birthday to my favorite orange cat.  You are evil, but luckily so incredibly adorable.

Old-y Time-y Photos

They're both super fuzzy.  The dog and the then-boyfriend-now-husband.

Jim and I (okay, mostly Jim) are in the process of removing photos off an old computer onto our old-but-newer computer, so we can finally recycle the old one.  I thought my readers might enjoy seeing some of the old pics, because they're of the dogs and cat (we only had Mr. S back then) a long time ago, when they were young and just as adorable. I'll post more over the next several days.  I hope you enjoy this look back!

This is Isis, when she was brand new.  How stinkin' cute was she???

Mr. Squiggles.  What is it with cats and laundry baskets?

More brand new Isis and big sister Indy.  Indy was sooooooo

patient and gentle with her.  Look at my lovely second-hand

college couch.

The girls at our favorite dog park.  We used to go every day.

That was back when you could trust Isis off-leash.

Heh.

Seriously, this picture of Isis...no words.  Just...oh my.

Mr. S.  I'm pretty sure he's begging for

some kind of food.

Many Happy Returns

I'm baaaAAAaaack.  Sorry for the long delay in returning to blogging regularly.  (And blogging well--last week was barely good enough, people!)  Doing the show was super fun but super stressful and super busy, and it's taken me most of the week to recover, both physically and mentally.  Now, some updates on what you've missed:

Indiana is doing really well.  Her hematoma on her back burst last about two weeks ago, creating a mess but unfortunately not a smaller lump.  She had to go on 10 days of antibiotics, which always make her feel crummy.  So she was picky-pants about eating for several days and even stopped taking pills again for a while.  But now that the antibiotics are done, she's returning back to normal, eating well (actually, eating really well) and taking her pills like a champ. 

I've been struggling a bit with how to give her the pills.  Ages ago, we started using cream cheese, but that eventually dried up as an option.  Then peanut butter. Then liver sausage.  All are persona non grata in Indy's eyes now.  What a turd. 

We moved on to lunchmeat, which has been working pretty well.  The problem?  Just about every lunchmeat out there contains added nitrites.  I'm not a big fan, so I've been searching our local grocery store high and low for something that doesn't contain them.  I've found one.  One, people.  I can't explain why.  It's not one brand.  It's one type within an entire product line.  Go figure.  And wouldn't you know it, it's hard to come by.  Apparently everyone else in Kankakee wants to buy nitrite-free Hillshire Farms ultra-thin sliced Roast Beef.  Who knew?

Two days ago, our store was out of this particular product, so I had to buy a different product containing nitrites.  Wouldn't you know it, Indy loves it.  So now my dilemma is, do I continue to switch up different products, keeping her happy with the variety, or do I go back to the one product that doesn't contain nitrites, but risk letting her get bored with it?  It's the never-ending question for us purity-seeking parents. 

In other news, I am incapable of owning a healthy animal.  My horse, Cimba, came to me with a large lump on his neck, just behind his ears.  I knew about it when I "adopted" him, and I had every intention from the get-go of investigating it and healing it the best I could.  So I suppose I have no real room to complain.  But I will anyway, so hah. 

I had a vet I know, Dr. Dan King, come out and take a look at Cimba's neck last week.  He's had the lump for about a year, and while the local horse vet did an ultrasound (which indicated simply soft tissue), I wasn't convinced that was all that was going on with it.  For one, it was hard.  For two, it was giving off a small amount of heat.  Plus, you know, that whole Mom instinct thing.  I got it goin' on.

The vet did a needle aspirate (which the horse vet, though competent, didn't do--maybe that's the dog owner in me?).  When he stuck the needle in, a yellow, sticky substance came oozing out.  I didn't know what the heck it was, but apparently, it's joint fluid.  Not what I expected at all.  The vet sent the sample away for cytology, though he was fairly confident that it wasn't cancer.  And as it turns out, it's not.  It's actually a chronic inflammation of the bursa (the joint capsule) at the back of his head, just behind his left ear.  It's not infected, but the lump is pretty large, and, according to Dr. King, probably pretty uncomfortable, which I already suspected. 

Cimba got a shot of Traumeel, which is a homeopathic drug, to decrease the swelling.  I'm also giving him homeopathic Arnica montana twice a day, as well as putting a poultice of wet clay on it, to draw out the inflammation.  I haven't seen a big improvement yet, but considering the swelling has been there for about a year, I don't expect it to go away quickly.  Luckily, I'm a hands-on Mom who doesn't mind the challenge.  And my friend and mentor, Nikki, who boards Cimba for me, is helping every step of the way with her expertise in horses. 

If Cimba's lump isn't improved in 3-4 weeks, he'll be evaluated again, and we might change treatment.  But if our treatments appear to be working, he'll get another shot of Traumeel, and I'll continue with the homeopathics and the clay.  I'm crossing my fingers that he gets some relief soon.

Nikki, my aforementioned friend with the horses, also has an injured horse at her barn.  This horse has my heart and always has.  It's hard seeing her struggle and be in pain, and it kills me that Nikki, the best horse owner I could ever imagine, has to struggle along with her.  We wondered yesterday why things like this happen.  But as a cancer Mom who deals with other cancer parents all the time, I know why: because we are special parents, and we'll fight for animals when others would not.  I believe that our sick and injured animals are sent to us because they need us.  While others would ignore the problem, or put their animals down, we fight for them and care for them, and go above and beyond to make things right.  And usually, we can. 

It's occasionally frustrating, dealing with sick animals all the time.  But there are rewards.  Knowing that we have done what others could not, or would not.  Knowing that we sacrificed to make the life of another better.  Knowing, at the end of the day, that we have given of ourselves, but have gotten back much, more more.

This Time, Cancer Didn't Win

Our Princess, finally free of leiomyosarcoma

I had intentions of doing a big celebration-style post for yesterday's celebration-worthy happenings, but when it came down to it, that just didn't seem quite right.  Of course Jim and I celebrated.  We talked about that day, 5 years ago, that changed our lives forever.  We took the dogs out for celebratory hamburgers and ice cream.  Our hearts rejoiced at what we, and our amazing dog, had accomplished. 

But ultimately, I still look back on that day with great reflection.  For those who may not know, on June 30, 2006,  Indiana was diagnosed with leiomyosarcoma, a cancer of the smooth tissues.  She almost died, and, in fact, was expected to die.  It took me three full years before I could write down the story and really talk about it.  Want to read it?  It's sad (I'll give you a spoiler: it ends well).  But, in my humble opinion, it's worth reading.  Read it for Indy.  Five years is incredible, to be sure, but what's so significant about this milestone, is that after five years free of leiomyosarcoma, her cancer is considered cured.  Gone.  Forever.

In some ways, the five years seem like forever ago.  Have we really made it five whole years?  With the exception of our primary vet, no doctor expected her to live that long.  Yet, here she is, five years later, still happy and healthy.  We're constantly told by veterinary staff how incredible she is.  Not just because she's sweet and gentle and never complains.  But because, according to all odds, she should be dead.

Since her (practically) terminal diagnosis 5 years ago, Indiana has been diagnosed with a mass in her heart, hypothyroidism, atypical Cushing's Disease, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, chronic kidney disease, and, most recently, a cutaneous sarcoma.  The Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever and subsequent kidney disease almost did her in again.  But in true Indiana form, she bounced back.  I won't deny that the kidney disease takes a lot of care.  Our saint of a dog has allowed us to administer subcutaneous fluids every single day, for the last 21 months.  The fluids keep her alive and feeling well.  She understands that, and I find that simply amazing.

Jim and I have learned so much since we almost lost Indy the first time.  We learned, for one, exactly how precious she is to us.  We also learned what we were capable of handling, what we were willing to sacrifice for her.  During particularly financially lean times (it's staggering how expensive veterinary hospitalization is), we've given up all unnecessary spending, including meals out, new clothes, entertainment.  Small things, really, when a life is on the line.  We've learned to keep a large cushion of money in our accounts, knowing that catastrophic illness can occur at any time.  We'll never make a decision for our children based on finances. 

We've learned to be better parents.  We know what to feed our pets, and why.  We know the importance of exercise.  We know, the hard way, the importance of listening, and I mean really listening, to what our pets are telling us. 

Our lifestyle has changed dramatically as well.  While we used to travel 4-5 times a year, we've cut that down to 2-3.  Still a lot, to be sure, but definitely the bare minimum of what our wandering souls can handle.  And now that Indy is old, we stay within a 2-hours flight, in places that have fairly frequent flights, lest we need to return home quickly.  Our hearts yearn to return to places like Hawaii and Paris, to see new things, like China and Africa, but they'll all still be there when Indy is gone. 

Because of Indy's tiny stomach (lost to surgery in 2006), she eats three times a day, at roughly 7am, 2pm, and 9pm.  We've lived the last five years around this schedule.  We are fortunate to have wonderful friends who understand this and are willing to plan excursions around those times, or who have made an unbalanced number of trips to our house for dinner, so we could be home to feed the dogs.  Plus, my amazing parents, who have come over numerous times to feed the girls when our plans couldn't be made around meal times, or who took the girls for the evening, so they could still have their 9 o'clock meal.  And having a dog on sub-q kidney fluids means making sure she gets them every single day.  For nights away, we rely on our wonderful friend Amanda, a vet tech with a heart of gold, willing to drive to my parents house every day to administer fluids for us. 

Though we cut back last year, we took Indiana to physical therapy, over an hour away, twice a week for nearly three years.  Now it's twice a month.  Plus, we have the once a month chiropractic visits as well as the twice-monthly acupuncture appointments.  And the periodic kidney specialist, cardiology, and oncology visits.  Our time is Indiana's time.  As it should be.

I wouldn't trade those sacrifices for the world.  Indiana has been such a blessing to us.  Everything we know we've learned from her.  We've learned how to truly love, opening our hearts to so many other animals.  Not a day goes by during which I don't wish the cancer had never happened.  But without it, I wouldn't be the mother I am today.  I've met incredible people, people dedicated to fighting cancer, not only in their own pets, but in others' as well.  People who will be my friends forever.

I've learned that while we love our animals with a fierceness that is rare, we are not alone.  There are others out there like us, willing to move heaven and Earth to save their pets.  To make every day the best it can be.  And that is truly heartwarming.

To my sweet Princess, all I can say is, thank you.  You've enriched my life more than you'll ever know.  I live every single day trying to live up to your standards.  You think I am everything, you have given all you have to me.  It's the least I can do to give my all to you.  I know you've stayed with us out of love.  You've fought every step of the way for us.  I can't ever repay that, but I'll certainly try. 

Congratulations on beating cancer, my sweet baby.  Cancer doesn't always win.

Never lose hope.

Cancer and Things

I will admit that this picture has nothing to do with my post.

But it's cute.  And Isis is in it, which is rare.

Indiana is doing really, really well.  I've written about that a few times recently, and it never ceases to amaze me.  She's got so much energy (for a 13-year-old, arthritic dog), and she's eating like a champ.  And taking her pills.  The other day, though, she chewed a big bald spot on her back.  Ugh.  Just when we'd gotten her hair grown in.  So now she has a small skin infection on her back, but the good thing is that the bald spot made our vet take a closer look at Indy's tumor.  We noticed earlier this year that it had grown.  We were pretty disappointed, but we knew that we had the option to debulk the tumor if need be.  But upon closer inspection, my vet discovered that the tumor actually had a hematoma on top--most likely the source of the "growth."  So, sort of yay on that account.  Hematomas are pretty harmless, and other than giving her a homeopathic med for it, we're basically leaving it alone, to reabsorb on its own.  At which time, I hope to find the tumor still at it's original size.  Fingers crossed.

Thursday marks Indiana's cure date for cancer #1.  That's right, you heard me.  Cure.  Cure. 

Cure.

I can hardly believe it myself. 

I promise a blog filled with pictures, insights, stories, and, if I'm doing my job right, a few tears.  After all, cancer #1 made me who I am today, the kind of mother I've grown to be, the person I am evolving into.  That day, June 30, 2006, was one of the worst days of my life.  I relive it every year.  But maybe this year will be easier, knowing we've finally conquered the beast.



Mea Culpa and Bon Voyage

Gus and Indy

I've been horrible about posting this week.  I got busy, spent too much time away from home.  Did you miss me?

If so, I have bad news for you: as of tomorrow, I'm taking a 4-day blog break.  That means no adorable pictures and funny stories of my animals until Thursday, June 23.  Don't miss me too much, 'kay?

That Happy Post I Promised You

Beyond adorable, right?  They do this almost every day.

Okay, so I promised some of you a happy post today, given the gravity of both Monday and Tuesday's posts (and then I got lazy and didn't post yesterday but instead went shopping with my Mom and Dad--ooops).  I wanted to do something really clever and funny, because it's been a while, but I got nuthin', so you're just going to have to settle for happy.

I hate to even say it, because I'm kind of superstitious that way, but Indiana has been doing really well.  I don't mean plain ol' well, I mean super-duper, I-haven't-seen-her-like-this-in-years well.  I'm really, really happy about it to say the least.  She's getting around really well, and she's even able to get up off the rug-less areas of the hardwood floors on her own most of the time.  She's eating like no tomorrow, even chowing down on a previously-hated brand of raw food this morning.  She's also "eating like dogs," as I call it--eating directly out of the bowl, under the power of her own snout, rather than having to be spoon fed.  It's like, "Ugh, Mom, the spoon isn't fast enough.  I'm hungry, dammit!"

And the best part?  She has the most incredible energy radiating off of her!  I know that sounds all new-age and granola-crunchy (I was an environmental science major in college, after all), but if you were around her, you'd know exactly what I mean.  There is a constant smile on her face and a brightness in her eyes.  She's perky and alert, she's going outside on her own, walking around, sleeping on the lawn.  And when we go out in public, mostly to vet appointments, she can't get into the building quick enough, and she walks with purpose and is mostly interested in meeting and interacting with other dogs.

I took Indy to her monthly applied kinesiology/chiropractic appointment last night (which works by the practitioner essentially "reading" the electrical impulses running through the neurological system), and in the middle of her session, he stops and says, "Is she doing well?  She seems really strong."  Why, yes. Yes, she is doing well.  He asked what we were doing differently.  Truth be told, we're doing less now than ever before (due to the frequently-previously-written-about protests by our stubborn dog).  She only gets a few pills at each meal now, as opposed to the nearly two dozen that she was getting months ago.  We've stopped most of her physical therapy, because it was making her angry.  So, essentially, we're allowing her just to be a regular dog.  Not a dog with one type of cancer, or two, or kidney disease (though she still gets daily sub-q fluids), or any of the other illness that plague her.  We're letting her live her life, make her own choices, and respecting them.

It warms my heart that listening to her is paying off.  She knows her body, and she knows what it needs (dogs are pretty instinctual about that, especially as they age).  Jim and I are here to attend to her needs, not ours.  It's taken a while to get comfortable with doing less, but now, we're truly seeing the benefits.  I worry sometimes that by focusing on quality of life, we'll be forgoing quantity (which is okay too, by the way).  But some days, I look at that happy face, at those vibrant eyes, and I think maybe, just maybe, we're going to get both.

Thinking About Grief, and Loss

I feel like I kind of owe you a repost of cute wiggly penguin butts.

I wrote about grief yesterday, about a friend who said goodbye to her dog over the weekend.  But even before that, grief was on my mind.  Maybe it's the changing of the seasons.  Maybe it's all of the soul searching I've been doing over the last year and a half. 

As most readers of my blog know, I've faced grief in the past, after almost losing Indiana in 2006 and again in 2009.  Then Mr. Squiggles literally was lost in 2009, and my Aunt Carole died in 2009 as well.  (All within three months--Damn, 2009 was a horrible year) 

With Indiana, I was dealing with anticipatory grief--your loved one is still with you, you just don't know for how much longer.  This is common for cancer parents.  We're told by our vets and the (evil) internet that our time with them is limited--maybe six months, maybe a year.  As it turns out, Indiana is the Energizer Bunny.  We're looking at nearly five years of survival for cancer #1 (at the end of this month--yay!).  It took me a long time (longer than it should have, really) to start looking at Indiana as living rather than as dying.  I think this is a concept you can't quite grasp until you've had a pet diagnosed with a potentially terminal illness.  It's so easy to get wrapped up in the illness, and we forget that our pet is with us, today, and maybe tomorrow, and maybe even the day after that.  Though it took me a while, I finally have days where I forget that Indiana even has cancer.

Everyone knows the story of Mr. Squiggles--how he disappeared in 2009, and after 12 1/2 months of searching and intense heartache, he finally made his way back to us.  We still don't know what happened, or where he was, or how he found his way to our friend's porch.  I'm still in awe every day that he's back with us.  I had hopes that if he ever returned home, it would make everything okay, and while it's made everything much better, it hasn't erased all of the pain of the previous year.  I still find myself keeping a close eye on the fields around our neighborhood while driving home, searching the ditches without even thinking.  It's second nature, really, and it's a hard habit to break.  I also find myself remembering what we were thinking a year prior.  During a thunderstorm, my mind wanders to, "A year ago, a storm hurt us so much, because we didn't know if our boy was out there in it, if he was afraid, or wet, or cold."  I know he's here now, safe from the storm, never to experience that fear again.  But I also know that his disappearance left a wound in our hearts that will not be quick to heal. 

I also find myself thinking about my Aunt Carole a lot these days.  She died, way too young, of a long-term illness on December 30, 2009.  I was in the room with her, with my closest family, and I watched her die before my eyes.  I will never be the same again.  She was not only my aunt but also a second mother to me.  We fought.  We disagreed.  She made fun of me, and it made me mad.  But we loved each other fiercely.  She had no children, so as she was a second mother to me, I was a surrogate daughter to her.  She spoiled me, bought me too many gifts, made special meals for me that were meat-free (even though she never "got" why I am a vegetarian), and overall, she was a huge part of my life. 

Until the final years of her illness, Carole and my Uncle Lee lived in Tampa,  Florida.  When I got older, I would fly down with my Grandma to spend a week with my aunt and uncle.  It was one of the highlights of my summer. 

I remember so clearly the smell of their home.  Florida smells so differently from Illinois, especially in the summer.  The heat and humidity bring out something in the plants, in the grass, in the ocean.  My aunt lived just off Tampa Bay, so the outside of their house smelled of a combination of grass, salt, and gardenias.  There were loads of gardenias in their courtyard, and stepping into it always smelled like home.  Even now, years later, the smell of gardenias always takes me back to Florida, to my aunt, and to happy memories of visits to their home. 

I found myself thinking about my aunt and Florida (and of gardenias) a lot last week.  I'm not sure why.  Maybe because the beginning of June was when I used to visit.  Their house is now gone, bulldozed for a new McMansion to take its place.  My aunt is gone too.  I can still smell gardenias, but it will never be the same.  Nothing will ever be the same.

Content

Could he be more comfortable?

So, last night, the rarest of rares occurred--Indiana got up and slept in bed with me and Jim.  She used to sleep with us all the time, but then I think it became more effort than it was worth to get up there.  (Plus, Jim moves around too much, and steals the covers)  She's been sleeping on the bed a lot lately though, which makes my heart go pit-a-pat every time I see it.  So when she slept between us last night, well, I thought my heart wouldn't be able to handle it.  Then, she layed over on her side, and I could feel her up against my leg.  *Swoon*

Plus, Indy's been eating really well.  And taking her pills.  And her UTI is gone.  And the cats have been (sort of) getting along. 

A happy clan of animals = a happy Mama.  My happiness is most definitely linked to how well my babies are doing, especially Indy.  Maybe because I've spent so much time taking care of her and getting her to a point where she is happy and healthy (which is, by the way, the goal).  I feel like I can sit back and enjoy the fruits of my efforts.  Pretend for the time being that I live a normal existence, in a world without missing cats, catastrophic illness, arthritis, and cancer.  For now, I am just a Mom with 6 animals, who are all healthy and happy, bringing me joy day after day.  And I plan to savour every moment.