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?

Summertime ADD

What everyone in my household is doing right now except for me.

I don't know about you, but summer time makes me feel frivolous.  My singing position at the church is on hiatus, my Mom is on summer vacation from her teaching job, my animals are lazy, it's usually hot.  Vacation is on my mind (though we rarely travel in the summer, preferring "off season" times instead), as is shopping, ice cream, air conditioning, books, cookouts, campfires, marshmallows.  (That's a lot of food...perhaps "exercise" should have been on that list too, huh?  Alas, it's not.) 

Summer time makes me want to wear dresses.  Put flowers in my hair.  Paint my toenails wild colors.  Spend time with my friends.  Ride my horse. 

Everything is more relaxed in the summer, especially on hot days.  My entire house, full of three dogs (we're sitting an extra--no big announcement today, folks), four cats, and a husband, is perfectly silent.  Everyone is happily asleep, lazing away the hot day in his or her own fashion.  Gus and Q are still outside.  Sam and Mr. S prefer the air conditioning.  The dogs are in their usual spots, Jim is fast asleep after a night at work, and our canine guest is curled up asleep next to him.  Me, I'm awake but still in my pajamas, my preferred summer outfit of choice. 

It's on slow, quiet days like this that I am my happiest.  My brood are all safe, tucked away in their beds, and this Mama is happy.

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.

Happy Birthday, Jim!

Doesn't everyone's husband have his picture taken with prehistoric fish?

Today is Jim's birthday.  I wanted to celebrate and do something special, but he's working today, and then I have rehearsal tonight.  Plus, he has this really annoying habit of being really humble.  We had a small luncheon for him on Monday, attended by family and a few friends, who were practically threatened with violence if they brought presents.  But he'd never forbid me from giving him presents, so at least I got to do that.  But I gave them to him all on Monday, leaving none for the actual birthday.  And I forgot to make treats to send to work with him today.  I'm basically the worst wife ever.

At least he can't tell me what to do on my own blog.  So, to my overly humble husband, I wish you the happiest of birthdays.  You are the best, kindest, most understanding husband a girl could ever ask for.  Thanks for always encouraging me to follow my dreams yet never asking for anything in return.  I'd give you the moon today if I could. 

Supporting Me For Me

I've written several times about finding the balance between all of my different selves--the mom, the singer, the animal wellness advocate, the artist, the wife, the daughter.  It's tough, as probably every woman knows (we tend to struggle with this more than men--why is that?).  For the past nearly five years, I've put a lot of focus on being "The Mom," dedicating most of my time to my animals, and, specifically, to Indiana.  I don't regret this, but it has left little time for the other selves.  Or, if there has been time, I've felt difficult making decisions that might take me away from caring for Indiana. 

Because we've lived under this umbrella of not knowing how much time she has left, I've not wanted to commit to large projects that will take me away from home, which is partly why I haven't pursued a career in opera in the way I had originally intended.  Again, I don't regret it, and it's allowed me a lot of time with Jim and the rest of my family, and to explore other "selves," like "The Blogger," and "The Cancer Advocate." But now, I've decided to take a leap and do something big, something just for me.

This weekend, I auditioned for a musical, my favorite, "Into the Woods."  A friend had started a new theatre company, one that would do outdoor theatre in the summer, a pretty exciting concept.  After convincing my Mom to try out too, I took the leap and auditioned.  And I made it in.  And I got one of the roles I wanted, the Baker's Wife.  I was beyond excited to be cast, but minutes after I heard, a moment of panic set in.  Doing the show is a two month commitment, sacrificing my weekday evenings for rehearsals.  It's more time than I've given to anything since Indy got sick.  What if something happened?  Was it okay to spend so much time away?  (Even though it's here in town--so no commuting--geez) 

But then I thought to myself, "This is something you want.  This is a part of yourself ("The Actress") that you've missed.  Indy is doing well.  She's stable.  This is a chance to do something just for you.  That's not selfish.  That's okay."  I've put a lot of thought into this decision, and while it's something so different for the new me, I've decided that that's alright.  Jim will be home most evenings, and while yes, I am sacrificing time away from my family, I am enriching me.  I've given so much to others, and now it's time to give back to myself.  So I'm taking the plunge, and going "Into the Woods."

Thirteen of the Best Years of My Life

Indy and I, but much, much younger.

Today is Indiana's 13th Birthday.  It's such a special day for us.  For those unfamiliar with her story, go here, and you'll see why every birthday with her is a gift.  We never expected to reach her 9th birthday, let alone her 13th.  She is such a special girl, such a fighter.  She has made me the person I am today.  Everything I know about parenting, I've learned from her. 

When I started looking through pictures yesterday for today's post, I started to feel very wistful.  Looking through my favorite puppy pictures, I almost started to cry.  We were both so different back then.  I like to think I was still a good Mom (though definitely not an educated Mom).  I was young and foolish and wanted to raise a happy dog.  I wasn't thinking about illness or cancer.  I was thinking that we both had our whole lives ahead of us; lives full of walks, and playing, and togetherness.  When that was almost taken away from me in 2006, I became a wholly different person.  A more educated one, to be sure, but a more cautious one as well.  I know understood the frailty of life.  I felt guilty that I hadn't understood better before.  In some ways, I wish I could go back to being the carefree person I was back in 1998.  I was still in college, and life seemed so open and free.  Indiana was young and healthy.  She could run and do anything she wanted.  I want that back for her more than anything.  But life doesn't work that way.  Dogs age (we all age), and we can't go back. 

So when I started to feel teary-eyed, looking through pictures of a more innocent time, I had to remind myself that today is a day of celebration.  A day to look forward and celebrate life, not a day to think, "What if" or "I wish."  Today is a day to celebrate the life that Indiana and I have been given, and to make sure, like I do every day, that today is the best darn day for her ever! 

With that in mind, I've gone through and found 13 of my favorite pictures of Indy throughout her life.  I hope you enjoy them and the stories that go along with them as much as I do!

This is Indy the first day we brought her home in 1998.  Oddly, I don't remember the exact date.  It was in June, that much I know.  She is standing here with my Grandma's dog Skippy, and I can't believe how tiny she is.  Tiny and fuzzy and soooooo naughty.  But smart.  That dog went to the bathroom in the house once and was totally house-trained within three days.  Wowza.  She's been freaking whip-smart ever since. 

This is Indy in the fall of 1998, at my college home in Champaign, Illinois.  I love this picture, because not only does she look really pretty, but I look at it and see her naughty streak.  You see, that yard was filled with sticks.  And Indiana's mission in life was to bring each and every stick from that yard into the house.  And then chew them to bits, either on my bed or in the living room.  And because I was in college, I pretty much never vacuumed up those bits, so our house was covered in a fine layer of chewed-up wood.  I remember one day when Indiana tried to bring a stick bigger than herself into the house, via the pet door.  I didn't think she'd be able to do it, because, well, physics and math and stuff, but after a few tries, she got that stick into the house.  And proceeded to chew it to bits on my bed.

We're still living in Champaign in the picture.  She's in the living room, but sadly, I must have vacuumed, because you can't see any wood bits lying around.  Hrmph.  I love this picture, because she's super happy, having just finished licking out a crock of butter.  That was back in the day when I didn't think about things like "Oils can give your dog diarrhea," only "Licking this container will make my dog really happy."  And it did.  And I don't particularly remember any diarrhea, so it must have turned out fine.

Okay.  We're onto a new house now.  We moved to South Wilmington, Illinois (the armpit of the Midwest) in 2000, so this picture is somewhere around 10 years old.  I love it because Indiana looks absolutely, madly insane.  She has always loved to sleep upside down, and it was really funny to walk into the room and see this. And frightening.  Also kind of frightening.

Also in South Wilmington.  Love that green carpeting.  I love this picture too, because, again, she looks so darn happy.  She has a bowl full of cancer-kibble (I fed crappy food back then), she has her Dad, and she's good to go.  Holy cats, does Jim look young in this picture.

Starved Rock State Park!  One of our favorite places to visit with the girls.  We always call it "Stairs Park," because, well, there are about a million stairs there, and Isis loves every single one of them.  When the girls were younger, we always tried to get to Starved Rock at least once or twice a year, because it was such a fun day for us.  The girls were really happy to be someplace new, and it was such an adventure.  Some of our happiest days have been spent there.

 This picture doesn't really have a story, but I love it because Indiana used to love to lay on the chaise (when she could still jump up there) and survey her kingdom.  Look at her eyes in this picture.  She's totally keeping an eye on something.  That's why she liked the chaise.  It was in the corner, facing out at the rest of the downstairs, so she could keep an eye on everything that was happening.  And that makes one happy herding dog.

Ah.  This picture represents the day that changed everything.  This is the day she came home from the hospital in 2006 after almost dying.  It's not a particularly good picture of Indiana.  (And please excuse the quality)  But I think it perfectly represents what she went through and how she triumphed.  She is shaved in more places than I can count (in this picture, you can see both her neck and her paw are shaved).  There is a cautiousness in her eyes.  Maybe it's the weight of what she's just been through.  We were so scared that day.  Happy and scared.  She was alive, she was home.  But we were still in a scary 10-day window where her sutured stomach could still burst and kill her instantly.  That was horrible to think about, and obviously it didn't happen, but it still haunts me if I think about it too much.  Moving on...

This picture was taken not long after the surgery (probably a few months later), as you can see that her neck is still missing lots of hair.  But I love this picture, because not only do my girls look happy and beautiful, but my Indy is alive!  This picture was taken at Lake Shelbyville, where my parents have a cabin.  We were so happy to make it down to the cabin with the girls and to resume a normal life with Indiana.  This picture was taken post-heart mass, so we still didn't know what Indiana's future held for her.  We were treasuring every moment and every special event with her.  That weekend at the cabin was so fun, and it was great to see Indiana back to hiking (and actually, we're geocaching with the girls in this picture--see the gold box in the forepicture?).  Those were uncertain times, but we were determined to make the most of every minute we had with Indy!

This picture is from Indiana's very first "re-birth" party, in 2007.  Every year, since 2007, we have had a big party to celebrate Indiana's triumph over cancer.  This picture is awesome, because she is so happy.  The guests are running a big human agility course (because we're mean but have amazing friends), and Indiana is barking and following all of them.  Oh, and you can see my nephew Ephraim's butt in this one too.  It's just a big ol' mess of fun.

This picture was also taken in 2007, taken in our back yard.  It is one of the happiest pictures we have, because the girls are having so much darn fun.  You could really get the girls riled up, chasing after each other like crazy gals.  (Well, actually, it was always Indy chasing Isis, because that's how they roll)  Jim would chase after them, and I would laugh and take pictures.  Good times!

God, there are so many other pictures I could post, but I had to pick my favorites.  And my favorites are from when Indiana was active and we were creating happy memories.  She's still happy today, mind you, but it makes me sad that she can't run, or even walk, the way she used to.  This picture though, is from earlier this spring, when we were able to start taking walks again.  Unlike in previous years, Indiana can't walk with Isis.  We walk a few hundred feet with Indiana, and that's an accomplishment.  So on days when Jim is home, Jim takes Isis out, and I stay with Indiana.  She likes to sit in the front yard and watch for Isis and Jim to return.  I love the intensity in her eyes in this picture.  She's just seen Jim, and she's just waiting for him to get closer.  It perfectly exemplifies the intensity of love and commitment this dog has for us.

Not to toot my own horn, but I hear comments all the time from people about what a wonderful job we've done with Indiana, and what great parents we are.  I love hearing that, of course, but my standard response, because it's true, is that it's easy to parent Indy.  She's so special.  Her depth of love for us is immeasurable.  I know she's still alive today because of that love and dedication.  How can I not try to return it?  I will spend every day of her life trying to live up to her expectations, to give her what she deserves.  So it's easy to sacrifice and spend most of my time making her life better.  Because what she gives to us...it can't be replicated.  I don't know why Jim and I were given this special gift, this amazing dog, unlike any other.  She is tough and strong.  Sweet and sympathetic.  Sensitive and loving.  In a word, amazing.  Happy Birthday to the best dog ever put on Earth.  You've made my life richer than I ever deserve.

He's Naughtier Than He Looks

Samson, that is, not Jim.  Oh, wait.  No, Jim's naughtier than he looks too.

This past weekend was the first really nice, spring-like weekend we've had in Illinois this year.  My cats have been pretty stir-crazy all winter, so now, when the weather is nice, they're spending lots of time outdoors.  Nice weather + previously cooped-up cats = trouble.

Samson is freakishly large and freakishly smart.  He's Maine Coon, so that means he's got brains, braun, and really dextrous paws.  (Have you ever seen a Maine Coon in action?  They use their paws just like raccoons--Sam even eats with his paws sometimes)  Though he's one of the nicest, friendliest cats on the planet (he has never met a stranger), Sam has a naughty streak a mile long.  As with any intelligent animal, if you don't keep their minds occupied, they find a way to do it themselves.  For Sam during the winter, this meant stealing bread.  He has a fascination with all things plastic and all things bread, so if you leave a wrapped loaf of bread on the counter...well, let's just say we don't do that anymore. 

And speaking of stealing bread, Sam stole a piece of bread out of the toaster the other day.  Jim probably could have stopped it before he did, but he wanted to see how it would play out.  We do that a lot.  It's really fun to watch Sam at work, so unless he's in danger, we often let him go ahead and be naughty, to challenge his brain, and honestly, to amuse ourselves.  

The biggest downside to having a smart, naughty cat, as we are learning this spring, is that live creatures outside are the single most interesting, challenging thing out there.  In the past four days, we've received one worm, one vole, one wet, dead mouse, and two snakes.  I am terrified of snakes.  I shutter to think what would happen if Sam were to bring one in when Jim isn't home. 

I've gotten over my fear of mice (sort of) and can catch one now by myself (if I have to--but if Jim's home, it's still totally his job), but I don't know what I'd do with a snake...My mouse method involves a broom and dustpan with a long handle (one of the ones that flips closed--it's perfect!), and I probably could use that if I had to, but the idea of even going near a snake makes my skin crawl.  Of course, I hate the thought of a snake in my house even more.  I'm just going to pretend it's never going to happen.  Maybe Sam will forget where his stash of snakes is (it's in my garden, by the way).  Maybe he'll transplant the stash all around the yard and forget where he put them.  I somehow doubt it though.  It's going to be a long spring.

Aha!

From "In the Company of Dogs"

Jim and I have been wracking our brains for a good year or so now about how best to bathe Indiana.  You see, we have three bathrooms in the house, one of which only has a toilet and sink, one has a shower and whirlpool tub, and the other is on the second floor.  None of these is an option for a nearly-thirteen-year-old arthritic dog.

Starting last year, Jim and I (courtesy of a grand idea from my Mom) started bathing Indiana in our utility room, in a kiddie pool.  We run an RV hose (because you can drink out of an RV hose, but not a regular garden hose--I have this idea that it makes the water purer for Indy) from our utility sink and bathe her in the pool.  It kind of works.  I mean, yes, it works, but there are a lot of drawbacks.  Like the fact that the pool is a little slippery, and mostly, that the pool is way too large to fit through the door outside to empty the water (since it doesn't have a drain) without oodles of water ending up on the floor in the process.  So I've been searching high and low for an alternative.

I don't mind a stinky dog, so don't think I'm bathing Indiana simply because I require a clean dog, because I don't.  But Indiana has had horrible seasonal skin allergies most of her life, which means she is itchy, itchy, itchy from about April until October.  Baths help ease that itchiness. 

I ran across the inflatable tub pictured above last night, while perusing a new copy of the In the Company of Dogs catalog.  (I love this catalog--the products are cute, high-quality, unique, and not terribly overpriced)  Anyway, when I saw this tub, I got really excited.  It's a much better option than a kiddie pool.  The sides unzip, making it easy for a stiff dog to walk in.  It has a drain (and is smaller than our kiddie pool), making it easy to dispose of the water.  And it has a nifty wash nozzle that will attach to the sink via our RV hose.  I have to take some measurements of Indy first (because she lays down when we bathe her--she can't stand for long periods of time anymore) to make sure she'll fit, but I'm fairly sold on buying this tub already.  I'll be showing it to Jim this afternoon to see what he thinks. 

I thought this was a pretty brilliant invention.  It's easy to look at it and say, "Why would anyone need that?  Just bathe your dog outside with a hose--why do you need a fancy bath?"  But if you think about the product in terms of an older dog, for someone who needs a portable indoor option, it's nearly perfect.  Here's to hoping it works for Indy.

Learning to Accept It

Last week, I talked about our new daily ritual, taking a walk as a family.  It's nice bonding time for Jim and I and the dogs, plus it's good for Indiana's arthritis and Isis'...ummmm...winter weight.  The only problem is that Indy can't walk as far as Isis, so she and I turn around and sit in the grass and wait for Jim and Isis to come back.  I love watching Indy watch for Isis, and it makes me feel special, getting to spend time all alone with my girl. 

Indy usually is happy to turn around, because walking is hard work for her.  It usually takes a little coaxing to get her to actually turn back.  She wants to continue with Jim but knows she can't.  Most days I take this in stride, but yesterday, it broke my heart. 

Indy turned around willingly, but then she turned back to watch Jim and Isis, who were at that point running off down the road.  I could tell that Indy wanted desperately to follow, to be able to run along side Isis as she used to.  But I could also tell that she knew it was impossible.  I wanted nothing more, in that moment, more than I've wanted anything in a long time, for her to be able to continue after her sister.  My heart was breaking for her, and I was helpless to make it better.  I bent down and hugged her and said, "I'm so sorry you can't go with." 

We made our way over to the grass and sat down and watched for their return.  I gave Indy a massage while we waited, and she seemed content to sit there and wait.  (She's always engrossed in watching for them, obsessed really)   

Jim and I work really hard to make sure that Indiana is at peace with her aging body.  Our vet warned us that frustration could be the worst thing for her; a frustrated dog is a miserable dog.  So we take great pains to bring her comfort and keep her mind occupied.  In that moment yesterday, I wondered what she was thinking.  Did she understand why her body wouldn't move the way she wanted it to?  Did she understand that we're doing everything under the sun for her?  Did she know that I would give anything, anything, to make it better? 

I don't want to sound ungrateful.  In less than a month, my girl will reach the huge milestone of turning 13 years old, a feat for any large-breed dog, let alone one who was supposed to die at 8.  I know that this is a miracle, and that every day with her is a gift.  I really do.  But some days, I am selfish.  I want more, more more.  I want Indy to be able to walk like a normal dog, to get up at every whim, to wander around the yard aimlessly and with no purpose. 

Aging is a process, both mental and physical, for the pet as well as the caretaker.  We as parents have to come to terms with aging, to fight it and stall it the best we can, but ultimately, to accept that it is a part of living.  Because the alternative isn't something we want.  I am thankful that Indiana is still alive to age, and I will spend the rest of her living days making them the best they can be.

Take A Walk With Us

Yesterday was the first truly beautiful day of the year, a day when I could finally believe that maybe, just maybe, spring is on its way.  We took that opportunity to take the girls for a walk.  Our vet didn't want us walking Indy during the winter, where she could slip on the ice and snow, so we've been waiting for good weather to come our way. 

Indy's stamina isn't very high, but the exercise will do her arthritis good, so we knew we needed to start slow.  It's tempting to let our stiff, arthritic animals just sit around, which is kind of what they want to do, but if you think about it, moving those joints is the best thing you can do for them.  Moving the joints encourages the production of synovial fluid, the natural lubricant in our joints that prevents bone from rubbing against bone. 

Indy was eager to get outside, as was Isis.  Indy was also moving pretty well, which was heartwarming.  The past year or so, she's had a hugely pronounced limp, which was significantly diminished yesterday.  Hooray!  We only walked her a few hundred feet before turning her around, so as not to overdo it.  She seemed ready.

Isis, however, was not, so Jim continued on with Isis while I went back with Indiana.  Indy's usually pretty uncomfortable with this arrangement, because (a) she is left out and (b) she can't keep track of her "pack."  So I was surprised that she only looked back a few times on the walk back home.  When I got her into the driveway, I turned around to look at her, and I see this:



She had gotten to the top of the driveway (our house is on a little hill, sort of), turned around, and laid down to watch for Jim and Isis.  My heart died at the adorableness of it.  So I walked back and sat next to her to wait.  We spent a lot of time snuggling, with me petting and kissing her.  She was ignoring me, instead choosing to focus her attention on the impending return of her Dad and sister.

Then, oh glorious day, she saw Daddy emerge from the trees, with Isis in tow.



See the intensity in her eyes?  That cracks me up.  She's staring at her Dad and sister to make sure they're actually headed home.  When they got close, Indy stood up to greet them.  She was pretty happy (and relieved) to have them back.  It was ok to head into the house now.



There's my sweet family, headed in from a great afternoon together.  I love how Isis' tongue is practically falling on the ground.  She definitely needs more exercise .  We're planning on daily walks now that the weather is good.  It will benefit us all, not just physically, but mentally too.

A Fairy Tail

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess named Jen. Princess Jen owned lots of cats, and this was good, for Princess Jen loved her cats with all her heart.

Princess Jen and her handsome husband Prince Jim lived in their castle full of cats. Sometimes the cats would fight, but over time, the cats grudgingly accepted each other, and peace reigned in the Schneider castle.

Then one day, evil Old Man Winter descended upon the Schneiders. He took away the sunshine and made the world cold. The tenuous hold on peace that the Princess had gained was suddenly ripped away. Cats fought with cats; floors, and even boots, were peed upon. With their precious outdoors a winter wasteland, the Princess' cats started to grow mad from the seclusion.

One night, as the Princess attempted to slumber in her bed (and the Prince was off fighting Nuclear Power in the far off lands of Braidwood), the cats began a war in her home. No sooner would the Princess drift off to sleep than she would be ripped out out of it by the battle cry of the cat. The Princess sprung from her bed, armed with her trusty squirting water bottle, prepared to do battle amongst the cats. After multiple attempts, a shaky peace was achieved in the Princess' castle, and she was able to crawl back into bed, finally, after several hours.

Just when the Princess thought all was well in her home, the light of dawn brought another round of fighting. The cats had agreed, reluctantly, to a treaty of peace the night before, but the Princess could tell that these promises could easily be broken. The threat of the trusty squirting water bottle was enough to coerce the cats back into their corners. Secure in the belief that peace had once again been restored in her home, the Princess returned to bed.

Minutes later, she was awoken by an intruder in her bed. What did the intruder intend? Which of the cats was it? Alas, the Princess could not be sure, for the intruder ran off at the sound of the Prince returning from his quest. Awakening from her sleep, the Princess realized that the intruder had invaded her territory not only to drive her mad, but also to pee in her bed. Twice. The Princess suspected that her home had been invaded then by not one, but two cats during the night. She would never be safe again.

The Princess, having been dominated by the cats, arose from bed to feed them, lest they get very angry and pee on more things. The cats continued to fight, until the Princess declared that she could stand no more. Desperate with fear and frustration, the Princess took to the couch, seeking refuge in her beloved Facebook.

Seconds went by before she was approached by one of the cats. But this was no ordinary cat. This was the brave Mr. Squiggles, a calm, peaceful warrior, who though fond of peeing on carpeting and shoes, never, ever peed in her bed. Mr. Squiggles crawled upon her lap and fell asleep, content to simply be in the presence of the Princess. And while the Princess could still hear the far off sounds of cats fighting, she ignored them. The sun was shining, Old Man Winter would some day be leaving her lands, and all would be well once again in the castle. They would live Happily Ever After.

The End.

Dog Makes Everything Better

Sometimes my animals astonish me, and last night was no exception. A random, innocent gesture (calling Gus a nickname I used to use for Mr. Squiggles, but had forgotten) eventually led to a full-scale meltdown later in the evening, as Jim and I were laying in bed with Indiana. I try not to think about Mr. S too much, because I can't cry every day, as I would otherwise want to. Add all of our other losses to that, and I repress a lot of grief. That has to come out every once in a while, and last night, the nickname was the straw that broke the camel's back.

I hate crying in front of Indiana (it makes her upset), but I just couldn't help myself. Jim was so sweet and understanding, encouraging me to let it all out, and knowing he was crying and hurting too made it all that much worse. In the midst of all the tears, Indiana got up from the foot of the bed, walked between us, and laid down. We used to call this "Mama-Papa Puppy Time," because she used to do it nearly every night with us. She'd start between us, with us kissing her, petting her, talking to her, and after 5-10 minutes, she'd grow tired of the affection and would get up and lay back down at the foot of the bed. Indy hasn't given us Mama-Papa Puppy Time (or MPPT, as we call it) in ages. So when she did it last night, we were astonished.

This amazing dog read our emotions and was trying to comfort us. Boy, did it work.

So as I dried my tears and tried to put on a happy face for this sympathetic dog, I found I actually did feel better. And Jim was right when he told me that we have so many things still left to love in our lives. One of the very best was laying right between us.

Best. Daddy. Ever.

My furry babies are lucky to have the best Dad in the world. In fact, they have a whole slew of wonderful father figures. Both Grandpas are good to them too. (And both Grandmas, to be perfectly equitable.)

Jim would do anything for our pets, and I know this is sort of a rare trait for a male to have. I'm really fortunate, because I've never, ever had to fight him on anything when it comes to our kids. We've always seen eye-to-eye on every big decision, and there have been plenty of those. Expensive, risky, potentially life-saving cancer surgery? Of course. Camping out in a hotel out of town while Indiana has an overnight stay (or four overnight stays) in the hospital? Why wouldn't we? Flying in a search and rescue dog on the off chance he might provide a clue as to where our missing cat went? Absolutely.

Then there are the little things. (And they're really not so little, in my mind) He's thrilled to feed the babies a raw diet, and he usually puts the meals together so I, a vegetarian, don't have to touch the meat. (Actually, he's feeding the babies breakfast right now so I can spend time blogging.)

Jim goes out of his way to talk to the kids, usually in cute voices. He's currently "talking" for Gus in a baby voice, giving me a play-by-play of Gus' activities. And he just walked in to re-enact a physical showdown by the boys. Nothing warms your heart more than a man getting mushy over a kitten.

He has spent numerous days building special projects for the kids, like the playhouse and the indoor basement therapy pool, and he's perfectly happy with the loads of toys and play structures scattered around the inside of the house. The project he's currently mulling around in his head is a play structure for the cats...that rests on the wall of the Great Room...and allows them to climb up the wall...

I am so fortunate to have a husband who has the same values as I, and I know my kids benefit from that as well. I'm also lucky that he understands and is experiencing the same emotional turmoil as I am over the loss of Mr. Squiggles. I have a literal shoulder to cry on, and that shoulder cries right back. Really, our family couldn't ask for a better Daddy. Happy Father's Day to the best darn Papa in the whole world.

'A Traveling We Will Go

A few weeks ago, Jim and I went out of town for 5 days, the first time we've traveled since Mr. Squiggles went missing while on vacation in Paris. After Indiana was diagnosed with kidney disease back in October, we thought our days of vacationing were over. Daily kidney fluids and shots multiple times a week were too much to foist on my parents, our usual dog-sitters. Plus, a fiasco with our (now-ex) cat sitter a few months ago left us without someone to watch our cats. Getting away for more than a night seemed impossible.

But, alas, Jim and I were both born with a ferocious desire to experience the world, and going too long without traveling makes us cranky and unsettled. Back B.C. (Before Cancer, as we refer to life now), we went on 4-5 trips a year. After Cancer, we thought we'd never travel again, but the travel bug bit us, and we eventually settled into a routine of 2 big trips and a couple of weekend getaways a year. So when disease struck again, it was natural to vow to stop traveling, but also completely unrealistic.

Jim had the opportunity to represent the United States at the World Sudoku Championship in Philadelphia, the third time he's earned this honor. The competition is really important to him, so of course we'd find a way for him to go. But selfishly, I wanted to go along too. I knew I'd be a nervous wreck staying at home, wondering how it was going, whether he was doing well, whether he was frustrated. We knew we had to find a way to make it work. We'd see.

Everything needed to fall into place simultaneously. We needed sitters for the animals, we needed someone to do Indiana's kidney fluids, and I needed to make sure I could get the weekend off from work (but still make it back in time for a Sunday afternoon concert--yes, I am crazy.) A flash of genius made us ask Jim's parents, who are very busy but retired, to come stay with all four pets at our house. Being the wonderful people they are, they agreed. Yay! One big hurdle overcome. Next up was fluids. Our only option, really, was the vet tech at our vet's office, Amanda. She's amazing and kind, and we were hoping she'd be willing to help us out. Allelujia! She was! Last on the list was work, and since my choir director is one of the nicest, most understanding people on the planet, he was fine with my plan to fit both travel and work into one weekend. Gosh! I have the best people in my life!

Jim and I were astonished that everything fit together so easily for us. Perhaps it was meant to be? Were our fates changing? Meticulous planning let us leave for the trip knowing our kids were in good hands, and we had finished our escape-proof cat fencing about a month prior, so we knew our feline babies were safe from harm. We left for the trip confident that all would be well, and though we checked on our clan every day, I was amazingly able to relax and not worry every moment. We returned home from a fantastic weekend with great memories, new friends, and proof that good things actually do happen sometimes. We can leave for a vacation, and our world won't always fall apart.

Our 10th wedding anniversary is approaching in August, and we had always planned on returning to Hawaii to celebrate. (Our wedding was Hawaiian-themed and we spent our honeymoon in Oahu). While our successful trip to Philadelphia taught us that it's probably safe to go away, we still aren't comfortable being an 8+ hour flight away from home. Should (God forbid) something happening with Indiana, we're more comfortable sticking to the continental United States, where we could fly home lickity-split. So the plan is Disney World, but we'll stay at the Polynesian Resort to satisfy our Hawaiian craving.

We still have things to figure out--cat sitter and fluid-giver, but we're confident we can make it work. And when we go, we'll know that the babies are in good hands. I'll still call home every day though--let's not get ridiculous.

Things I've Learned From My Dog: Heartache

I am no stranger to heartache. Indiana's illness quickly indoctrinated me into that world. My own pain grew into the pain of others, as I met my online cancer friends and experienced their pain and eventual loss. That's been pretty consistent for me, though over time I have learned to better separate my pain from theirs.

Now I am experiencing yet another heartache. Our beloved cat, Mr. Squiggles, is missing. We came home from vacation Friday night, and we still haven't seen him. We had a sitter staying with him, and he takes great care of our boys. He feels tremendously guilty about this, but we don't blame him in the slightest. It could have happened while we were home.

But it didn't. I can't stop blaming myself for this. What was he thinking while we were gone? Did he miss us? Was he angry that we left? If he's dead, did he die knowing we weren't with him?

These thoughts haunt me. I should never have gone on vacation. I don't see how I can ever travel again. This was one of my worst fears, and it has come true. I was supposed to protect and care for my boy, and I failed.

Life feels very dark right now. Jim and I are taking care of each other, as we cannot care for ourselves. We still have hope that we'll find him, and we're doing everything we can to make that happen. We will not give up.

But in the quietest moments of the night, we are reminded that he is not here. He is out there, somewhere, missing. I hope and pray that he is alive and well, just not able to make it back right now. I won't give up on him.

It will be a long road for us, especially the longer he is gone. I won't be alone; I have my old friend heartache to keep me company.

Things I've Learned From My Dog: Listen!

We had a brief (and actually very minor, in the grand scheme of things) scare with Indiana this week; she stopped eating!

She's done this before, about two years ago. It's scary every time, given her history. My mind goes terrible places at first. Oh, God, why isn't she eating? Is she sick? Is it the cancer? It's the cancer, isn't it? How will I ever be able to deal with it? I can't go through this again. Why is this happening? Why? Then I take a deep breath and tell myself to shut up! For heaven's sake.

Turns out, Indiana, who isn't a picky eater, is a picky eater. The first time, she was turning her nose up at her food because we were trying to sneak pills into it. So out went the pills, and in came a new brand of food. We thought this round of food-snubbery was related to a new pill she's taking--a bit of stomach upset?--and fed her canned pumpkin that night to settle her stomach. The next day, she was still turning her nose up at the food, but she was acting completely normal. Hmmm. "Let's give her some of the cats' raw food," I thought to myself. "Let's experiment here." Sure enough, she ate that raw food like it was going out of style. Hallelujah!

We're still feeding Isis the homemade raw food, but Indiana is eating a locally-made raw food, Nature's Quest. Jim feels bad about this switch, because we were obviously feeding homemade because we felt it was the healthiest thing for our pets. I don't feel so bad about it though. It's not like we're going from raw to kibble. We're still talking about a high-quality, fresh diet, made by a company I trust (I've met one of the owners and traded emails with the other--they started feeding raw to their pets for the same reasons we did, only they decided to make a living out of it!).

For whatever reason, Indiana is done with the homemade food for the timebeing. She made that abundantly clear. We'll give her some time off and try the homemade food again. But it has gotten me to thinking. Even though we give our girls a good rotation of meat--a different source(chicken, turkey, lamb, or buffalo) every 5 meals and a different mix of fresh veggies and fruit every batch--it wasn't enough variety for Indiana. Maybe going back to the homemade isn't the right way to go. Maybe a rotation of different meats and different brands of commercial raw foods is right for her. It's so hard to know.

But what I do know is to listen to Indiana. She's pretty clear about what she wants, and why shouldn't I trust that?

Things I've Learned From My Dog: Raw Food Diets

It's no coincidence that my first real "meaty" post (oops...no pun intended!) on this blog is about raw food diets. The raw diet is probably the best thing I've learned from Indiana's experience, and something I wish with all my heart I had learned about 11 years ago when I became a parent. Alas, I had to learn the hard way. Don't make the same mistake I did! Learn about raw food now, read about it with an open mind, and give it a try. I guarantee you won't regret it.

I first learned about the raw food diet from the wonderful Dr. Karen Becker. On our first consultation with her, after Indiana's cancer diagnosis, she explained that it was vitally important that dogs with cancer eat a grain-free diet. Standard commercial kibbles and canned foods are PACKED with grain (mostly corn). Honestly, grain isn't good for a healthy pet, let alone one with a weakened immune system. Cancer feeds off carbs (especially true for tumor-based cancers), so feeding a diet high in grains is essentially feeding the cancer. Indiana had struggled with weight problems her whole life, so we had her on a kibble that we felt was the healthiest. While I won't name names just yet, it was a "premium" kibble, and it was the "weight management" formula, which Dr. Becker informed me was around 80% grains. Gasp! Aren't dogs carnivores, for heaven's sake?

And so we began our slow transition to raw foods. Both Indiana and Isis were put on canned foods alone--no kibble (canned is so much healthier for dogs, because it has more meat and more moisture). Slowly, we added in raw foods over a period of about eight months. Dr. Becker was really careful with Indiana, because of the fact that she's missing part of her stomach. We also added in a digestive enzyme, Prozyme (it's good stuff) to help. We still use Prozyme today, with all of our pets.

A lot of people have a tough time with the idea of a raw diet. They worry about the bacteria. Well, many vets think dogs' stomachs are much more adapted to bacteria than our own, making the bacteria not a big deal. Plus, if you handle the meat properly (keeping it frozen, etc.), bacteria shouldn't be an issue. We've fed raw exclusively for two and a half years now with no problems whatsoever. For crying out load, doesn't your dog eat poo or dead animals off the ground? I know mine do. No bacteria there, uh uh.

Other parents are concerned that raw food is "gross." I'm a vegetarian, folks; if I can do it, you can do it.

Another worry about raw food is the cost. Is it more expensive than kibble? You bet. Is it worth every penny? No doubt. I won't deny that not every family can afford to feed a raw diet. But every family should consider a raw diet and see if they can swing the cost. I'm going to be incredibly unhelpful here and tell you I have no idea how much I spend each month on pet food. It's a lot. But feeding our kids the healthiest diet possible is a big priority for Jim and I, and we're willing to make budget cuts in other places in order to keep our kids in fresh meat. I feel so good about feeding raw, I'll always find a way to make it work.

The biggest obstacle you'll reach is probably your veterinarian, unless you're blessed to have someone like Dr. Becker. I'll save the drama for another post, but I'll just make this statement: vet school nutrition classes are taught by the commercial pet food brand manufacturers. A bias there, perhaps? Do your research, follow your gut instinct, and sometimes you just have to do your own thing. I actually had an oncologist basically tell us we would kill Indiana by putting her on the raw diet. Hrmph. Shows how much she knows.

So I've talked a bit about common raw food concerns. You're probably still wondering--if it's so controversial, what makes it so great? Aha. Here's where it gets good. The benefits of a raw food diet include, but are certainly not limited to:

• weight control (Indiana is at her ideal weight for the first time EVER!)
• decrease in allergies (many pets are allergic to grains)
• immune boosting (fresh, chemical-free ingredients--it's ideal!)
• improved joint function
• clear skin and shiny coat

Take those benefits and multiply them by 1000, which will then tell you how awesome the raw diet is. I seriously understate it.

It's important to mention that kibbles aren't the best diet for a pet. They're processed--highly processed. I could blabber on forever about this (and I will later, trust me), but Dr. Becker puts it best, I think:

"To think we could sustain life on a 100% processed diet is conceivable, but to thrive…it’s not possible. Much like trying to sustain your kids on Ensure© liquid beverage; it’s 100% nutritionally complete but if that’s all kids were fed generation after generation, overall health would deteriorate. All life requires living foods for health. Can you and your pets survive on canned/boxed foods? Sure. Can you or you pets thrive on canned/boxed foods? No. It’s that simple."

Over the next week or so, I'll be sharing more about my pets' diets with you. I make a homemade diet (vet-approved), so I'll share pictures of our process. I ask you to follow me with an open mind, and I encourage you to do your own research. There's a lot of information out there, both pro and con, and I suggest you read both. I'll talk about diet a lot over the course of this blog, as diet is the fundamental building block of health. I also happen to be pretty obsessed with the topic!

I'll leave you with a few great websites about food:

• Dr. Karen Becker, DVM, NMD of Natural Pet Animal Hospital
• Primal Pet Foods, makers of my favorite raw foods
• DogFoodAnalyis.com. Find out how your pet's kibble rates
• The Dog Food Project. Anything and everything about diet

Indiana's Battle: The Story

Today is Indiana's Birthday--or at least, the day she was reborn free of cancer. Three years ago today, I nearly lost the furry love of my life. This is a post I've been dreading ever since I first thought about starting a blog. It's a very important story to tell, as it's made me who I am today, both as a parent and as a person.

As I start to write this, I can already feel butterflies in my stomach, a heavy feeling in my chest, and tears getting ready for their inevitable moment to shine. In three years, I've only written the story once or twice, and I've never actually talked about it, at least not all of it. It's been a defense mechanism for me, to keep the pain from overtaking me. I don't really want to write it now. I know the tears will flow and my heart will want to burst with pain. It sounds melodramatic, I know, but that day was more traumatic than I can even describe.

So be warned that this isn't an easy post to write, and it isn't an easy story to read. I do think it's important though--both for me to write it and you to read it. It helps you understand who I am, who Indiana is. While the story itself is heartbreaking, it does have a good outcome, and I hope it brings hope to others who feel like they are facing a future without hope. There is ALWAYS hope. So here we go.

In 2006, Indiana had been throwing up on and off for a few weeks. I should have been concerned about this, but I just figured that it happened sometimes with dogs. Perhaps she'd eaten something weird. In retrospect, the vomit was bloody, but at the time I just thought it was dark from food.

One day I was at my parents' house with the dogs. Indiana had been acting off, which worried me. We watched her go to the bathroom in the yard and walked over to see if it looked normal. It did not. Her stools were black and tarry. My Mom and I decided she needed to see the vet. We took her in, and they suspected a gastrointestinal bug. They gave her a steroid shot and some antibiotics and sent us home. The next day, Indiana did feel better, and I was so relieved. This was short-lasting though, as she grew more lethargic the following day.

Jim and I were supposed to go out of town for the party of some friends, but we postponed leaving to take her to the vet. I'll never forgive myself, because we nearly left. Her gums were pale, she wasn't feeling well, and I was still so torn because I had a responsibility to our friends, whom we were helping to organize the party. I had her in my Mom's car and nearly let her go. Ultimately, I just couldn't do it. Jim and I took Indy back to the vet. She had little energy and couldn't even stand for an exam.

I found out later that the vets suspected she was bleeding out from hemangiosarcoma, the most common cause of acute anemia.

Our vets did a blood test, and sent us home for the night, telling us they'd call in the morning but would most likely send us to the University of Illinois Vet Med Hospital. Why we didn't just take her then, I don't know.

The next morning will haunt me forever. I woke up early, around 6:00 a.m. Indiana wasn't with us in bed, which was unusual. I got up to look for her and couldn't find her. Eventually I found her laying under the back deck. I know now my precious baby had gone there to die. Oh, crap, here come the tears. I was able to get Indiana inside, but she had no energy, wouldn't eat, and her gums and tongue were pure white.

I finally got a hold of the vet at 7:30 a.m., and she only said, "I recommend taking her to the U of I right away." She got everything set up for us--calling ahead, making sure they were ready for Indiana.

Unfortunately, Jim couldn't go with us to the hospital. Our friends had left several days before, and we had all of the decorations and food for the party the next day---8 hours away. Thankfully, our friends arranged for their cousin to bring the supplies out to them, so Jim only had to drive a few hours up to the suburbs of Chicago. Still, I hated that he couldn't be with us.

My parents drove Indy and I down to the U of I. It was a horrible hour and fifteen minutes. Bless my Dad, because he drove much faster than usual to get my girl to the hospital. I just sat in the back of the van with her, on her bed, talking to her, loving her, telling her I loved her.

When we got to the U of I, we helped Indiana out of the car, and she promptly collapsed. My heart sank. This was bad. I ran in to get help while my parents stayed with Indiana. My Mom tells me that she said to Indiana, as they layed on the pavement, "Don't you dare die." U of I was great, because they immediately sent out some students with a gurney, so by the time I got back outside, they were already lifting her on. I couldn't go with her, because they needed to stabilize her. It was horrible letting her go, not knowing what would happen.

God, I had to walk away just now. I was crying so hard I couldn't see or breathe. I had to call my wonderful Mom, who listened and helped me feel better. I'm sitting on the back porch, on the swing, with Indiana at my feet. We're watching the cats wrestle. Back to the story.

After the students took Indiana, we were immediately led into a private waiting room, which I later learned was where they take grieving families so they can have privacy. This room would be our home for the next 12 and a half hours. A doctor, one of the most beautiful, wonderful human beings on the planet, Dr. Karine Eusanio, came in to give us a quick update and get approval for tests and treatments. She told us she couldn't stay with us long, as Indiana needed to be stabilized. She was very touch and go.

We were, over the course of many hours, told that Indiana was bleeding from a mass in her stomach. The blood packed cell volume of a normal dog is somewhere in the 40s--Indiana's was at 7 or 8, meaning she was incredibly anemic.

Jim had thankfully arrived by this point. He had no clue how serious Indiana's situation was. He didn't take the news well, but we needed each other, and clung to each other to survive. Thank God my parents were still there with us.

The doctors sort of recommended an endoscopy to biopsy the mass in Indiana's stomach. This surgery of course came with risks, all of which were amplified on my dying dog. We were told if the tumor was cancerous, they wouldn't pursue any further treatment.

The endoscopy was performed, and the surgeon, Dr. Thomas Graves, told us the tumor appeared benign. He was the first person to give us real hope all day. One of the oncology surgeons, whose name will never appear on the pages of this blog, said she disagreed with Dr. Graves, that the tumor was probably cancerous. Dr. Graves and Dr. Eusanio (and who knows who else) gave us our options at this point. We had two. Do surgery, or let her die. Without surgery, she would be dead before the day ended. Surgery would stop the bleeding, but they were convinced she'd die on the table because of her blood loss. The aforementioned, never-to-be-named oncology surgeon wouldn't do the surgery, because she was convinced it was cancer. Why save a dog, just so she'd have cancer? (Have I mentioned yet how much I hate her?) She never even met with us. If not doing the surgery meant Indiana would die, then we felt we had no option but to do the surgery.

Dr. Eusanio, who had at this point become our angel, understood us, and what was in our hearts, and knew we wanted the surgery done. I think she felt as well that Indiana wouldn't survive, but she wanted us to have the chance to try. They found a surgical resident (Dr. Tobin Eshelman, our other angel) who would do the surgery. He explained the surgery to us, as well as the risks, both surgical and post-op. He didn't know exactly what he'd find when he opened her up. I know everyone there thought we were grasping at straws to save this dog. They all felt bad for us, I think, but they were sure she'd die. Drs. Eshelman and Eusanio were honest about how grim our situation was.

When all of the paperwork was signed, and I had put down a hefty down-payment on the treatment (take every dollar I have--just save her!), the doctors told us they wanted us to come back to the ICU and say goodbye to Indiana. Not just until after the surgery. A real goodbye. Her chances of waking up were very slim, and that moment was looking like our last time to ever see her.

This is the part of the story that rips my heart into pieces. Jim and I walked into the ICU to see our dog for the first time all day. She looked horrible beyond words. She could barely lift her head or move at all. The doctors had her lying on the ground in front of her cage. There were doctors everywhere, watching closely for any changes, but giving us as much privacy as possible. We laid down on the ground next to our precious baby. I hungrily kissed her and smelled her, wanting to make those memories last forever, just in case. We talked to her and told her over and over how much we loved her. We told her that she was the best dog any parents could ever hope for, and that we were so lucky to have her in our lives. My Mom and Dad were able to come in for a few minutes to say goodbye as well. After they left, we only had a few more minutes before the doctors needed to work on another dog--parents aren't really supposed to be in the ICU at all, so we needed to leave soon. I hugged and kissed my precious baby, told her I loved her, and looked at her for what could have been the very last time.

The minute I walked out of that room, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. I was so heartbroken and angry. It wasn't fair that this was happening. I wanted Indiana well. This was all just a bad dream, wasn't it? Surely I would wake up soon. My heart ached for her, and my arms longed to hold her. I had taken a small piece of fuzz off of her fur when I saw her, and now that piece of fuzzy fur was my lifeline to her. Would it be the last part of her I would ever hold? The doctors promised that if she died on the table, they would allow us to come in and see her one last time.

The next four hours or so were the longest of my life. The hospital got quieter and quieter, as patients and then staff left for the day. I couldn't eat, read, sleep, or do anything. I listened intently for footsteps, praying every time that they weren't heading our way--it was still too soon. In my heartache and desperation, I made a pact with God. If only he would save her, I would give him something else special to me. Not another family member, but something still dear to me--my dream of being a singer. I was very early in my career at the time, and I was following a life-long dream, just a little later than most. I told God that I would give it up though, if it meant saving Indiana. Singing was who I was, but I was also nothing without my baby. Take it, I thought. Take it and save her. Just give me a sign it's what you want.

Just after 9:00 p.m., we saw Dr. Eusanio in the hallway. She told us that Indiana had come through the surgery, amazingly, and was being brought into recovery. Everyone was amazed that she had made it this far. It seemed that one big hurdle had been jumped. We waited another hour and a half for the surgeon to finish his last surgery. At 11:00 p.m., after Dr. Eshelman promised to call us if anything changed, we left the hospital and checked into a hotel. God Bless the Holiday Inn Express.

Nighttime passed without incident. We were anxious to get back to Indiana. To be honest, I remember little about the days that followed. They've all blurred together a bit for me. Indiana became over-hydrated from her IVs, and began having heart problems. That was scary, but she eventually pulled through. My parents came down every day to visit us--both Indiana as well as Jim and I. They would bring us lunch, and we'd sit in the park across from the hospital. I didn't want to go far from her, plus the park was where we had spent many evenings with Indiana while we were in college. I know we wouldn't have survived that week without my parents. We stayed in a hotel the first night but spent a few nights with our friends Tim and Beth. (Thank you both, if you ever read this--you'll never know how important seeing you was to us--it was such a needed break from the hospital).

Jim had to go back to work after a few days, so my Mom got a hotel for us and stayed with me. I had vowed not to go back home until Indiana was with me. I carried that piece of fuzzy hair in my pocket at all times, even when it became a matted mess. I also carried her leash and her favorite stuffed toy, Mr. Oppossum. I even took Mr. O into restaurants and stores. He was my link to her and my good luck charm. My sweet parents, who were babysitting Isis this whole time, brought another toy of Indiana's and placed some of Isis's hair on it. That way the toy could stay with Indiana, and she could smell home and her sister.

Indiana got better and better each day. We had been warned that she might be in the hospital up to two weeks, but after 5 nights in the hospital, they were ready to send her home. We weren't out of the woods yet, as her stomach staples could still leak. If that happened, there would be nothing they could do, and she would die. Still, she had overcome so much.

The day we brought her home was amazing! My Mom and I drove back home in the morning to get the house ready. Out went all of the old bones and chewies (Indiana was now missing an important part of her stomach and could easily get an intestinal blockage). The mattress went on the floor, so Indiana could just walk onto it and still sleep with us at night. That afternoon, my parents, Jim, and I, drove down and brought our baby home! It was bittersweet, as she had survived, yet she wasn't out of the woods yet. She also didn't seem all that excited to be home. I know now it was because of the stress of the surgery.

My precious girl recovered from serious gastric surgery--part of her stomach was removed along with the pyloric sphincter. She had a nearly 18 inch incision on her stomach and chest and more staples than I could count. Her two week window of stomach leakage came and went, and she continued to recover. My happy, beautiful dog came back to me again. So what if she was missing hair on her neck, all four legs, various patches on her sides, her stomach, and her butt. She was beautiful because she was Indiana, and she was alive.

I hope by reading this, you take away several things. First, miracles can and do happen. We were given a miracle that day. Second, always follow your heart. If we had listened to the doctors, our baby would be dead. Doctors don't always know best, but your heart does. Third, never give up hope, even when it seems like there is none. There is ALWAYS hope.

That day changed my life forever. Some for the bad, but mostly for the good. I am a far better parent today. I learned much the hard way, and that's why I'm working so hard to help others. I don't want anyone else to have to learn the way I did.

I am forever indebted to Dr. Eusanio and Dr. Eshelman. They gave me my baby back and helped us when others wouldn't. Both doctors are now gone from the U of I, and I know wherever they are today, the patients are better off because of them. I will remember them until the day I die.

Thank you to those of you who've made it this far in the story. Thanks for letting me tell it, really for the first time. It has done my heart good. My gorgeous girl still sits by my feet, keeping watch over the cats and the back yard. My dog is alive, well, and happy, and all is well with the world.