July 13
The unfriendly succulent jade plant has not yet been heard to utter a peep to the vivacious but lonely 100 year old plant.
My dog has cancer. This sounds like a big, scary thing, but I'm really very confused about it. For the longest time, she'd had a growth on her paw (inspiring me to sing, whenever she did something retarded, which was often: "TTooooommaahhhh paaawwwww!!Did your tooooommaahhhh make you do it?"). Being the apathetic pet owners that we are, Nick and I ignored it. "Wow, that thing's getting bigger!" A year later, I decided to take her to the vet (now, before you go getting all huffy about my negligence, you must know that Grayson wasn't showing any signs of being in pain, she wasn't fucking with the growth, she didn't yipe when it got bumped, it wasn't black or discolored, there was no discharge. It wasn't smelly. There was nothing at all indicating that it was anything but a weird lump. Both of the dogs are lumpy. Both of them are mutts. As soon as it started getting big, big, off to the vet we went).
So, the friendly woman doctor (who is not our usual vet [please note: it seems extremely strange to be referring to a vet as "ours" or "mine" as though I, myself, am in need of a veterinarian for my whipworm or something]). She gives Grayson her shots, listens to her heart, does all the normal stuff, proclaims her fine ("Wow, she's a nervous little thing. I don't think I've ever seen a dog shed this much! Get that tail out from between your legs!") and then looks at the tumor, which she says seems okay, but should be taken off, just in case. She sticks a needle into it (which, by the way, makes me want to vomit, as does all of the blood tests they do. She's my dog, after all), draws out some stuff, slaps it down on a glass slide (again, I use the rather violent word "slap", when in reality, it was really quite gentle and swell. Most people don't slap glass) and informs me that someone will get in touch with me with the results the following week, but in the meantime to make an appointment at the animal hospital to have the thing removed.
Fast forward to the next week. Nick takes Grayson to the hospital in the morning. We decide that I will go pick her up after work. I proceed to have the shittiest day, possibly ever. I am working like crazy. I am busy busy busy. I take no lunch. The work day spills over till 5:30. Till 6. Till 6:30, when I say "Look, this has to go out NOW. I can't stay anymore. I need to go get my dog." and he replies "What time are they open until?" I stopped what I was doing. "It's a hospital, so it's always open, but that's irrelevant, I need to go get MY DOG." Ugh, it was fucked up. I go get my dog. I get all weepy when the lead her out to me. We go home.
Then, the phone call: "it was a mass cell tumor, and it was malignant". Okay. My dog has cancer. But then it starts: what do we know about cancer in dogs? How can they be sure that they didn't get the whole thing? Chemotherapy for pets? How much will this cost?
I'd like to say that cost isn't a factor, but honestly, it has to be. The tumor removal cost 500. I love my dogs dearly. Five hundred dollars is a price I am willing to pay. When Jessie slipped his disc, I was willing to sell my car to pay for the surgery, if it had come down to that. I feel the same way about Grayson. Do what has to be done, but chemotherapy for a dog? How can I assess the pain she's in? How do we talk about quality of life? How can someone call me on the phone in all earnestness and talk about amputation of the PERFECTLY HEALTHY PAW of a 5 year old dog and not expect me to be a little suspicious? If the options are presented as "Six months of chemotherapy!" or "PAW AMPUTATION!!" or "well, you COULD do nothing and see how it goes you shitty shitty person who claims to love your animals.." what's the right choice to make?
I brought this up to Dr. Jeff (my acne doctor, if you'll recall). "Chemotherapy? For a mass cell tumor? In people, that's practically unheard of. Maybe, maybe localized radiation. Maybe. Mostly, treated by topicals and pills." Dogs aren't people. ("Shit, I don't get 500 dollars for taking off mass cell tumors! I am in the wrong business!") I love my dog. I watch her now, very carefully. I watch her flutter off to sleep. I scratch her warm belly and she rolls onto her back, luxuriantly, peering at me before closing her eyes. I open the door at the end of the day and she's there, leaping and jumping to greet me even with her paw bandaged up like a mitten. I watch her track and eat bugs. Growl out the window. I open my eyes in the morning and she's there, wedged between us, her head on my shoulder, waiting for the very moment I waken to lick my face, my head, my arms, her tail her body all alive and movement and joy. She is my dog. Really, there's nothing I wouldn't pay.
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