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.