Ruminations

I woke up in tears this morning.

Not exactly immediately, but it began when my first thought was not to glorify God, as has been my habit. For at least a year now, maybe more, I try to make my first thought of the day a prayer, an acknowledgement of God's infinite glory. Sometimes it's simple, sometimes it's the "Gloria" from Mass. Sometimes I sing it, if even in my thoughts, and sometimes it's some other tune. And that's a great way to start the day.

This morning though, I was exhausted for some reason (working until 9:30 on Wednesday nights, getting home after 10, and to sleep even later is NOT conducive to a good night's sleep for me). Well, my German Shepherd greeted my groggy self with a Fire-patented "hug". She ducked her head against my chest and stood quietly so I could rub her neck and scratch behind her ears. She doesn't have the same "hug" as Fire did, considering she doesn't have his elegant form and long, sleek neck, but she learned this particular gesture from him. And that started me off thinking about the day I had to put him to sleep.

I came downstairs in tears, feeling somewhat ridiculous, but figuring that with all the stress of the semester now at an end, with all the stress of last-minute Christmas preparations upon me, perhaps I was just overwhelmed. Ever since my Dad passed away I get a little weird like this as we get closer to the anniversary of his death. (Jan. 3).

I went to check my email while sipping my morning coffee and listening to the news on TV, and found Ma Beck's post about "Pigeon Man", Joseph Zeman.

I was already primed for more tears, and this story did me in. I've never seen the man, but there are echoes in his story that speak of someone who understands that life is beautiful, life is precious, and God cares for those most consider to be "vermin".

And of course, the man was pronounced dead at St. Francis Hospital.

My dad's last words were "St. Francis! St. Francis!", and at a hospital by the same name, he spent his last moments and passed away.

St. Francis, indeed. St. Francis, pray for us all.

Thank God I didn't spend my day in that same melancholy; the storm of tears passed as quickly as it was upon me, and I went about my day in good cheer, although somewhat addled just from being tired. You all know what that's like. (Are Thursdays the worst day of the week for you, too? They are almost worse than Mondays!)

I've been back on the search for a Spiritual Director, and a few weeks ago, after a particular incident involving some religious sisters with a connection to Padre Pio got my attention, I met with a local priest. I'd heard of him and know him by reputation only, and made an appointment. He had told me up front that he couldn't take on any other directees, but I realized I needed to take some kind of step towards Spiritual Direction, and sometimes God just sends us links. He was very kind and invited me to make an appointment, even after I expressed that I knew he was busy and I feared wasting his time. In the end the appointment was set and I went.

He was helpful, gave some advice for some steps to follow, some people to contact, etc. And then he said something that surprised me: he said that he'd told me before that he can't take on anyone else, but he agreed I am in need of spiritual direction, no doubt. So he told me to keep searching, and if I really can't find anyone, to call him back, because he doesn't know what God is asking him to do. He doesn't want to close the door if it also means closing the door on God.

I appreciate that, and completely understand!

There was two things he suggested; I have been able to fulfill one. The other involves a retreat, which was not time-bound. He is extremely familiar with the issues in this area, he understands the problems with cost in flying out to attend discernment retreats, and so it's not something I'm sweating at the moment. At this point, I'm considering a private, silent retreat for lack of anything solid or that I can afford, and it's best to be IN spiritual direction at that time.

For a long time now I've been seeking and waffling about spiritual direction, and there really is nowwhere to go...but to him. I'm still praying, but I think I will be calling him back. At least to start out. It's not as if I'll be on his doorstep every week. (It's not as if I actually have the TIME for ANY of this!)

God's grace. That's all I can lean on. That's all I have. And even as I know this priest is extremely busy and overworked, (as are all great priests in our area!) I think I have to be open to the same thing he is; God's call to obedience. If there is no one else, it must be him. Until God says different.

I'm so conflicted about many things. And I'm not necessarily talking about discernment of religious life here. I've found that with a grad program, coupled with a long-time search for an SD, well, the ante has been upped, and I can't reach holiness without assistance.

Grief

I have several neighbors who love animals, and they have often seen me walking my dogs and have commented on them. My greyhound especially garnered much attention as they are relatively rare (being a misunderstood breed - people incorrectly think them to be hyper so discount them as potential pets).

Several of my neighbors have asked about him, where he is, and what happened. When I still had him, as I took him out to do his business one afternoon, one of my neighbors was just coming home from work and asked me if he injured himself? I explained he had bone cancer and nothing could be done. She was very sympathetic and spoke about what a nice dog he was.

Slowly, now, these same people are recognizing that Fire isn't around anymore. As I set out on our morning walk yesterday, one of my neighbors, not having realized that Fire had been sick, stopped and inquired as to where he was. I explained that I had to put him to sleep at the end of July; he had cancer. She offered her condolences, we had a short chat, and she had to head off to work.

This morning, as my German Shepherd and I set out for our walk, there was an envelope under the door - a sympathy card, from that very neighbor.

God knows the pain you feel...At the loss of your pet.

God has set aside in heaven a place without regret, with only cherished memories of loving moments with your special pet.

God be with you in your sorrow.

What a sweet card! I handle grief strangely, and yet, normally, because there is no real "normal" when it comes to grief. But I have, of late, been very tearful, have been missing my boy, looking to the kennel, looking for his pillow, picking up his favorite toys...and remembering him. My German Shepherd is back to using the kennel again, and the other day I reached inside to pet her, remembering the last time I petted Fire as he snoozed in the kennel. And I have a sense that even though my GSD likes being an only dog, she misses him, too.

I miss sitting on the couch with a good book, only to have Fire climb up and stretch out so that his head was on my lap, long legs hanging over the edge. I'll never forget the night a couple years ago when I came home from work in the midst of a terrible storm, thrilled to be home, and both dogs huddled against me. The Shepherd on my right, sitting up straight, leaning on my shoulder, and Fire, completely in my lap. This huge, 77-lb Greyhound not content to just have his head and front legs pinning me down, but needed his full weight against me. He was NOT interested in dinner, or going outside, or moving.

I remember how he had an uncanny ability to wake me from bad dreams. It seemed that every time I had a really terrible nightmare, he would wake me with his unearthly cries as he dreamed himself, or growled in his sleep, or just in general. Once I heard of a mystic stating that German Shepherd Dogs have the ability to see the devil, but more often than not, it was my Greyhound who terrified me when he stared into dark corners, growling, as I gasped into consciousness, fighting off my nightmares. I think it was the Greyhound who, when it came to the mystical realms, had the greater ability to detect evil.

I miss my greyhound. I miss his happy, klutzy, velcro-dog presence. I miss his big brown eyes, his languid stretches, his "handshakes." I miss his head in my lap as I sat reading or watching TV. I miss his twitching paws as he slept, dreaming of chasing rabbits and racing around the track. I miss his soft coat, his upright ears as he stared at the squirrels outside, poised to fly after them. I miss his tearing around in figure-eights a the end of the leash when he got the "zooms" and needed to expend some energy. I miss him standing at my right elbow, forcing his needle-nose underneath, forcing me to push the keyboard under the desk so he could place his head in my lap and sigh contentedly as I scratched behind his ears.

I miss sitting on the floor and hugging him as he stood in front of me, curling to show his pleasure and better accept my hug. I miss his own "greyhound hugs" where he would stand perpendicular to me and bend his head and neck into my chest, nose nearly to the ground so I could hug him close and stroke his sides and under his long neck. I miss him putting his head over my shoulder and bending around in another form of patented "Fire Hug".

I miss the click of his nails on the Pergot floors of my kitchen as he made his way to the water bowl.

I miss him, I still cry for him, and the best comfort I have is to know that God is with me in my grief and understands more than anyone else the canine friendship that has been lost.

The Gift of Fire

Three years ago today, I adopted a greyhound, the realization of a dream, for I'd long wanted one of these wonderful animals to grace my home. And indeed, the retired racer who headlined under the name Keystone Fire, became my own personal couch potato named Fire. He was a special dog; even people who didn't like big dogs found themselves hugging him and confessing they wanted to take him home with them. I would just nod and smile; that's how Fire came home with me, too.

One week ago today, Fire and I took a trip to the vet for the last time. One week ago...one week short of our anniversary. Only one week.

Last Monday when I went to work, I did not kennel Fire, seeing that he spent most of his time lying with his legs outstretched, and I did not want him to be obliged to remain folded up in his kennel all day. I knew he would not be playing with the Shepherd all day, so I left him as he was. Upon returning home, his paw and lower leg had swollen greatly, so I spent the evening with him, watching a movie, and placing ice and cold packs on his leg. He was panting and just radiated heat, but I was in denial. I knew the time was close, but I was still looking ahead...let's get through the weekend, let's get into next week. Can we at least get to next Tuesday?

I didn't want to admit it was time. I saw life in him. I saw the same sweet gaze in his eyes, and when the ice packs clearly helped to alleviate his pain, I allowed hope to be renewed in me. Fire's respirations slowed and he closed his eyes to take a nap, never making a move to growl or snap or do anything to indicate I was causing him pain. He trusted me so much, looking to me to relieve the pain he did not understand.

At 2:30 am, I got up to give Fire his Tramadol, and had to wake him up; he had been sleeping well. That morning I got up and Fire made no move to get up and eat as he had on Monday morning. No matter; I brought him breakfast in bed, and sat next to him, watching him eat, having a sense we would not do this again. These were special moments. When I took the Shepherd out for her walk, we shortened it greatly...something told me to go home NOW, something told me that today was the day, and I could not stop the tears that continued to well up in my eyes. When the heart speaks, one must listen. Truth is a sword that cuts deeply.

I remained home that morning, working from home, having to leave once to inspect a nearby car. I called my Manager to explain what I was doing, and told him that I'd be in after Fire's 10:00 am meds, but I'd have to come home right away to be with him. I told my manager that I thought we'd be taking a trip to the vet that afternoon...for the last time... and I choked up on the phone. I knew the truth in what I said, but hoped it wasn't true. I still had hope I could have my buddy with me for a few more days. Just a few more days. That's all I asked. Just a few more days, even when I knew it was time.

I gave Fire his Tramadol a little early, not at the 8 hour interval but closer to 7 hours. He was in pain; the Rimadyl with breakfast wasn't doing much, but I hoped the opiate would do something for him. I felt so guilty for leaving. Fire obviously did not want to be alone. Whenever I had come in the door with my other dog, he'd struggle to his feet. If I went upstairs, he'd stand at the bottom, waiting, perhaps allowing a soft whine to escape. I comforted myself by saying that in a few days I'd be done and would remain by his side. Just a few days, God, please? Just a little more time....

As I drove in to work, I continued to weep, silently, begging God for more time, but knowing this was it. This was the day. So I arrived at the office, dropped off some equipment and issued a couple checks, and left, taking some tedious work with me...something to focus me, something that could be done without having to speak to anyone.

When I arrived home, Fire was in terrible pain, so it was immediately obvious that the drugs were no longer working. My worst fear was confirmed. It was time. Fire looked at me, and then began licking his leg, stopping only to pant on it, his agony obvious. He looked at me, asking me to do something, for as a dog, he could not understand what was happening. He knew only that he was in terrible pain and it was my job to do something about it, and I wasn't doing anything.

I knelt down beside him, asking him to "shake", which usually would prompt him to stretch his paw towards me while also extending his head towards me for a pat. He didn't have the energy to lift his paw, but he did ask to be scratched, so I took his head in my hands, looked into his devoted brown eyes, and asked him....is it time? What do you think, Buddy...is it time? Is it time to go?

Fire pulled away and looked at his leg, licking it again, panting again. Then he looked back at me. That was the answer; it was time. I couldn't relieve his pain, and I suspected he was also going into kidney failure. Drugs could no longer help him. Ice wouldn't relieve his suffering.

He was looking to me to make it better...and so I did the only thing I knew to do, because the time had come. I picked up the phone and called the vet, telling them it was time to put my dog to sleep. And as I said the words, I choked back the tears, but my grief was obvious to the person who answered the phone. She told me to come in whenever we were ready, to take our time.

I sat down next to Fire as he panted. I sobbed, not believing that the end had come only 10 days after the cancer was confirmed on the X-ray. Only 10 days.

Finally, I positioned myself on the floor next to him, rosary in hand, and I offered the Sorrowful Mysteries while gazing up at Our Lady of Perpetual Help, one hand always in contact with Fire. I didn't know what I was praying for, exactly, other than strength to do what had to be done. Safety in getting there; safety in getting home. And whatever God thought was needed.

Death was never intended, for man or beast; and here I was facing death, knowing that God even cares about the most humble of creatures. And God was calling for Fire's brief life to end. He was only 6 years old, would not see either our 3 year anniversary or his 7th birthday in September.

The time had come; I could not wait all day as Fire suffered so terribly. So we went through our "poty" routine...first the Shepherd, then I prepared the house for our departure, giving her a very nice treat. Soemthing that would allow me to get out the door with my greyhound. It's hard to fool a Shepherd, but that day, the Angels must have been running a diversion. I was calm by then, still tearful, but moving deliberately and carefully so as not to upset the other dog, and Fire was eager to go outside. I really did intend to take him to go potty but when he got to my car, he stopped at the rear door and would go no further.

I think even he knew where we were going. I bent down and scooped him up, both arms underneath, and he was lighter than I expected, and didn't even struggle as I set him in. He had some difficulty getting his rear leg under him so he could stand in the back seat of my small car, but once he was there, he leaned against the seat back, panting.

Fire never laid down in the car, and that day was no exception. So I drove even more carefully than usual with this precious cargo, not wanting his last moments of sunlight to be worse than they already were.

When we arrived at the clinic, Fire got out and immediately went to a bush to make his mark, but wasn't interested in sniffing around any further. I gave him the opportunity, knowing this was his last time to spend time in the sun. But no...he actually wanted to go inside. I'd never had such an easy time getting him through the door.

All I had to say when I walked in was "This is Fire", and they nodded. They needed no more info this time. They knew why we were there, and even if they hadn't, one glance at the dog with his swollen leg and wasted frame, my tearstained cheeks and puffy eyes would have answered all their questions. We were lead to an examining room, and a dogbed was brought for Fire. But true to his typical behavior, he did not want to lie down.

The tech came in and first verified why we were there. She was direct, but gentle in her tone. There's no other way to ask that question and I appreciated her ability to do so quickly and compassionately. She went on to explaine that it would be easier on Fire if we gave him a sedative to help him relax, and to hopefully help him to lie down; I agreed. The vet later reinforced that with bone cancer, they always recommend the sedative because the pain stiffens them so much, and makes their last moments of life easier on both the pet and the owner. The tech spent some time talking to me, got some info as to how the cancer had progressed, and assured me that we were doing the right thing; it was time. If something else could be done for Fire, they would be offering it. But there was nothing else. Our options were exhausted.

The sedative took effect and I helped Fire lie down on the dogbed, hugged him fiercely for a moment, and then took my place at his head. The vet came back in and asked if I wanted some more time with him...was I ready? I told him I was...this wasn't going to get any easier, nor would Fire be any less deceased at the end of the day.

He was no longer reacting to me, just resting, was maybe already asleep. But I stroked his soft fur, his long neck, and my tears fell upon his head while the vet gave the injection. Another tech was present, kneeling behind Fire, petting him also. So it was that I was holding Fire's head in my hands as his life, and his suffering, left him. The shuddering from the final, agonal respirations reverberated up my arms, and I felt the last breath agaist my skin...and Fire relaxed for the last time. The vet verified there was no heartbeat and told me, "He's gone." I already knew.

He also told me he'd been through this many times with his own pets and knew how hard it was, offering his condolences. No one wasted time on useless platitudes, understanding that grief is so personal, and words meant nothing.

The Vet asked me if I wanted to keep the collar? Yes, I did, and so he removed it for me, handing it over. I held Fire's leash and his empty collar in my hands, watching as he was carried away. They told me I could stay there as long as necessary until I was ready to drive. No rush. I stood for a moment, staring at the floor where Fire had so recently laid, deeply feeling his loss. I could not remain there.

When I walked in the door, without Fire, I could not believe how empty the house felt. My other dog greeted me then passed me, looking for her "sibling". She looked to me, confused, then tried to check the garage again.

"He's not coming back." I set his collar and leash down, then went and sat on the couch.

I couldn't believe how painful this was; I couldn't believe that this quiet greyhound had had such a big personality, so much so that his presence even at rest just filled the house.

I had been so worried that I would not be able to make the decision. I had in a sense, felt that I was playing God by having to determine the hour of death. I didn't want that responsibility. I didn't want God to trust me with calling out for death of my beloved pet.

I was so focused on the future, I forgot that God was still in charge, and he was not asking me to make that call. He was only asking me to obey.

Only God knows the day and the hour. I was hoping to make it into this week, but God knew better, and He determined the day and the time. And on that day, He spoke to my heart, making me see what I did not want to see. Asking me to obey for it was time, and God was calling Fire "home". So in the end, the only decision I truly made was to recognize the Lord's dominion over creation, and act with the mercy to which I was called to act.

Fire is missed by many people, for, as I said, he was a special dog. I didn't realize until he was gone how much he really meant to me, how much a part of my life he had become. I didn't realize how "big" he was, for he didn't take up much space. But when he fell asleep for the last time, he took a piece of my heart with him into his own dreams. All I can do is remember him fondly, thank God for the gift he was to me, and offer him back...for as long as this hurts, and beyond, I offer Fire back to God because he belonged to Him before he ever entered my home.

Pets are a blessing; we don't adopt pets because we want our lives to be easy. We adopt them because they make our lives better, and show us a facet of God we would not otherwise understand.

There are lessons Fire taught me that may be revealed over time. For now, I am still crying my tears, holding my memories close, and praising God for His abundant love and mercy. Thank you for Fire; thank you for his life, and thank you for allowing me to care for him for a few years. Every life on this earth is a gift; Fire was no exception.

Surreal Week

Last weekend, I still had a greyhound and I was looking forward to my last day at work. My worry for him tainted my joy at leaving my job, but I was looking forward to some "free days" in order to spend time with him, likely to be his last days.

But that's not how it worked. The cancer was end stage, and I will write more about it and what happened, but I can't do it yet. Suffice to say that Tuesdy was a terrible day, I made the hardest decision I have ever made, at the most inconvenient time...and those most impacted showed me nothing but compassion and understanding.

But my grief was so deep on Tuesday, I fell asleep in tears, I woke up and immediately felt Fire's loss...and had to go to work. I'm grateful I had to work, for it kept a certain schedule, preventing me from sitting around in a daze. I couldn't stop my tears, I begged God for help, and I went to work with tearstained cheeks and swollen red eyes, determined to do my job even though my heart was breaking.

Having to talk about it did help, even though, had I had my choice, I would have spent Wednesday locked up not speaking to anyone. But God had other plans for me, and my Manager, who knew what happened, hadn't passed on the news to my co workers. They knew my dog was sick and had cancer; they didn't know why I'd left work, so I had to tell them. There are many pet owners in my office, and they formed an unofficial support group for me on Wednesday, individually, sharing their losses, empathizing with mine, and no one commented when the tears came, no one made a fuss, and somehow, I made it over that hurdle. One co-worker isn't a fan of pets, but she is blessed with a soft heart for the suffering both human and animals, and when I told her I'd had to put my dog to sleep, I could see tears in her own eyes. I quickly made an exit...I barely had control of my emotions, and I could see that she, too, was trying to maintain at that point. So through our shared cube wall our conversation continued...it was easier when neither of us could see emotion.

By the end of the day, a sort of numbness set in, and I walked into a half-empty house, Fire's lack of presence echoing and reverberating. I never realized until then how BIG his presence was. My big red dog wasn't whining to get out of the kennel; the kennel was empty and silent. My Shepherd was even subdued, not having to compete for my affection. I had only one dog to take out...my worry for Fire was gone, and in place of that weight was a heavier, silent weight. So I went about our regular routine...but this time, without the other half of it.

Then I turned on the TV. I wanted to take the Shepherd for a walk; her evening walks had been missed for awhile, for obvious reasons, but on Wednesday evening, the sky was overcast and darkening, so I turned on the TV. I didn't normally watch the 6:00 news because I had access to the news all day at work, via internet, and figured I didn't need to know any more. Much of the stuff I was handling was news-worthy stuff, and I didn't need to see it played out overly-much when I got home. But Wednesday night, I needed the weather.

Almost immediately, I saw the breaking news. I still had the awful numb feeling, so in a disconnected manner, thought the initial reports, without a visual, were referencing the 35W bridge over the Minnesota river that runs between Bloomington and Burnsville about 20-30 minutes south of Minneapolis.

That bridge is closer to the water, would indeed be a disaster, but of a different sort...so initially I still had a vague sense of horror, but I could not grasp what they were saying. University? 10th St? Where is that? I was racking my brain, trying to find the mapping files stored there, for I've driven the length of 35W through the Metro area at least a thousand times since I've lived up here, more than 10 years. What bridge? The information wasn't making sense.

And then they had the initial grainy images from the air...and then I understood. Yet I was still anesthetized by my grief, and now this was added to it. I couldn't move away from the TV...I couldn't do anything but watch, amazed, unbelieving, wondering if anyone I knew was involved or had friends there.

One week ago, for work, I'd driven across that bridge en route to a shop in Bloomington. For a long time, that bridge has caused me vague unrest when crossing it. Last Wednesday, especially. I had an odd feeling, a sort of "twinge" that something wasn't right. I remember loooking across towards the west, as I headed southbound on the bridge, noting the low cement rail, looking at the view...and considering the drop to the river. I remember a strange sense of nostalgia that came over me, and I shook it off and continued on. When re-crossing, northbound, the sensation caused me to again look to my right, at the construction workers, and consider their safety as all the cars rushed by on one side, the river on the other. I vaguely wondered what it would be like to work on the bridge.

I had no idea it would be the last time I crossed that bridge. I had no idea the horror that would occurr only one week later.

Thursday, my second to last day at work, we recieved emails from the top describing how claims should be handled with regard to this disaster, compassion being priority. We didn't know enough to be able to describe a process to people, but as I understand it, my co-workers weren't asked about process or what to do. Those who did call were just taking care of business and had other concerns. They knew it was an odd situation and knew that we'd all have to wait before we'd know what to do.

Today was my last day at work. I expected my last day to be joyful, but instead it was busy as I cleaned out my desk, got nothing done on what was left of my files, and basically just tried to clean some things up to make life easier for whoever takes my place. I went out with our special investigations unit, all of whom worked in my unit at one time, and they congratulated me for getting out. All of my co-workers were envious...because they want to leave, too. The truth; not many people really LIKE working in the insurance industry. They do their jobs, they do their best...but it wears on them.

So it was strange today as I was busy...but not so much. My files were reassigned by the end of the day, I shipped a couple off to the new reps, tried to have good to do's in them, apologized for what was not done, and said my goodbyes. I am leaving with both personal and professional references from management and co-workers, and I did decide, when answering the exit interview questions, to allow the company to contact me in the future with any particular openings. I do believe in leaving doors open, even if we think we want them closed. My official answer for leaving is to return to school. "Burnout" was not an option, and there were some good points to my job, and what I've learned here.

I can't believe that I'm now officially unemployed, and am so by choice. I can't believe that I'm going to orientation for Grad school tomorrow, and that in a few weeks, it begins. I can't believe that basically, I'm in a financial free-fall, I've jumped by choice...and I'm not as terrified as I should be.

Because in everything that's happened during this tragic week, and my very trying month, I see God's hand. On my Birthday, on June 20th, I commented that 33 was a bad year for Jesus. Indeed, why should I expect anything different for myself? We are called to follow Him, even unto the death.

So June passed with a preface...and July was the beginning of my year of trial. Fire started limping on July first, and I lost him on July 31st, the Tuesday of my last week of employment. August 1st brought one of the worst disaster in the history of Minnesota...and August 3rd...the end of my gainful employment.

By my choice.

And it all seems surreal. Just surreal.

But God is present, He is everywhere, He is loving, and we have to trust in Him, even when we don't understand the events surrounding us. Even in the midst of unspeakable grief and suffering, we must trust. Even when all is lost...that is only an illusion, for all is contained in God's hands, and he is especially close to those who suffer.

Please continue to pray for those involved with the bridge collapse, victims, survivors, families, and rescuers. Please pray for our government leaders, the specialists, and those who rebuild. Please pray for the Twin Cities; these are trying times.

None of us is immune to disaster; we don't know the day or the hour.

And when life gets surreal...it really just means that you finally understand that you really have no control over anything, and have to give the steering wheel to God...because the only one you have is just a toy.

Fin

Fire isn't suffering anymore.

Fire's Status Update

Last week I called the vet again because Fire seemed to be quite distressed, and I detailed what I meant by that: He is drinking water like a fish, he is panting a lot, he can't get comfortable.

The vet upped the Tramadone to two tablets, 3 times per day. I repeated that back a few times...that's a huge increase! The tech repeated the orders.

Sadly, I can't give him the drugs 3 times per day, not while I'm working, but as soon as I'm not, well, he'll get his drugs on schedule.

I've been wondering, though, if he'll last that long.

This morning he gave me a scare; he wasn't interested in breakfast. That's one of the signs. Is he telling me he's done?

So I put it aside, because, yesterday, I gave him a half-dose of the tramadone at 2:30, and then the full dose at 10:30 pm, so I didn't want to jump to conclusions, not knowing what this opiate is going to do to him. Fire initially got up, looking for his "special treat" (medication delivered in a marshmallow)., refused his food, refused water, and returned to lie down on his dogbed. He did eventually eat, when I brought his bowl to him, the food moistened with water.

And he was very interested in going outside to do his business, yet reluctant to come inside. Cabin fever. Who doesn't enjoy the feeling of the sun on one's face?

This evening, again, he didn't get up to eat, but having learned from this morning's endeavors, I brought his bowl to him and he ate with relish. He is still interested in food, but I think that standing and having to dip his head to eat is difficult for him. But if I leave the food out, the Shepherd will help herself, so just waiting for him to make a decision is not really an option.

If he were a healthy dog, I wouldn't, in a thousand years, bring his food to him. But Fire is dying, and he deserves some concessions, even pampering.

Just as some general info, when I first adopted Fire, I fed him from a raised area, which is recommended by some sources to prevent bloat, which large-chested, long-legged dogs are prone to. Other articles refuted this, suggesting feeding from the ground. It's pretty much split 50/50, so because of different circumstances, I haven't fed Fire from a raised bowl for a long time. And for a few days, I've watched him struggle to get up using only three legs, his weight loss is discernable, even though he still maintains a healthy weight for a greyhound, and I've noticed some of his muscles shaking.

He is slipping away quickly, and I wondered if I'd be calling in Monday, in favor of a trip to the vet clinic to send him over the Rainbow Bridge.

But today he's been quite tranquil, has not seemed to be in any great distress, and every time I opened the door to go outside, he wanted to go out, too. Once outside, he's not really wanting to focus on business, but seems to be wanting to spend some contemplative moments in the dappled shade beneath the maple tree, grazing on the crabgrass that lines the fence, and just enjoying life in general.

Is my dying friend trying to tell me something? I think he is.

For a dog, he's a lot wiser than I am. He knows his life is short; he knows that now is the time to observe the glories of creation, the amazement of life, because it's a gift that can't be taken for granted for man or beast.

So tonight, I brought him his bowl, and he immediately went to work. My Shepherd, adjusting to this change, waited for him to be finished and stuck her nose in his bowl at the usual moment, helping him to lick it clean. This is part of their sibling relationship, although he's not nearly so defensive of his food as he used to be.

When I first got Fire, he was food-aggressive, which is common in ex-racing greyhounds. So for about a week, I fed him by hand. I would dip my hand into the food bowl, keeping the bowl out of reach, forcing him to depend upon me, associating my hand with the food. I knew that one day, it may happen that I'd have to take something dangerous from him, without having to lose my hand to do it.

He came around quickly, although, with regard to rawhides and the like, I still have had to resort to even "better" treats to entice him away. Even though he quickly figured out my ploy, I learned to be quicker and used the actions of the other dog as natural interference if something really good had to be taken away.

Dogs will be dogs; we have to respect them for what they are.

See how far Fire has come; from fighting for his food, to having it brought to him.

Some would say it's "time". I disagree; a theme is developing, and while I am making concessions for Fire, the time has not yet come to send him away. He's not ready to go.

On one hand, I fear I will make the decision too quickly, on the other hand, I fear I will wait too long.

For now, Fire is content. He is resting peacefully, he continues to be a living work of art, graceful even as he limps through his last days, loving even as he suffers such deep, unreachable pain.

I looked into his eyes today, his adoring, devoted greyhound eyes, and I asked him if it's time. He placed his paw into my hand and stretched his head towards me, begging for a pat. And his eyes never left mine.

No, Mom. It's not time yet. Pet me.



** I still have a long ways to go to pay for Fire's existing vet bills. If you are interested in helping, you may do so here. Thank you, and God bless you. ***

Light in the Shadows

I wish I had some words of wisdom or some kind of insights or even something interesting to say or observe, but I don't. I have writer's block. Which is just as well; I need to focus on many things, and perhaps when a few things are knocked off my list I can stop being Martha and be Mary again.

Or something like that.

I still can't pay for Grad school, and today I read about osteosarcoma; Fire has weeks to up to 4 months, but given how fast this is moving, I don't think he'll make his next birthday, which is in September, according to his ear tattoo. And it weighs very heavily upon me because I will have to be the one to give the word. It's not time yet, his pain is being managed and I'm making accomodations for him in the meantime.

And I'm asking God what I should be learning right now, which is, maybe, going back to just living one day at a time. Realizing how precious life is, and how much things can change in a single moment. How much we all take for granted, plans we forsee, assumptions we make about the future, and then in a moment, it all changes.

I have to wonder, in all of this, what is really important? What is being lined up right now? What is God doing in the background? What is he asking of me?

I don't have any answers, not to anything. Not to my job situation, not for how to deal with Fire's terminal diagnosis, not for how to pay for grad school this semester or ever.

Tonight I'm just sad, and have been biting back tears most of the day. A couple women from the greyhound rescue organization have been in contact and have offered their support. Of the three of them, two have suffered this loss recently and let me know of their concern and prayers for us, knowing how it feels.

I guess it's just hitting me that this is for real, it's formal, and it's terminal. And the best thing to do is to let nature take its course. All I can do is wait and watch and pray, and thank God for the gift of life and the gift of love. Because no matter how painful this is, I would not take it back. I would not reject this gift, and I am willing to accept this because it is God's will for me in this moment. It is God's will for this dog, and one day, I will write about the spiritual lessons brought into my life by these humble creatures.

But not tonight. Not tonight.

Tonight is my night and even as I wander among these shadows, I know there is something more beyond them and so we will pass through this valley, never alone.

It's always hard to face losing a friend.

Final Answer

We went to our vet appointment today and had the X-Rays done. The good doctor came in and first put up the initial X-ray, then today's for comparison, right next to it.

It's official; it's osteosarcoma, and it has very obviously spread and will continue to do so. This malignant, terrible disease is the reason my dog was fine three weeks ago, and can't even navigate stairs now. Nor will he ever be able to do so again.

There will be no more walks around the neighborhood, only hopping around in the yard for brief interludes of sunshine and breezes. There will be no more greyhound "meet-and-greets" because the travel to and from and the time standing will be too hard on him.

Fire will be sleeping downstairs from here on out, because I cannot allow him to come up the stairs for fear of fractures not only in the cancerous leg, but in the good leg from stress alone.

Fire is not going to get better; he is going to deteriorate.

I didn't cry in the vet clinic this morning as the Vet gave me the diaagnosis and the options. Before I could start I blinked the tears away and focused on the facts, knowing that there would be plenty of time for tears later. Like now, as I write this.

These are the options in the order presented.

1. Euthanasia. No. Not yet. The vet agreed.
2. Do nothing. Live with it, and treat the pain. Watch his weight, his appetite, his attitude, whether the pain is controlled or if he is suffering inordinately. Wait.
3. Radiatian treatment at the U of M. "It's not inexpensive, but you'll have to call there to find out." They use this to control pain and delay the spread of the cancer, but it also thus delays the inevitable, because it is not a cure. The cost is around $3,000 to $5,000
4. Amputation and Radiation treatment. Again, delaying the inevitable. And he didn't say it, but amputating a liimb on a greyhound, well, you just can't do that to a greyhound.

We are treating for pain. In addition to the 75 mg of Rimadyl twice daily, we are adding a narcotic, Tramadol, at a lower dose to be increased if needed. I think we have one months' supply of both pain meds.

The bill for today:

Medical progress exam.....$21.00
Radiology.................$79.00
Rimadyl...................$38.00
Tramadol..................$10.00
Total after 5% discount $143.72
*
The time we have left......Priceless

If you have interest in helping to cover Fire's bills, please click here. I don't know how much time he has left but my guess is that we really won't need any more trips to the vet, but the last one. And I don't know how long that will be, so for now, I'm just going to enjoy the time my greyhound has left and pray I have the courage to make the decision when the time comes.

Early Morning Update on Fire

I am calling the vet today.

Last night, Fire would not go upstairs with us. It has become his habit of late, to pause, gather himself, which might involve a little uncertain pacing, and then carefully navigate the stairway. Until last night, though, he did not have a problem. In the morning he just hops down using his good leg for balance.

But last night was different. He didn't even try, but for putting a paw on the second step, then withdrawing it and whining plaintively. I brought his kennel blanket and a couple toys up to entice him, to no avail. I left him alone, letting him figure it out...nothing.

We had to go to sleep, and I ended up bringing my German Shepherd up with me, rather than letting her stay with Fire for company. Even though Fire did not want to come up the stairs, dogs will play and I feared if left 7 hours alone, they will find some playtime and make Fire's condition worse.

I heard him whine just a little and then there was silence for the rest of the night. This is the first time he has ever slept on a different level of the house. Ever since I trained him how to navigate stairs, he has never failed to either follow or even beat me up the stairs at bedtime. Last night, although he had the freedom to come up at any time, even though he must have been terribly lonely, he did not venture to attempt the trek.

This morning he heard me get up, right on schedule, and as I got prepared to walk the dogs, (in his case, just a quick walk in the yard) he stood crying, just so that I could start my Friday with a heaping dose of pitiful guilt.

He feels warm, indicating he likely has a feaver. He seems distressed, he's barely using his left hind leg, and he's not even standing at my elbow begging to be petted as he usually does this time of day. It is not possible for me to have a cup of coffee and not pet the greyhound; it's part of the morning routine. In fact, he's usually so persistent that I have to set the cup down and focus on him for awhile, and then finish what's in the cup. After wiping up the spilled coffee, of course.

So this morning I will go to work, I'll call the vet clinic when it opens, and see what they recommend. Because we've run all the diagnostic tests, I honestly hope I don't have to take him in again, but we all know that's not how it works. We'll be going in again, either today or tomorrow, because that feaver is indicative of something more than an irritated ligament.

Another first; he went and laid in his kennel in lieu of begging for attention, and when I went into the kitchen to get his Rimadyl and the medium (a marshmallow) I use to give this huge tablet to him, he didn't even try to get up for this wonderful treat. In fact, he seemed to take it from my hand when I brought it to him just because I'd gone to the trouble.

Any time a dog does not show inordinate interest in his favorite treat, something is wrong.


9:30 AM UPDATE: I called the vet this morning, by some miracle he is not off today; he is usually not working on Fridays. They sent me to his voice mail, I left a message about Fire's fever and inability to go upstairs, they called me back and tomorrow he is going to re-take the X-rays. We were going to wait a month. Guess two weeks to the day is necessary.

Summer Interlude

I think I have writer's block, apparently a mid-summer malady, as it seems to be affecting several bloggers.

Anyway, I'd like to thank those of you who have so generously donated money to help pay Fire's vet bills and for Grad school. I haven't yet heard from the program director at IPT, but that's not cause for alarm. He may very well be incommunicado this week due to vacation...so if no response I will call IPT and get a message to him. Additionally I will also post my book list in case someone out there has what I need and doesn't need it for themselves. My main shopping will involve used books, just like when I was an undergrad, except now that world is my bookstore, not just the overpriced college shop.

As of the end of the day tomorrow, it will only be two more weeks of a regular paycheck, and then they should pay out my earned 60 hours of vacation time, which will take me to mid-August. And then, as now, I'm on God's graces.

When are any of us NOT on God's graces?

Tonight, though, I'm going to bed early. I'm exhausted. Fire is doing OK, is limping and still on twice-daily doses of Rimadyl. But he's taken to hopping so as to move along more efficiently outside, only using his bad leg when he has a need to walk slowly or put it down to support himself at the right moment. I'm not sure if it's my imagination, or just some muscles atrophying, but I think there is a knob forming, which it can't be...can it? Can cancer grow so quickly?

I pray it's my imagination. Mom always did say I had a vivid imagination. I really wish it was less vivid right now.

The last few nights have been rough for Fire. He has had a very difficult time getting comfortable, even though I bring the dogbed upstairs for him along with his kennel blanket (an old comfortor) for extra padding. Then he'll go to the futon I gave the dogs (it's old), and as he tries to first climb on and lay down, which used to be very easy for him, now he struggles, pants, shakes, turns and figits, the piece of furniture creaking all the while. Occasionally he also jostles against the bed, and if I have managed to start to drift back to sleep, I am nudged wide awake.

It doesn't help that the last couple nights were very warm, and even with the AC on, it doesn't do much in upstairs of my townhome, so I still have to make use of a fan, which blows on me all night. Which is uncomfortable, noisy, even for a quiet fan, and then I end up watching the clock and realizing I have only 4 hours to try to get good sleep...make that 3 hours and 40 min, or 3 hours and 30 minutes. Jump to 3 hours...then 2 and one half hours...you get the picture.

Yup. That's been my last few nights.

So tonight... * yawn *

Escuse me.

Um...tonight...

Small Update on the Greyhound

This morning I took the X-Ray film in to our regular vet clinic. All I had to do was say my name, and the tech reached for the file that was right in front of her. She scanned it quickly and told me that the Dr., our regular Vet, had told her to call me. She grabbed the film to run it back to him; he was actually in the office today, which is a rarity.

Not five minutes later she came back and told me that he wants me to bring Fire in on Monday; we set a 4:30 pm appointment.

My initial instructions were to bring Fire back only if he was still lame. This request to come in so quickly, and right after the Dr. looked at the film...well, it doesn't bode well.

This afternoon I went to the local Greyhound "meet and greet", without my dog. (That's where we bring our dogs in to a Petsmart or Petco so the public can meet them and see how adoptable they are.) I needed to see this group as Fire, my other dog, and I have spent lots of time there, although we haven't gone in awhile due to other committments. The group was happy to see me and I told them right away why my companions weren't present. Two of them have lost Greys to osteosarcoma (bone cancer). It's very hard, and they agreed; just keeping him comfortable on pain meds is the way to go. I think when it gets to the point that I'd have to carry him upstairs for the night, well, that'll be the time to let him go.

We still don't have the offical diagnosis, so maybe I'm just preparing for the worst, but somehow, I think this is the worst. But I've got my Greyhound owner "support group" and I'm thankful for them, and for all the prayers from all of you. It really does help.