#baileythewonderdog

When I first introduced Bailey to social media, I began tagging most of the far too frequent Facebook photos of her as Bailey the Wonderdog (#baileythewonderdog on Twitter and Instagram). Even I thought this was just a fun nickname by an overly proud canine parent who, like all overly proud canine parents, thinks that their dog is more wonderful than any other dog could possibly be. But as we end 2013, and as she has done throughout the year, Bailey has proven herself worthy of this moniker. She is a wonder dog.

It is not because Bailey is any more wonderful than any other dog (although, as an overly proud canine parent I believe that she is!), but because she repeatedly and frequently fills the rest of us with wonder. Her vets are in wonder of how, with cancer now having spread to nearly all her organ systems, she continues to show such minimal impairment from it. Friends are in wonder about how happy and joyful she appears. The dog park community, especially those who witnessed her seizure, are in wonder of how she keeps coming back to soak up more of their love. And I am in wonder not only of how she continues to survive with an illness that should have killed her many months ago; I am in wonder not only of how she continues to fight through the pain and setbacks of old age; I am in true wonder of how she does all of this with such a good spirit and such a kind nature.

So here is something that I hope inspires a bit more wonder to carry you into a new year—Bailey is awake. Really awake. A lot. She is awake more often than she has been in months. And she is not just awake—she is awake and aware and attuned.  And here is what seems to have awoken her:

Biscuit and Bailey (sorry about the poor photo quality)

Two days before Christmas a visit from a special canine friend and her equally special humans elicited a level of excitement and joy that I had not seen in Bailey since celebrating her birthday last May. We were all in wonder of how, despite considerable labored breathing, Bailey bounced about and flashed that amazingly goofy grin of hers again and again. Her excitement continued throughout this visit and, after a brief rest, returned later that evening, and the next day, and the next week, and today.

Ok… her physical strength has not come back fully—this is a Christmas wonder, not a Christmas miracle. I now have to lift her entire weight (not some of it) to go up stairs, and I have to stabilize and support her (not just monitor her) going down. She continues to fall frequently (several times a day) and sometimes cannot find the strength or muscle control to get back up. And I’ll admit that the increase in her narcotic may have a part in her regained goofiness. But there is no questioning the increase in her energy level, in her wakefulness, in her presence, and in… well… her Baileyness. Barely Bailey is gone. Really Bailey is back. And Really Bailey really is a wonder dog.

Bailey is a wonder dog not because of how wonderful she is (although as any overly proud canine parent I again contend that she is the most wonderful dog ever). She is a wonder dog because of how much she fills us with wonder. She is a wonder dog because of how she inspires us to wonder. She is a wonder dog because she makes us more wonder full.

So, to my wonder dog I say one last time in 2013, but I am sure not for the last time… Good girl, Bailey. Well done, Bailey.

plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose - quatre

Thirteen Years in Three Photos - Christmas Edition

Act I: 2000 - 6 months

Act II: 2003 - 3.5 years

Act III: 2013 - 13.7 years

No Love for Snow

Bailey has always loved snow. Change that: Bailey has always LOVED snow. Still not right: Bailey has always LOVED snow!!! With each new snow, her eyes would widen first with amazement, then with amusement, and then pure joy. Doggy ecstasy. Doggy joy. Doggy love.

January 26, 2013

I was overwhelmed with happiness last January, during Bailey’s first last-four-weeks, when she was able to see snow again. And as the first flake melted on her nose, she was immediately transformed into a puppy—a puppy freed of any problems with cancer, arrhythmia or arthritis, if only for a short time. She joined the falling crystals in a dance of pure joy. And, as she always did, she savored the experience to the fullest—romping in it, rolling in it, tasting it and, via wildly abandoned but fully intended convulsions, sharing its wet joy with all nearby.

This morning, an early storm provided the opportunity to experience such joy again. But today's snow brought Bailey no joy.  Today, there was no love for snow. It was not the wondrous source of amazement or amusement or joy that it had always been. It was an annoyance. It was just wet and slippery and cold. Nothing more. During one of the precious periods when she is as present and alert as she can be, Bailey took no enjoyment from snow. Its power to transform her had vanished. The happiness around it was missing. The love for snow, lost.

Barely Bailey

She is still there. I see it twice a day when the first 12-hour dose of her medicine wears off and before the next dose takes full effect. For about 45 minutes twice a day she is alert, she is joyful and, for the most part, she is strong and stable. For about 45 minutes each day, she enjoys a short walk to greet friends at the park. For about 45 minutes twice a day I see light in her eyes. And because of those 45 minutes twice a day, I know that she is still there, even though for much of the other time she lies restlessly, neither awake nor asleep. Even tough the rest of the time she breathes with a rasp not heard for several months. Even though when she moves it is unsteadily, falling frequently, walking headfirst into objects, and at times appearing lost and scared. But because of those 45 minutes twice a day, I know that she is still there even though her eyes, clouded and fixed, reveal little life the rest of the time. Because of those 45 minutes twice a day, I tolerate the feeling of my heart slowly breaking.

The cats—Bailey’s cats; the cats that she raised and cared for since they were just nine weeks old—they know that something is wrong. Since Bailey returned from the veterinary emergency hospital, Milo has shadowed her everywhere. For three days now wherever Bailey is, Milo is nearby watching her closely, grooming her, or cuddling with her. And whenever she falls (which is infrequent only because she rarely gets up) or whenever her breathing is abnormal (which is far too frequent), both Mabel and Milo run to her but look to me with faces seeming to plead for help. Before, whenever I wondered how the cats would react when Bailey is gone, I took comfort in the notion that, as cats, they will adapt quickly. Now, I am not so sure. But, they are cats. But they are Bailey’s cats.

One day's medicine

Bailey is medicated. She is over-medicated. The first day was dangerous—the falls were frequent and hard. Now, after reducing the dosage of the one drug that I knew I could, she is very slightly more stable—more precisely, slightly less unstable. And she likely will adapt to the medications at least to some extent—at some point she will not get as drowsy and aloof. But to what degree? I hope that we (the vets and I) can find a satisfactory balance between seizure prevention and retaining some of Bailey’s mental alertness and physical activity. I hope that we will be able to find an acceptable trade-off between pain reduction and her being awake and present. But, for now, save those 45 minutes twice a day, she has little life. For now, save those 45 minutes twice a day, she is not usually sleeping (I could accept that), but lies suspended in an unpleasant plane somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. For now, save those precious 45 minutes twice a day, she is barely Bailey.

In the next few days I will make a decision—hopefully, not that decision. I pray that she will adapt sufficiently to the medications and the decision will be made easy. If not, I will opt to provide her the opportunity to live more fully even if increasing the risk of seizure and even if shortening her life. And if this decision cannot provide her the opportunity to be really Bailey without undo pain or suffering, then I will consider that decision and hope that I can put aside my own wishes and pain, to do what is right for her.

The Kindness of Others

About a month ago I picked up a dog-park acquaintance from the ER after she was accidentally taken out by some charging, playing dogs who were focused on the fun they were having and not where they were going. She wanted to pay me back—after all, we did not know each other well. But I could not even contemplate accepting her offer as it was hardly any trouble for me, and as I had been helped several times in my life by near or complete strangers, and suspected that I will likely need to count on such kindnesses again. She insisted on paying me back; I insisted that she pay it forward.

I believe in Karma. No—I do not believe in the Karma of Buddhists that results in being reincarnated into a higher or lower form of life. But the idea that what goes around comes around has at times been the only thought that has kept me from climbing the roof of a post office with a semi-automatic weapon. And seeing truly good people ultimately rewarded—even if years later, and even if only with their own sense of joy and inner peace—has kept me hopeful and optimistic in a world (and a city) that often seems determined to bring on its own ruin. I believe in Karma in the sense that (to repeat yet another cliché), you reap what you sew.

Nurse Milo providing care to
Bailey upon her return from the vet hospital.

This morning Bailey and I did some reaping—thankfully, not of the grim kind, although it at first seemed as that might be the case. Today, Bailey went into a full-on tonic-clonic seizure. From yapping with others at the dog park at one moment; to the shout that I knew would someday come, “Is Bailey OK;” to seeing my dog convulsing violently on the ground in the next moment. I shouted for someone to hail a cab for me—I had planned for this moment for nearly a year, and had the reserved cash folded in the side of my wallet where it had been waiting for just this event. But no one hailed a cab. Instead an acquaintance—a near stranger whose name I did not even know (despite being fully aware of her dog’s name, like most dog-park regulars)—insisted on driving me to the vet hospital across town. And I reaped another sewn seed when a second acquaintance insisted on carrying all 70-pounds of Bailey, still convulsing, while I executed the well-rehearsed checks for internal bleeding and/or heart failure, and kept Bailey’s airway clear from both her tongue and an abundance of frothy liquid that she was producing. And another when the urgent care techs, alerted by my call into the vet hospital, met us outside with a stretcher to rush Bailey in without wasting any time. And another seed reaped when the urgent-care physician drew just the right balance of listening, planning and immediately attending to a still emergent situation. And even more reaping when complete strangers in the waiting room, having witnessed our rushed entrance and obviously noting my distress, came to chat and provide some measure of comfort.

My Jewish friends would say that Bailey’s recovery today and her long survival with cancer is a nes, or miracle. My Christian friends will note that she and I have been blessed. Or maybe it is just that people really are good, when given the opportunity. For me, I feel no need to speculate on the why’s--I prefer to just embrace the wonder or it all--of all the events of today, of the past year and of the last 13 years. I choose to see this as yet more returns on my paying-it-forward in the past, and reinforcement to continue my resolve to pay-it-forward in the future. But, most of all, I like to see the wonder of today and the past year as all of the thousands and thousands of moments of joy that Bailey has spread throughout her life, coming back to her when she most needs them.

Tomorrow I may write about how scared I was this morning. Tomorrow I may write about how my heart is just now starting to slow a bit. Tomorrow I may contemplate whether this is the start of the end (or, more accurately in Bailey’s case, yet another start to another end). Tomorrow I may look at and share my fears and concerns. But today I choose to focus on the ever-continuing wonders of my amazing dog, and the wonder-filled events provided by the kindness of others.

Good girl, Bailey… and very, very well done, humans.

Counting Time

When you live with an elderly or terminally ill dog, you find yourself counting time in interesting ways. Some are more “normal” than others, some are more fun, some bore your friends to near-madness (but it is fun watching them pretend to be interested), and some are just ridiculous. But no matter how ordinary or how far removed from normal ways of tracking time, all have to do with how far you and your elder companion have come, or how much further you may yet go.

If you have followed this blog or have spoken to me about Bailey, you are already familiar with some of the more typical ways that I have counted time since learning of her diagnosis. I originally counted it in relation to her prognosis of “most likely four-to-six weeks”, “maybe two months” or “an outside chance of three months, but you should not expect that.” Once Bailey outlived all of these expectations, I began counting the months since her diagnosis, the number of seasons she greeted, and the number of events-that-were-not-supposed-to-be. I also began counting down the number of weeks or months until future events or goals that I had created for no real reason other than to have some goals. And I sometimes joked about her being “x months past dead” (her current age is 8 months past dead).

These manners of counting time are fairly normal, however, in that they all use measures typically associated with time—days, weeks and months. But I also found myself counting time in less traditional ways. When given an end date and then going far beyond it, but while always acutely aware of the real, final end date that grows nearer and nearer, you fall on many new measures of time—ones that typically have nothing to do with time, itself. Using some of these measures, the current time is…

•  130 pounds of kibble past diagnosis
• 14 medication refills past diagnosis (filled every three weeks) 
• 1 unexpected 6-month elder-care check-up past diagnosis, and 1/6^th to the next one
• 3 broken promises of no more baths past diagnosis (and a 4^th one coming very soon—sorry, Bailey)
• An unthinkable number of treats past diagnosis, resulting in...
• 9 additional pounds past diagnosis

Since Bailey’s diagnosis, and without trying, so many mundane events became ways of counting time. But one surpassed all others as my favorite, both because of how firm a marker it is, as well as because of how absurd it is.

The current time is:  840 poops past diagnosis.

That’s right—while you count hours and minutes, I count poops! No, I have not gone mad—I have not counted each and every turd Bailey has dumped for the last 10 months (and I definitely have not weighed, measured or otherwise evaluated them any further than every dog owner does). But, as circumstance would have it, I am able to estimate with a fairly high level of accuracy, the number of poops Bailey has produced since her diagnosis.

Two days after Bailey was diagnosed I received a shipment of poop bags that I had ordered two days before the diagnosis.  

That is 60 rolls. That is 900 bags. And that is absurd, given that I was just told to expect Bailey to live no more than 6 weeks. Absurd!

But, here is what remains of those bags:

60 bags left. Sure, I gave 3 or 4 rolls away, but I also borrowed many bags during the last 10 months. And (dare I admit it), I may have failed to recover a turd or two, whether unintentionally or not. Still, no matter how you count, what once seemed like an absurd order has now proven to be nothing other than bargain shopping.

So join me in raising a bag to toast 840 poops passed, to hail the next 60 dumps to which Bailey is currently committed, and to cheer for many more turds to come. And as time moves on and Bailey is currently standing at the door anxiously, I think the time is now 841 poops past diagnosis.

Good girl, Bailey.