"I Reject Your Reality and Substitute My Own"-Mythbusters

Have you ever noticed that people who are diagnosed with cancer seem to die rather quickly after being diagnosed, whereas some people live for decades without being diagnosed, and yet actually have cancer?

The mind is a powerful thing.  As is science.  As is the belief in the impossible.  The vet said he didn't think he could cure Stella, and I chose not to believe him.  I rode the rollercoaster, feeling my stomach rise into my throat on the plummeting downward, and feeling the elation every time a tiny tail wag lifted my spirits.  I've watched Stella try to chase squirrels, go for long walks, and take a nap in the good grass (finally!):

She's been awake more often these days, and when she sleeps it's a deep sleep that usually involves snoring.  Her nose has just about stopped leaking green goo completely, although now I do as my friend did with her child, and have to pick crusty "boogies" from Stella's nose in the morning.  I actually call them "snotsies" but I probably should stop since a passerby might mistakenly hear, "Stella, you have some Nazi's on your face."

She doesn't like breakfast anymore, but she eventually eats in the afternoon and ends her day with a midnight snack.  She's become strong enough to fight off Angie and me as we try to give her the injections.  Sure, she still coughs a lot during the night, and she isn't completely snot-free, but it's clear now, not green.

I told Stella last night and that she had to do whatever it took to appear better this morning.  Our appointment with the vet was at 11:30, and she needed to give the impression of a dog feeling well so he didn't think she hadn't improved at all.  At the very least, I didn't want to subject Stella to any more injections.

Stella rose to the challenge.  We slept in, as she had completed her two weeks of antibiotics and could start her morning needle-free, and rather than a quick pee at the end of the driveway, she wanted to go for a brief fifteen minute walk around the 'hood.  She had a spring in her step and wanted to meet another dog that was up ahead of us on a walk.

On the ride to the vet's, her left nostril dribbled slightly, but just as it would with any nervous dog.  The moment we got to the front door, Stella turned to head back to the car--just like any healthy dog would.  I told her she was doing really well at appearing healthier than before and she sat with me while we waited for the vet.  But she didn't even wag her tail for Mia, the receptionist who had given her that orange bunny toy.  She knew damn well that coming here was never a pleasant experience.

The doc was in better spirits since I last I saw him, and he was patient and kind to both Stella and me.  He clipped her toenails, gave her some eye drops (he said she had eye infection...I guess it wasn't bad enough to warrant me giving her meds for it though), and Stella didn't dribble nose-goo at all.  Instead, she enacted her latest defense mechanism: like a porcupine loosening his grip on his spines when stressed, Stella lets loose a flurry of dander, and it appears if she has just returned from running around in a blizzard.

I waited twenty minutes while they took her in the back for her blood tests and x-rays and hoped and wished and prayed that the tests would confirm her increasing health.  I was already dismayed to see the scale betrayed me: Stella still weighed 28.5 pounds.  But with how much more energy Stella's had, I assumed the x-rays would confirm that she wasn't as sick as before.

The vet brought me in to look at Stella's x-ray.  He showed me her first x-ray when she came in almost a month ago, and that there was a little bit of fluid in her lungs.  The one taken five days later showed more fluid.  And the one today: you could barely make out her heart.  And there was an odd something near the top of her lung, which had been there from the first x-ray, but seemed to have enlarged.  A tumor?  Maybe.  But was it worth putting this poor pup through all that pain to find out?  Probably not.  He did extract some fluid from her lungs, and he said it was milky white.  I think he might send it out for testing, but I'm not sure.

He didn't think the antibiotics had done any good, so Stella will no longer be subjected to injections anymore.  He did give her subcutaneous fluids, as she was lacking potassium and sodium.  He suggested I give her Gatorade or PediaLight to help her get a bit more vitamins and minerals with her fluids.  Her bloodwork showed that she wasn't metabolizing food at all.  No matter how much food we gave her, it just wasn't being processed.  I wondered, then, where did it all go? 

Her white blood cell count was high again--meaning that she is still fighting a bacterial infection.  He did mention that when she looked awful and sick, her count was low, but when she appeared better, her count was high.  And here's why I'm not a doctor: doesn't that make sense?  I mean, wouldn't she look better if her body was fighting off an infection and look worse if the infection was winning?

The vet asked, "Is she happy?" and I said, "Yes, I think she's improved.  She's more into doing things now." 

"Then that's what we want," was his reply.

Now that the facts were in front of me, hearing him say, "I think we just need to make her comfortable and let her be happy in her last remaining....however long she has" (I thought he was going to say weeks, but didn't specify), didn't sound as mean as it had the first time.

He's a man of Science.  And Science has spoken.  But I am a woman of Mystery...kidding.  I'm a Woman of Science as well, but I leave room for Faith, Miracles, and Hope.

For instance, there's room in my life for that whoever/whatever that appears to the canine guests.  Two nights ago, whoever/whatever it is that visits at the end of my couch appeared to Stella.  I was actually hugging her and her head was buried in my chest when she whipped her head around as if startled by a noise and looked up to lock eyes with something at human head height, next to the piano.  She didn't wag her tail, but she didn't take her eyes away.  I don't know who it is, but I know it can't be the Angel of Death as the other dogs have seen it too.  I actually was hoping that this visitation was a sign of good luck for the dogs who have spent time here.  But perhaps it's just someone checking in.

I've been bewildered by everyone asking how I've been doing and "Are you still okay doing this?" I have been too naïve to understand--or too stubborn to accept--their line of questioning.  I want to believe that Stella will still get better.  I don't want to give up on her.  I don't want to think that she had to spend her last few days here with me rather than in a home with other dogs to play with and a big backyard to lay in the sunshine. 

What if I hadn't seen those x-rays?  What if I didn't know the blood test results?  That's how I started out two weeks ago.  I was going to let a dog with kennel cough stay with me while she recovered.  Now it's evolved into me running hospice care.  But that's not because that's what I believed; it's what science is trying to tell me.  And I'm trying to understand why it is then, that she got out of the shelter, that she was rescued and her journey has taken her here.

Science has spoken.  It says Stella is still sick.  But Science is like that asshole in the cubicle down the way: he's quick to point out the problems, but never seems to have any solutions.  I guess that's where I step in with all the things that fill up the holes Science leaves behind;  I come with Hope and the power of belief.

It has taken me all afternoon to write this.  Usually I write these in an hour.  But this afternoon has been a rollercoaster, and I'm a bit nauseous.  I have spent time crying, writing, sobbing, writing, and trying to figure out how not to let my energy affect Stella.  I think it has affected her.  She's been shut down all day after a morning more traumatic than last Saturday when I made her bleed.  She needs time to recoup.  I vowed to not allow negative energy around Stella.  I need to keep my promise.

After writing a relatively hopeless email to Stephanie updating her on Stella, I went out to the living room to see how Stella was doing.  She wanted to lie up on the couch so I put her up there.  I then held her snow-cone ice-cup for her while she licked it, and then she stopped, shivering from her brain freeze.  While I was involved caring for her, not only did my sadness disappear, but Hope whispered in my ear:

The antibiotics DID work.  They DID rid her nose (and my couch, the carpet, and my bed) of gross green goo.  That was what the doc cultured and that's why she was on the meds she was on.  But now he has the fluid from her lungs.  What if he cultures that?  What if all this time Stella's been fighting more than one illness?  I had said from the beginning that her nose was doing better but she was still coughing.  The antibiotics were curing her from the nasal stuff...but NOT the lung issue.  So we need to find out what's in her lungs.

I couldn't finish writing this blog until now because I wanted to have Hope in it.  It took all afternoon, but the sounds of my crying finally stopped drowning out Hope who had been trying to tell me all day not to give up.  Science gave up; Hope never will.  And if it takes Hope kicking Science's ass to get Stella better, then I'm willing to build the fighting ring.

All You Need is Love...and Antibiotics

People who write reviews of amusements parks know this, and now so do I: you can't write a review of a rollercoaster while you're riding it.  And that's exactly what I've been doing for the past few days.

Stella's health is not getting progressively better on an even-paced slow upslope.  She's just having more good moments than bad moments.  But the bad moments truly are bad, and the good moments are getting better by the day.

Friday marked my 33^rd birthday and the first birthday I've had in which I've woken up to the sounds of a dog snoring at the end of my bed.  As much as this gave me great joy, it also did not allow me to sleep in.  I think running the vaporizer all night helps her breathe, and thus she's done slumbering earlier in the morning, but it really is making me want to sleep longer.

However, not having a job means that like Stella, once a few menial tasks are completed, I can take a nap.  Feeding her is priority number one, but giving her an injection without help involves her and I playing a life-size game of chess in my living room.  I don't want to stress her out, so I try to just sit next to her, but she reads me so clearly that as soon as I sit down, she's up and across the room to get comfy as far away from me as possible.

I did finally get the injection in, and with minimal shrieking.  I was on my own for the day as Lou had a gig so he and his mom were busy, and Linda was still sick.  But I didn't mind.  I wanted to be able to do this on my own.  (Did I mention my friend who injects  his cat on a daily basis?  If he can do that, I can do this.  Failure to do so was not only detrimental to Stella's health, but also my pride).

We spent the early afternoon outside.  Stella had gone for a walk - a real walk, as in down the street - on Thursday, and Friday she wanted to just soak up the sun in the parking lot.  She immediately plopped down in front of the first garage, and since I didn't feel like just standing there for an hour, I grabbed a chair and finally put to use the second dog bed I had bought--the indoor/outdoor water repellant one.  At first Stella didn't understand why she would have a dogbed, but once I put it down, she got cozy.

That evening, a friend stopped by and saw Stella for the first time.  He saw her chow down and couldn't believe she was that thin.  I wish I had Stella's metabolism (but not her hairloss).  When it came time for the injection, my friend tried to help me by telling me, "Oh, just grow a pair and do it.  She knows what you're up to.  Just do it and get it over with."  So as he sat there reading a book, not helping at all, I did it, but half of it didn't make it in.

When I was finished my friend looked at the After-Injection-Stella, her face shoved into the pillow, her eyes half-closed, and groaning with every exhale.  "Awww, I've felt like that when I've been sick too."  Stella is very expressive with her discomfort.

However, in only an hour's time she was peacefully sleeping and I actually went out for the evening.  And when I returned, she was still on the couch.  My birthday ended as it had begun: with a dog on my bed. (Note: once again, not really on her section of the bed.)

Saturday was not so good.  Stella has gotten to the point that when I simply take a bit of scruff in my hands, she shrieks as if I've injected her.  In fact, she went through the entire gamut of emotions this time, and I hadn't even done it.  When she finished her dramatics I informed her I hadn't injected her, so she should prepare herself for a repeat performance.

An hour of chess-playing in the living room, and I finally "grew a pair and just did it."  Stella shrieked, louder than usual, and rolled over.  I got all the medicine in, and I ignored her shrieking to the best of my ability as I tried to rub the injection site to make it feel better, but she refused to stand up.  I looked down at the carpet and saw a spec of blood.  I looked at my hand:  blood.  I tried to flip Stella over to see where the blood was coming from, and she went limp and heavy, trying to stop me from flipping her over. 

I got her half up, and to my horror, her fur was soaked in blood.  I got a paper towel so I could see how much was really coming out.  Her black fur covered the real damage.  I checked the needle, thinking I broke it off, but I hadn't.  I couldn't figure out how I had really hurt her.  But I had.  Now not only did I need her to forgive me, but I had a crisis on my hands.  I kept pressure where the largest amount of blood was, since I honestly couldn't find the source of bleeding.  The paper towel was covered in blood, and I was worried she might not make it to the vet's.  I called Diana, but I got voicemail.  I called her cell: voicemail again.  I called Lou, since Diana said I could call him if she didn't pick up.  He is, after all, a teenager so his phone is always handy.  His phone too, went to voicemail.  Before I could fully acknowledge that I had just called a fourteen year old to ask him to ask his mom to give me a ride someplace, Stella stopped bleeding.

I had two parties to attend on Saturday: one at 2:00 which Harry was rumored to be at, and I wanted to reunite with my little foster boy.  And the other was a friend's birthday party at 8:00.  However, after the bleeding incident, Stella shut down for the day.  She looked miserable.  She felt miserable.  Two o'clock came and went and I just couldn't tear myself away from the sad girl on my couch.  But I really wanted to see Harry.

At four o'clock I finally left the apartment.  I drove all the way to the party, and when I got out of the truck to walk up the street to the house, I realized I couldn't.  I was torn.  Stella was probably just sleeping, but my gut was telling me I was needed at home.  I went into the party, learned that Harry wasn't there yet, attempted to converse with one person, and found myself on the verge of tears.  I needed to go home.  Stella needed me.  I can't ignore my gut feeling.

I went home, and within ten minutes of walking in the door, Stella got up to finish her breakfast and since she was eating again, I put down more food for her so she could continue.  And then she rushed to the door.  She really, really had to take a dump.  There's no way she would have made it three hours without me there.  Sometimes the gut instinct you're listening to is actually your dog talking.

I didn't attend the second party of the night either.  The fact was, I was traumatized by the morning.  I had really hurt Stella.  I didn't want to ever do that again.  I needed to find a solution.  I got approval from Stephanie to find a professional to come in and give her the injections. Taking her to the vet's every day is way too traumatic, and I was stressing Stella out and making things worse.  The only option was a vet tech or someone of the sort that made housecalls.

Oddly, there isn't such a thing available on a Saturday night in Los Angeles...at least not one I could find that wouldn't cost something exorbitant.  My friend had mentioned that her pet sitter gave injections.  Duh.  Pet sitters totally could do the job!  So, I called Angie and she not only could do it--she could do it Saturday night!

That first injection didn't go terribly well.  Not all of the meds went in, but given my state of inability to ever wield a needle to Stella without shaking, I think she did much better than I could have.  I'm trying not to think of it as failure; I'm thinking of it as knowing my limitations.  I respect other people for recognizing their shortcomings, so I respect myself for realizing that giving injections to dogs is simply beyond my capability.

It really was less stressful than any injection before.  I got to be the comfort person for Stella, not the mean one.  And she didn't shriek. 

Today was even better.  Angie got the full injection in, and with minimal crying from Stella, and then we were on with our day.  I didn't grow a pair, but at least I found someone who had.  I think Stella appreciated it too. 

It was a good day for Stella.  The sun was shining, and we spent some more time in front of my neighbor's driveway, Stella's favorite spot to sit.

We walked around the neighborhood for half an hour, and Stella explored.  She found the softest spot under a staircase of an apartment building.

I was happy she sat there, since usually her grass-choice decisions are quite ghetto.  Unlike Harry who went for the softest, deepest, most aromatic lawns, Stella went for the anthill-ridden, never-watered, weedy, dirty, wet lawns that looked like "before pictures" in a landscaping instruction manual.

On our way back from our walk, we stopped to watch one squirrel chase another in the alley.  I wondered if it was a game or if one of them really was pissed off at the other.  As the one being chased headed toward us--me standing next to a dog--I had a brief moment of panic suspecting the squirrel might have rabies.  It literally was barreling forward, directly at us, without pausing.  Even Stella was so shocked she forgot to make a grab for him as he sped by within inches of her.  The moment he was behind us, Stella registered the event and actually took chase. 

The squirrel jumped up on a tree, and if Stella had 100% of her canine capacities in order, that squirrel would have been roadkill.  He was at her head height.  Again, the element of surprise was to his advantage as Stella wasn't sure what she was supposed to do.  She lunged in a half-hearted attempt and the squirrel went a few more feet up the tree.

Since the squirrel wasn't foaming at the mouth (and I could see that clearly since he was within a couple of feet of my head), I stopped worrying about rabies and was excited to see Stella engaged in her surroundings.  She lay by the tree for a spell, just taking in the 'hood, and keeping an eye out for any other squirrels.

Stella had many good moments today.  It was a day filled with tail wags, even for Angie who returned in the evening to give Stella another injection.  That sparkle in Stella's eye was starting to shine brighter and the rest of her body was following suit.  Sure, she's scrawny and she's missing some fur, but she's alive and happy to be so.  She wagged her tail all through her lunch and dinner, and said a shy hello to my neighbor with a tiny tail wag.

I finally believe it: Stella is getting better.  Her nose isn't runny in the morning anymore, and she doesn't cough quite so much.  And now that she's not worried about me coming at her with a needle and making her bleed to death, she's much more relaxed.  As am I.  Now Stella's only concern is: which bed now?

Sleeping Arrangements and Cuddle Buddies

Stella is not a puppy.  There is no tug of war to play, no ball to fetch right now, and since she's been under the weather, no long walks around the neighborhood.  Stella's main activity is sleeping.  And she's a pro at it.

I have not owned a dog bed since it's a bulky item and I have nowhere to store one when Casa de Canine is vacant.  Most dogs prefer the couch and bed anyway, so I figure it's pointless to buy what is essentially a giant pillow that costs twenty to fifty dollars because the word "dog" is in the title.  I bought one for Harry because it was on sale, but it was so huge and bulky, he got lost in it.  Then when I washed it, the zipper broke, so I returned it since I wasn't that keen on it anyway.

Stella has enjoyed the couch, but more and more I find her sitting in front of the couch, staring at it, not really ready to make the jump up.  I have placed her front paws up and she just steps up the rest of the way.  However, I'm thinking perhaps she's a bit achy, and when she sits there, she's weighing whether the moment of misery in jumping up is worth the hours of comfort on the soft surface.

Yesterday I watched her walk into the bedroom, and when she didn't come back out in ten minutes I went in to find that she was merely sitting on the floor, looking longingly at the bed, somehow believing that she might be able to will herself up there.  Monday night before bed, while I was in the bathroom Stella pulled a Harry.  I walked out to find the pet blanket on the floor and Stella in an entirely different room.  Harry was loud and clumsy; Stella operates in Super Secret Stealth Mode.  She can move in complete silence.

The only noise Stella makes is when she's sleeping.  I was lucky enough to capture it (my apologies for the Blair Witch-esque cinematography--I was in a rush to start recording):



At least now I know what her bark sounds like.

That was where she sleeping--in front of the television--when I felt like taking a nap of my own, now that I had the couch to myself.  When I awoke, I glanced over, didn't see her in her spot and then sat up, looked over the coffee table and found this:

You might remember this stuffed dog as Harry's first foe and later his chew toy.  Here's the thing:  in order for Stella to put the dog in this position, she had to drag him away from the side of the couch and then flip him 180 degrees to face the couch again, and then knock him on his side in order to use him as a pillow.

Looking at this picture, it makes me a little sad.  I was told that Stella really loves other dogs.  Her sickness has secluded her to my dogless apartment, and she can't even approach other dogs if we happen to see any on our short walks.  This big stuffed dog really doesn't compare to snuggling up with another canine buddy.  And clearly she wanted that more than jumping up on the couch to cuddle with me.

When I walked into the bathroom, I found the neat pile of towels that I had used for her bath the other night was unraveled.  She really had gone in search of a comfy place to sleep.  For some reason being with me was just out of the question.  Do I snore that loudly?

So today, I decided it was high time I give my guests their own place.  I wanted to get Stella a vaporizer (after reading the humidifier box, I learned that my 1970's humidifier emits cool air for moistening dry winter air, whereas a vaporizer emits warm steam which is what one needs if one is congested).  So, during my trip to Target while getting a "warm mist humidifier," I checked out the pet section.  I found one durable-looking dog bed that seemed pretty compact for storage and it was only twenty dollars.  Oh, but wait, here’s another that I think might match my décor and is just the right size for Stella.  It looks soft and cozy, and sure it's more expensive, but it matches my living room.

Since I couldn't decide, I bought both, and when I opened the front door holding two dog beds and a vaporizer, Stella was still on the couch.  I put down the fluffy decorative pillow and told Stella it was hers.  She looked at me glossy-eyed from beneath the towel she was curled up under on the couch.  She was not looking well.  She did not eat breakfast this morning.  I was worried.  When my helper couldn't make it this morning, I had to drag poor Stella to the vet with me almost two hours after her dose was due so the vet could inject her, which was far more traumatic than had I just done it myself.

The car ride and feeling my stress had made green goo come cascading out of Stella's nostrils, to which the vet tech said, "She hasn't improved at all," despite me explaining that eating and stress cause this and that she is much better than the day I got her.  I asked if there was something I could do for her throat.  She so badly wanted breakfast this morning, wagging her tail while I was getting it ready, but then when I placed it down she hopped around it, sat down, leaned over, and then just gave up.  Her throat hurts too much to swallow.  So what can I do?

The vet's answer: nothing.  He said we could take more tests, but it didn't mean he would change his course of treatment.  I asked if a vaporizer would help, and he said, "you can try it."  He didn't seem to be in a good mood.  Finally he just came right out and said it:  "I don't think we're going to cure her; we just have to make her comfortable."

"Well, F--- you."

I didn't say that.  I just walked out with Stella, got another week of meds and realized why all this time he seemed so relaxed and easy about however I was administering the medication: because he didn't think it was going to work.  Well, you know what?  That makes me want to fight harder.  Which is exactly why I went out and got her the vaporizer and beds that afternoon.  That thing I wrote about the Angel of Death being able to come get Stella: I take it back.  I take it all back.  I will not accept the vet's opinion, and I want no such negativity around Stella.  She's going to get to better.  I have faith.  This is not a dog who is ready to die.  This is a dog who wants to be in the sunshine.


There was a moment when I thought that her one day of greatness was just her one last hurrah before the end.  And then while I was driving home with dog beds in the front seat, I thought: what happens if I walk in and she's passed away on the couch?

But I think those things because I'm a writer.  Stories are neat and tidy and have distinct plot lines to follow and scenes to go through.  Art imitates Life, but Life isn't always neat and tidy.  It doesn't always follow the easiest logic.  Sure all life has the same conclusion, but there's an infinite number of ways to get there.  And Stella's still a long way from that ending.  It's a murky path she walks on right now, but by no means is a shortcut to the end.  It's just a rough patch.  And no matter how muddy I get, I'm sticking by her and helping her through it.  The sun will shine again--in Los Angeles and on Stella. 

In the meantime, she's got a comfy place to rest up and dream away the rainy days. (I can't take it back now: she already snotted on it.)

Help, Hope, and a Helluva Comeback

Stephanie was true to her word and Monday morning the first of my helpers, Linda, arrived.  Unfortunately, it was also the worst morning Stella has had.

Linda hadn't ever met Stella, so she was seeing Stella as I had that very first time at the vet's office.  To make it worse, Stella was having an enormously tough time breathing, reaching her neck up as far as it would go, eyes half-closed, struggling for every breath.  Not the best first impression for Linda.

Even though Linda was stopping in on her way to work, she stayed longer than five minutes.  She stayed for an hour and a half as we talked about Stella and she gave me her impression and ideas about it all.  Meanwhile, Stella struggled.  There was no green mucus flowing from her nose, but I was worried for her; at one point there was a longer pause between breaths, Linda looked at me, and the thought that didn't need to be spoken between us was, "This is it."  But then Stella inhaled once more.

I don't like discussing euthanasia in front of a dog.  They understand.  They get it.  They know exactly what we're talking about.  Linda felt that a dog shouldn't suffer.  I agreed, but Stella isn't necessarily terminal.  She doesn't have cancer.  She has a bacterial infection in which she's being treated for.  Linda asked if she had been eating and drinking and I said Yes.  Sunday she didn't drink as much as usual, and of course Monday morning was the first time Stella didn't finish her meal so Linda saw the half-empty dog bowl.  I said I wasn't going to give up hope.  I was willing to fight for Stella as long as she was willing to fight for herself.  But how do you know she wants to keep going?

Linda said if a dog stops eating and drinking, that's a good sign that the fight is over.  I agreed.  Stella was there for this entire conversation.  Despite my uneasiness of talking about it in front of her, I felt that she should know how others felt, and how I felt.  She should realize what was at stake here.

Linda had to get to work and her main purpose was to help me with the injection.  She had to give her little dog injections before and she knew it was tough.  Since I had been giving the injections before, we kept it that way with Linda assisting.  I admit that I had more confidence with someone there.  Linda held Stella as I injected her and continued to hold her as Stella shrieked.  I realized it wasn't the needle going in, but the pushing the fluid in that hurt.  Linda continued to cradle Stella, and eventually Stella fell fast asleep.  Linda, however, was now an hour and a half late for work.

Stella slept most of the morning.  Linda had watched Stella dreaming, her little feet moving, her lip curling in a growl.  She was angry at someone.  So a few hours later when I heard a "thwap, thwap" come from my bedroom, I was pleased to walk in and see Stella having a good dream.  Every few moments her tail wagged against the bed, and her head was tilted in comfortable position.  It even looked like she was smiling.

I can't give up on her.  She's got to make it.  And yet as I sat in my office working, listening to Stella breathing and dreaming in the bedroom, I thought how much worse it would be to die by drowning rather than falling asleep and your heart just stopping.  I had told Linda that if I walked into the living room and found Stella had passed away in her sleep, I wouldn't feel like I had failed.  If the Angel of Death wants her, he can come get her, but I ain't just going to hand her over.

But how much worse of a death is that?

I spent the morning contemplating, not really working, wondering how one makes such a decision.  And then all the thoughts I had on the subject left my brain in an instant.  I went into the kitchen and got out the broiling pan to make Stella her afternoon snack of three sliders (without the buns), and I heard a rustle in my bedroom.  A second later, Stella stood at the doorway to the kitchen, her ears down low in a quiet question, her tail wagging.  "Whatcha doin'?" she asked.

"It's snack time," I told her.

She wagged her tail harder, and then walked through the living room to sit at her designated eating spot.

"Well it's going to take about ten minutes," I told her.

Her tail was still wagging, and it looked like she was smiling.  This was the most engaging she had been since I got her.

She heard.  She understood.  She knew she had to have an appetite to prove to me that she was still fighting.

Ten minutes later, the burger was on her plate, and a minute later, it was in Stella's tummy and she wanted more.

In late afternoon, she didn't stop at her usual peeing spot at the end of the driveway, but hung a right and continued down the sidewalk.  We walked all the way to the end of the block, further than she had ever been.

She ate her dinner with gusto, and she was bright-eyed and cheery.  She even responded to a squeaky toy, but didn't know what to do with it.

A little after 8:00 Diana, my second shift nurse helper, arrived.  She came in and immediately Stella lifted her head off the couch, sat up, and wagged her tail in greeting.  Diana said she had been worried since Linda called her and told her what her experience had been in the morning.  This was an entirely different dog.

Diana's son, Lou, is the one who got her into rescue.  He's a fourteen year old actor trying to make it in Hollywood, and he's getting gigs, but he's getting even more recognition as the boy who wants to save every canine in Los Angeles.  He wanted to come along, but with how Linda had described Stella and the fact that Stella shrieked when I injected her, Lou said he should probably stay home.

Diana came with us outside when Stella had to pee, and even my neighbor commented on how Stella has a spring in her step now (actually she just trots at a really good clip when she's got to go), and that she looked like she put on a little weight.  It's hard for me to tell since I see her every day, and because my feelings obviously color my perception.  I don't even notice her giant bald spot on her back end anymore.  I just see Stella.

For whatever reason, everything came together last night.  Stella knew damn well what I was doing when Diana sat on one side of the couch with her and I on the other.  First she leaned into Diana.  Then when I moved her, she purposefully pushed against Diana with her leg so she could press her back and neck scruff (the place I needed to inject) right against my chest so I didn't have access.

Diana was patient and we waited until Stella finally relaxed half on Diana's lap.  Then with Stella's eyes closed, I gently took her scruff, swiftly got the needle in, injected, and pulled out the needle.  Only a grunt from Stella.  Not even a whimper, and certainly not a shriek.

"You did that like a pro!" Diana said.

Perhaps, but pro's don't shake afterwards.  My hands were trembling; better to tremble after than before I suppose.  It took a few moments for me to calm down, and I hoped I could recreate however I had managed to do it again.

Diana said that she was supposed to call Linda to let her know her thoughts on Stella, and she asked what my thoughts were.  I told her that I would never give up hope.  And seeing her like this tonight and in the afternoon, I knew Stella still had that spark in her--she wasn't going to give up yet.  Diana said when she asked opinions like this, she thinks of what Lou would say.  And what her fourteen year old boy would say is exactly what I said: Give her a chance.  Don't lose hope.

I know we shouldn't let animals suffer.  But I also know that when I'm sick, I feel like I want to die.  That doesn't mean someone is going to come in and make that happen.  It just means I have to work through it, and eventually I'll get better.  I realize she has a compromised immune system.  But she is improving--at least her face isn't a phlegm-fast anymore.  As for her lungs, I can't see them.  She struggles to breathe...but doesn't say something? That she's struggling because she wants it; if she didn't struggle, she'd just give up. 

After Diana left, I told Stella straight up: I wasn't giving up on her.  If she wanted to give up, she'd have to tell me.  Otherwise, I was in this for the long haul.  Maybe that's an attitude of a fourteen year old, but I don't care.  I remember being fourteen: the world was full of hope and possibility.  It still is; we just forget because we've become jaded by disappointment in our adulthood.  The thing is Hope never dies; it's us who abandon it.  So for the time being, I'm going to be fourteen years old.  My door is always open to dogs in need.  There's no vacancy for another canine right now, but the door is always open--and there is always room--for Hope.

A Matter of Perception

My dog Noodles had slipped discs, a very common ailment of dachshunds.  She had back surgery and then spent a month in the hospital recovering.  However, she didn't really recover.  When she came home for Christmas, as I had requested, I couldn't see how much pain she was in.  The pictures of her from that December are evidence of just how powerful emotions can cloud vision.  I didn't see her arching back in pain; I didn't see her atrophied muscles.  I couldn't see that because I only saw my best friend who was back home with me which is all I wanted.

When I picked up Stella, I didn't have such cloudy vision.  I saw what appeared to be an old dog suffering from malnutrition and pneumonia.  Her spirits were high so she didn't seem to be in pain, but dogs have a very high pain threshold.  I saw Stella for the ailments she had.

Now that she's been with me for a couple of days, I can see how one can overlook her ailments and brush aside her appearance.  I have somehow even convinced my eyes to see a little less hipbone protruding out of her back and a slightly larger torso.  Even though I haven't gotten to know her much, I'm now invested in her and my emotions are coloring my perception.

Emotions are indeed running high for me.  I'm terribly stressed out about being a failure.  I spent a good amount of time yesterday using one of Stella's old needles on a pillow to get the hang of how to do this quickly.  I didn't do well Friday night administering the injection and yesterday morning ended with Stella shrieking and me in tears.  The pitch a dog cries out when in pain is the most heart-wrenching sound I know; and when I'm the one that caused that pain, well, I have a very hard time dealing with that.  I didn't want to admit failure.  This was supposed to be easy.  It should be easy.  So why can't I get this?

Last night when it was time for me to give her the injection I psyched myself up to do it quickly.  The vet said this was key.  However, having used the pillow to practice, I accidentally stabbed myself and it hurt like hell--and I didn't even draw blood.  So I knew I had to guard myself against the sound of Stella's shriek.  It was going to hurt; I just had to make it quick.  However, in my quickness and trying to avoid the shriek of pain, I pulled the needle out too quickly and her expensive, hard-to-come-by medicine went all over her neck.  I tried to remain calm, got another vial, and tried again.  This time she shrieked loudly, and now that her coat was wet, I had no idea if the second injection went in or not.  Then I didn't know if I had underdosed her or overdosed her since perhaps some of the first injection might have made it in.

That was it.  I was done.  I had to admit failure.  Non-compliance of medicinal routine is the major cause of failure to kick a disease.  And if Stella didn't get better, the idea of putting an end to her suffering was going to be a reality.  There's no way I can live with myself if I fail her.

Stephanie spoke with me almost an hour, calming me down, and talking to me about Stella.  I found myself giving Stephanie my colored perception of Stella:  how she seemed more vibrant more often.  She appeared to be not as weak as before.  She got up and walked around, not just to go out to the bathroom.  There was still that spark in her eyes.

Stephanie believes in humane euthanasia.  I believe in it for people because we can state our case and be responsible for our own lives.  We were pushed unwillingly into this thing called life; if we want to take ourselves out of the game, I think it's perfectly acceptable.  It can be shitty for those who love you, but well within your right.  But Stella can't tell me if she'd like to call it quits.  I know the rescue is relying on me to be Stella's advocate and tell them what I see, but what I feel affects what I see. 

I've been lucky; I didn't have to make a choice with either of my dogs.  They went on their own and I thank them for that.  Stephanie said when she had spent time with Stella at the vets she had wondered if perhaps the reason she was rescuing this dog wasn't to give her a new life in a new home, but to give her last remaining days some love before letting her go. 

A week ago I had seen a posting asking if someone would do hospice care for an 18 year old German Shepard that had been surrendered to the LA Animal Shelter.  The person who sent the plea didn't want this old dog to be euthanized at the shelter; she wanted someone to give this dog just a few days or weeks of love and then, if necessary, humanely euthanize him if it looked like he was still in pain.  I had considered it, thinking my heart would be strong enough.  Now I know it's not.

Probably like Stella, this dog was loved a great deal at one time.  But perhaps his owners no longer could provide for his care, or they themselves either couldn't afford to financially or emotionally, put their animal to sleep.  Stella had a home in her life.  She's far too loving and gracious to have lived her whole life on the streets.  We don't know her full story though.  Stephanie believes perhaps her owners couldn't afford to pay for her care, and left her in the schoolyard hoping someone would take her home and care for her; they did what they could.

Stella is a good dog.  She's a great foster.  I even went out last night for five hours; I've never left a houseguest of mine alone before for that long.  I needed to de-stress, and I'm sure she appreciated a few hours of rest without my negative, frazzled energy around.

When I returned, she was exactly where I left her on the couch.  She nicely allowed me to take her out for a final pee of the evening and then head to bed.  As with all dogs, I am amazed at their ability to know exactly where I want them to be and their willingness to be anywhere but there.  As you can see from this picture, Stella has her own pillow and towel--half the bed, just for her.  And since I have the pet blanket down, really she can sleep anywhere on the bed, dribble snot, and I won't care.  So where does she go?  My spot--the one spot without snot-protection.

Emotions aside, I do think she is doing a little better.  I wipe her nose less often and the tinge of green and yellow has become more white and clear.  It still kicks up when she gets stressed--like this morning when I tried yet again to give her an injection.  She twisted and turned, I lost hold of the needle, only got half the fluid in, and it took far longer than if she just sat still.  But I only have two hands.  I don't want to blame this on being alone.  I want to be able to do this by myself.  For goodness sake, she's not a cat.  She's a 28.9 pound dog (I know this because I took her to the vet this morning to get the rest of the injection and to watch a professional administer it).

The doctor explained that she cannot get the medicine any other way.  He really is very patient and understanding.  When I told him I lost a whole dose his response was, "Okay.  Calm down.  It's not gold.  We'll get more."

When I told him she shrieks, he said, "Okay, so she shrieks.  Just do it fast.  Make it as painless as possible."  Then he gave her the rest of the injection and she shrieked.

When I told him I was worried that I could be the cause of her not getting better because I couldn't do it properly, he replied with, "You can only do the best you can do.  If it's not every 12 hours, that's fine, but it has to be twice a day.  If you don't get every single drop in, you don't get every single drop in.  Just do the best you can."

I know he's right, but a life is on the line.  Stephanie is seeking volunteers to meet me twice a day to either perform the injection, or at least be there to help me, so I can feel more confident and they can distract Stella.  I want to give her the medicine as it was intended to be given to her.  If she didn't have this bacterial infection, she would simply be a scrawny old dog with hair loss--conditions that don't seem to bother the old girl at all.  She might never gain the weight, but she's okay with that.  I do see a bounce in her step more.  But I also see her eyes half-closed as she struggles to breathe when her nose is clogged.

My dog Dutchess had good days and bad days as a senior dog.  She had good moments and bad moments.  The same can be said of any old dog.  Stella has good moments and bad moments.  Right now she has been sleeping on the couch for over two hours, and there is a little stain of dried up snot on the pillowcase where her nose has been running.  She doesn't look well at all.  I find it wholly unfair that a microbe has the possibility of ending this majestic creature's life.  Does she want to keep fighting?  I don't know.  I'm sure she has doubts as probably many people do when they face a hard sickness.  Some give up; some keep fighting.  But it's always the person's choice.

I'm not making that decision for Stella.  I can only do the best I can do and keep fighting for her.  If Stella was rescued to get better and then live a few more years in a loving home, then she'll get better.  If Stella was rescued so she wouldn't have to spend her last few days on this planet behind bars, but curled up in a loving home, then I am honored to be that home.  I won't make any decision in either direction.  I need Stella to decide, and I need to trust that the universe will give me the strength and direction to support and accept whatever she wishes.

Can An Old Dog Teach Me New Tricks?

Day One Dinner Results: I surprisingly achieved well-cooked, juicy broiled chicken, but I simply don't have the patience for brown rice.  Luckily Stella isn't a picky eater, so she ate the can of dog food the vet donated to me along with some my fresh chicken.

And this dog really needs to eat.  She's on thyroid pills, which luckily I don't have to jam down her throat.  They're incredibly tiny and when one is just thrown in with her food, she swallows it.  The hair loss is very sad.  Reading online, I think it may be lack of estrogen.  It causes an enlarged vulva, weight loss, and hair loss--all of which she has.  Perhaps the thyroid meds will also help with her hair.  The good news though, is that I know a lot more about how to gain weight than I do about losing weight, so that part of Stella's recovery should be easy for me.

However, I'm a wee bit tired today.  I didn’t sleep much, and I don't think Stella slept at all.  Her favorite spot in the apartment is of course on the couch, but she enjoyed the bed as well.  She wasn't the cuddler Katya had made her out to be, but Stella didn't seem to be too well last night.  Perhaps she just wanted to be alone.

Stella coughs, but not the harsh hacking that ends in a wretch which is what Harry got me used to hearing. Instead she coughs ever so gently, repeatedly, for many minutes, rattling her entire skeleton (and the bed).  If she isn't coughing, she's breathing loudly because her nose is so stuffed she can only attempt to breathe through her mouth, something dogs generally only do when they're panting. 

I spent the entire night listening to her breathing, feeling the bed shake under her coughing body, and then when she finally found a clear nostril from which to breathe, my heart would skip a beat thinking she stopped breathing completely.

Harry had one day of nose gook.  I was very lucky.  Stella has the issues that I could not deal with in a child, which is precisely why I do not want children.  I was visiting a friend of mine back east with her two year old child when I witnessed her say to her daughter, "Come here, you have a boogie in your nose," and then reach over, stick her thumbnail in her daughter's nose, and extract a flaky booger.  How do parents do that?  I'm having a hard time wiping long green snot from Stella's nose and she's not human.  Although, at times, I wish she was so I could just hold a tissue under her nose and say, "Blow."  She doesn't even sneeze.  The mucus just pokes out of her nostrils with each exhale and gets sucked back in on each inhale.  If she hangs her head over the couch and I walk away, five minutes later I return to see a long trail of yellow snot many inches long dangling out of her nose as if a tiny Rumpzel has let down her hair and is trying to escape a dog's face.

She went on one car ride with me, as I needed to meet my boss in the LA basin.  I wanted to leave Stella alone, but going over the hill and back could take many hours depending on the traffic, so she came along.  I realized during our ride, every now and again wiping the dangling snot from her nose, that she is definitely not going to be able to accompany me anywhere during her stay with me.  Harry was sick, but not like this.  Not only for the sake of other dogs, but for Stella's, she needs to stay home, in bed, and get some rest.

So after returning from our trip across town, I left Stella on the couch and walked out the door.  She didn't even move.  I did some quick work business then went to the pet store to get more of the canned food from the vet (I don't have high expectations for my cooking, and the kid needs as much food as her stomach will hold anyway), and a collar.  I only own one big collar, since most of the dogs just get the harness on for trips and walks.  But since Stella is not going to be in the car, and our walks only consist of going to the end of the driveway and back, I thought it easier to just get a collar she could keep on rather than take on and off a harness every few hours.

When I returned almost an hour later, Stella was in the same exact position, and didn't even acknowledge my existence.  I think she can handle it if I leave for the evening if need be.

My allergies were kicking up something fierce.  Stella is old, sick, and had been at the vet's office for two weeks.  She was a tad stinky.  I realize now that I'm less allergic dogs and more allergic to wherever they've been and whatever they've been rolling in.  I'm sure she also had dried-up snot and mucous on her coat from just letting it hang.  The vet said no to any decongestants, that I just had to keep wiping her nose, but I imagine they didn't have much time to that at the vet's 24 hours a day. 

Like most dogs, Stella wanted nothing to do with the water portion of the bath, but she couldn't get enough of the toweling off.  Her neck fur is very thick--almost like a scarf, and difficult to dry.  The bath at least cleaned off the rest of her coat and what fur did remain on her back was silky soft when I finished.  She had come with a sweater to keep her warm, but the vet said she always tried to take it off.  (And the vet tech had washed it with the towels so the nice black sweater had pink lint all over it).  Really, though, she doesn't need a sweater; she needs pants.  Her front half has all the fur she needs.  Her neck could keep her warm.  It is from just above her hips down to her tail that needs the covering.

I wish I could have gotten a non-blurry picture of Stella when she came out of the bath.  She really has a beautiful coat (what's left of it).  The bath made her white fur whiter, and it brought out the brown highlights in her black fur.  I keep imagining how gorgeous she must have been five years ago.

Stella is the oldest charge I've had.  In fact, she's older than either of my dogs ever lived to be.  She's been on this planet for over one third of my entire life.  When Stephanie asks how she's doing, I really don't know how old dogs are to know what the standard is for Stella to be when she is well.  She had a few moments of bright-eyedness, but that's about it.  And when she needs to go out, she speedily walks to the end of the parking lot to go.  But otherwise, she sleeps and snots, eats and poops.

Katya asked what I thought of her, but honestly, I haven't gotten a chance to get to know her.  I hope I do soon.  I want to know this sweet and loving spirit not hindered by bacterial infections and physical maladies.

And I'd really like to be able to help her get better.  I wish I just had to jam pills down a dog's throat; it's far easier.  This morning, I did the injection well, but tonight, it was horrible.  Confidence is key, and I don't have it.  I contemplated too much.  Every time I took a bit of scruff on her neck, she turned to me and tried to inch away.  She knows I have no idea what I'm doing.  A dog will always love you, but they won't always have the utmost confidence in you.

I'm hoping tonight is better than last night.  Stella smells better at least.  I'd like to hope she feels a little better too by not having sticky, oily fur.  Her nose is clogged so she can't smell herself, but maybe the bath will help her spirits.  It's kept her nostrils clear for a couple of hours now.

Being a nurse is not my strong suit.  It's probably best I don't have my own dog.  If I can't handle giving injections, what would happen if my own dog needed it?  A friend of mine has to give his cat insulin everyday.  I repeat: he gives a cat injections.  I should have no trouble giving a kind senior dog a injection.  I just wish I could practice.  It's the most important part of getting her better: giving her medicine.  But I guess like most important things in life, you don't get to practice; you're just dealt what you're dealt.  You get thrown in the water, you learn how to swim.  I just wish it wasn't someone else that drowns if I fail.

A New Challenge...I Mean Charge

I believe in a universal consciousness, that energy and ideas can travel amongst us--which is why many people can have the same idea at the same time.  And yet I still find it odd when I write something and soon thereafter the idea is made a reality.

...I know I don't have a dog for a reason: so I can take in dogs like Harry--ones that can't be with other dogs because of illness.  I can take in the ones who don't get along with other pets; ones who need quarantine.  I help the tough cases, the ones other people may not be able to assist due to their situation...

It wasn't long after I wrote these words that I received an email from Katya (Queen of Nomenclature) requesting my assistance for a tough case.  From what she wrote, I knew this little girl named Stella was to her what Harry was to me: a special favorite.  And since Katya could not help Stella, she asked if I could.

Stella is a 12-14 year old cattle dog/possible Dobie mix that was found tied up in a Baldwin Park schoolyard, taken to the Baldwin Park Shelter (extremely high kill rate), and then rescued by Animal Advocates Alliance.  Katya had fostered her briefly before she found her forever home.  However, much like Harry's kennelmate, within just a short time of Stella being in her new home she fell deathly ill.  Because she was with two other senior dogs, not only did she need to get to a vet's, but she couldn't recover at home for fear of infecting the other dogs.

So....Katya and Stephanie (the rescuer) had gone to visit Stella a few times at the vet's, and although she was being treated for illness, they knew that home care was really the fastest way for her to get better.  Veterinarian hospitals are necessary and good places, but stressful places for long-term stays.  Katya asked if I could keep Stella for 7-10 days while she finished her antibiotics and then hopefully she could go home again.

Due to that annoying thing called "a job," I couldn't take her right away.  I was scheduled to be out of my office on Wednesday (yesterday) and move whatever remaining work I had back home to finish out the week and work next week.  So I said I would pick up Stella on Thursday (today) and keep her until at least Wednesday next week.  I'm half-planning on a little birthday trip next week in the hopes of getting my fall foliage fix about a hundred a fifty miles away.  I said I could always take Stella with me, but Katya said it best she stay and if indeed she was still sick and suffering by then, "other options" might need to be considered.

Harry had kennel cough.  Most of the dogs that have been in my apartment have been diagnosed with kennel cough.  A cold is a cold.  But a cold in an old senior dog who has either been neglected or been a stray for a number of years, is a very very bad thing.  Katya had sent me pictures of a cheery, smiling tri-colored dog, and everyone, including the entire vet's office, sang her praises about what a special wonderful girl she was.  So despite my fourteen-hour work days, I made time to look forward to a little R & R with this girl.

I spent today running all my errands, not knowing if this is a dog I could leave alone, since none so far have been able to be left without crying or barking.  Katya believed she would be fine, stating that as an old dog, and a sick old dog at that, Stella would probably sleep and not even notice I was gone.

I had asked about what she ate, and Stephanie replied wet food and the vet had been feeding her a chicken a day.  Katya said I could make her some chicken, brown rice, peas, and carrots.  This dog eats better than I do, and these two women have far more confidence in my culinary skills than they should.  As I was in the store staring blankly at the fifty different kinds of rice that exist and wondering which I should get, a helpful stranger saw my expression and unloaded his brain of rice knowledge, explaining which makes for good risotto, which is fluffy, which has a nutty taste, and on and on.  When he paused, I said, "Thank you.  I'm actually just trying to figure out what to get for a dog."

"Oh, well, I don't know.  Is it a fussy dog?" he asked.

Wet food was even more of a challenge.  I grabbed a new PetFresh Bites refrigerated dinner in case I failed at the rice, then bought some food for myself for the week.

At the vet's office, the receptionist was very nice and told me that I would be so happy to take Stella home.  And then she kindly warned me (thank goodness), "She looks a lot worse than she is."

I have to admit that I was more than taken aback when she was brought into the examining room.  I wasn't expecting the same smiling dog from Katya's photo, but Stella was a lot worse than I imagined.  She is on medicine that needs to be injected twice daily, so the vet was nice enough to give me a lesson, which is why I wasn't just handed her leash and sent on my way.  Stella didn't have kennel cough; she had pneumonia.  And some hair loss that they're not sure if it's due to hormones, malnutrition, or old age.  It's definitely not mange, but she's missing fur all around her back end and creeping its way up her spine.  Any dog with fur loss doesn't look good, but it looks even worse when you can see every vertebrae in her back and her hip bones stick up an inch over her tail bone. 

Despite her appearance, she was in good spirits.  She said hello to me, and it was obvious that she really liked the doctors and the vet techs.  The receptionist gave Stella a toy as a parting gift.  As for my lesson in how to administer a needle, I know for certain now that abandoning my career as a veterinarian at a young age was a very good idea.

I told the doctor I learn by doing, so I'd like to actually do it in front of him so he could tell me what I've done wrong.  He did one injection of just fluid to show me how to tent the back of the neck, stick the needle in, pull out, then you're done.  I don't think it took more than three seconds.  I had the needle with the medicine in it.  I stuck it in, and then Stella yelped, collapsed on her side, and I had to rush in a panic to get the medicine in and then get it out.

"Just do it faster," was the only thing the doctor could tell me.  He was very patient and very nice about it all.

I hoped I could do it better next time.  But I doubt it made Stella like me very much.  She hadn't even yelped when he administered the needle.  I just don't know how much pressure is needed it to pierce the skin, get it in, and push the fluid in.

In the end, the vet said if I really didn't feel comfortable, that I could come by every day and he'd do it for me.  I said I'd try the next morning, and see if I could do it.  I have a feeling it'll take practice, but I don't want to hurt her every time.

Stella didn't seem to want to leave (would you want to leave with some stranger who just stabbed you?).  She made her rounds of saying good-bye to the doctor and the receptionist and then we headed outside to the car.  She was so weak.  She made it up to the first landing of the stairs to the parking garage and then stopped.  She didn't want to go any further.  Her nose was running, and her hind legs didn't seem to have enough muscle to keep moving.

She seemed to know what car rides were and was happy to be up in the seat, but preferred mine.  She was taller than I expected, so she couldn't ride on my lap on the way home.  Katya had said Stella was about 35 pounds, but needed to be twice that.  Indeed she does.  Every rib shows, even the ones covered with her black coat.

Every new dog is not only a chance for me to help another creature on this planet and enjoy doing so, but it also provides me a chance to learn something.  I have a feeling I'm going to a learn on this one.  At the very least, I hope I'll be able to add a few more non-pasta related food items to my "I Can Make That!" list.  But I'll try not to raise my expectations too much.