I think we all know what it means when I actually get around to posting a picture, don’t we?

After many vet visits, four different meds twice a day, sub-Q fluids every other day, twice daily soakings of a leg that had swollen from blockage, Roark passed away during the night on Friday 11/7.

We’d finally taken to locking him in our bedroom so he could have access to food 24/7 without the other cats eating it.  Tom had brought him into bed and he was curled up on my side when I came in.  Roark moved down the foot of the bed but did not jump off as usual when he felt there wasn’t enough comforter to go around.

Tom woke first and I noticed Roark was at my feet, but it wasn’t until Tom came back to administer the morning soaking that we realized he was gone.

I have no other words.  I got Roark and Frisco at 6 weeks of age my sophomore year in college, fourteen years ago.  I always said that when they went, I would be need to be medicated.  I am numb and at a loss.  I am just thankful that Roark left us on his own terms, in his sleep.

I mean…dude.

I’d love to be more eloquent about the past month, but I just can’t.

The fundraiser, while a huge success from a logistics standpoint of that evening, did not garner quite the bucks people hoped for.  I can’t help it, I take it a little personally since I had such a role in several aspects of the planning.  More specifically, I see things that can definitely be improved and feel I might not get the chance to implement said changes.

The same week as the fundraiser, I got a call from GM while on a remote part of the sanctuary property stating a dauchand needed rescue that day – he was on death row.  Of course I called Tom, who of course said YES!, and of course the dauchand turned out to be a 45 lb weird basset hound/dauchand/rotreiller mix.  He’s way too big and energic for our household.  Luckily, I only signed up to foster him (with everyone thinking we’d fall so much in love that we’d “fail” and keep him).  Alas, we love him but don’t attend to fail.  It’s been very stressful and I am thankful that (fingers crossed) he appears to be going to a new mommy this Sunday.  What’s even better?  She lives in my condo complex!

A few days after that, we took Roark in for X-rays and got confirmation on what his blood work hinted at.  Cancer.  Lymphomas all through his body, including one impinging on nerves in his front left leg.  Chemo and radiation just sound cruel for a 14 year-old cat so it’s been a ton of drugs daily to keep him comfortable, bandaging the leg as it’s prone to swellings, force feeding at times to keep weight on him, and many many vet visits.

Perhaps the only reason I can write about it is that yesterday for the first time I found him downstairs and ready to eat with the rest of the pack.  I know it doesn’t mean anything – he’ll be leaving us soon – but it was such a joy to get that one memory of the cat he used to be.

Other than that, I’ve been sick.  Ill.  Coughing.  Hacking.  Sweating.  I can’t believe I got through the stress of the fundraiser only to have a complete physical meltdown.  I thought I’d finally get back to eating right, exercising, and wow my in-laws at Thanksgiving.  Now I’ll just be lucky if I can say hello to all my in-laws without leaving chunks of lung on them.

Large sanctuary fundraiser on Friday.

Large flood at site holding fundraiser auction items.

Lady is one week into her heartworm treatment – some heavy breathing here and there and fingers crossed.

Roark is limping and not eating – blood work pending.

Daschund rescued from death row of shelter turned out to be a 40 lb Bassett Hound/Rotreiller mix.

As you might know from reading Miss Doxie, dachshunds are contagious.  In fact, if Miss Doxie lived a little further south in Georgia and did not have so many teeth, I might think she was a distant in-law.

It started with Cinnamon, a little wiener dog some friend foisted upon Tom while he was still living in the same town as his parents.  I cannot remember the specifics of this foisting and Tom is in Oklahoma counting shit in a freezer (this pays well – evidently many people cannot count.  So, stay in school!  At least through 3rd grade!) so he is not available for clarification.  I am pretty sure it involved the friend going to drown/abandon/let loose the dog because this is how Tom gets all of his animals – if you listened to him, you’d think he never really wanted pets but he has just always been in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Like how you have traffic accidents?  He has pets.

Cinnamon lived in a pen outside his house and his father, also Tom, took a liking to her (have I ever mentioned that Tom is actually Tom Something Something the FOURTH?  Which FOURTH = you better sure as hell have kids – we have kept this jig up too long for you to fuck it up. He could not have married a woman more perfect for him and less perfect for his family.  But here we are).

Cinnamon also took a liking to Tom 3, to the point she’d just start escaping the pen and running down to their house.  When she didn’t, he would stop by and pick her up on his way to the fields for work.  After a few weeks of this, it became evident that Cinnamon had a new owner.

Then Tom got engaged, then his fiancé shot at him (guess what was included in our wedding vows?), then he moved to Alaska for a year.

When he came back, his parents decided he needed something waiting for him at home to tie him down a bit.  Since they could not afford a non-lethal-weapon-toting fiancé, they got him a dachshund, Busch.

From there, I get a bit hazy on the chronology.  His cousin got Luke, who ended up with his other cousin.  His aunt and uncle also got a dachshund.  And second to last, Luke’s owner decided he needed a playmate and Reilly came into our lives.

That’s 5 dachshunds in the family.

As you know, Busch passed away almost a year ago.  He attacked a timber rattlesnake and was gone in less than 20 minutes.  Funny enough, before he died I had been campaigning for Lady to come stay with us.  I wanted a quieter, more sedate, less needy dog.  Basically, I wanted a cat that woofed.  But after Busch was gone, I immediately felt the loss of character in our house and asked several times if we could get another dachshund.

(From a rescue facility of course.  If you are interested in owning a purebred, please look into your local rescue facilities.)

Tom always said no.  Another dachshund would remind him too much of Busch.

Busch was no spring chicken.  This meant of course that Cinnamon was even less springier and chickenier.  And a few weeks ago she had to be put to sleep.  While I was sorry to see her go, I know she had been in pain and I’m happy it’s been relieved.  I also immediately started scheming on how to get his parents to take the 3 feral kittens that had been living in my office – trapped off the road to the sanctuary, we’d had them spayed/vaccinated/etc. but could not adopt them out until they got a bit more accustomed to people.

I evidently did not scheme quick enough.  My mother-in-law sent me this picture yesterday.

Meet Buddy.

I forwarded it to Tom, who then got all sloppy and sentimental and drunk on the phone and professed his desire to have another little one of his own.

As long as he’s talking wiener dogs and not babies, I guess I’m good.

So…our dog has heart worms.

Let me back up a bit…

I have not had a regular vet for a few years now.  I had a dislike for the vet that treated Sheba, and Tom had a horrible experience with him when Frisco got sick while I was in Costa Rica.  And we moved out of the area anyway.  So we saw a vet in the new area that we liked – he was the one who put Sheba to sleep when the cancer took over her lungs, and diagnosed Frisco with urine crystals.  We had Busch then, and he was on heart worm treatment that Tom had from his previous vet.  We also used flea prevention treatments bought over the counter.

We moved back to the condo, and we were pretty against going back Sheba’s vet.  I have almost daily access to a vet for informal questions, and two of our animals (Zulu and Spike) are still cared for by the sanctuary.  Most of our basic care was met.

Busch passed away, and Lady came to live with us.  Fairly soon after she did, she went into heat.

Ever since then, it’s been on our to-do list to get her spayed.  We even got as far as seeing another vet, but this one I hated even more – the clinic smelled of urine and disinfectant, the staff was incompetent (“What’s Lady here for?”  “A biopsy of her lump.”  “Oh?  What kind of lump?” “Um…that’s what a biopsy will tell us.”), and the vet was borderline abusive with me.

The lump was negative.  We were in the middle of Zulu’s second cancer scare, so we pretty much concentrated on her for a while.

So…now it was September and we’ve had Lady almost a year and this has gone on way too long.  I made an appointment for Lady to have pre-surgical exam with a 4th vet, but less than a week later we moved the exam up because she’d lost her appetite.

This new vet is very impressive so far.  I am happy with her demeanor, her treatment plans, and her costs.  We had explained that Lady’s heart worm treatment had slipped (his parents had been vigilant while they’d had cared for her) and we were looking for a new family vet and to get her back on regular care.

Lady’s physical exam went OK, so the vet prescribed some yummier food and we did a full blood work up just to be sure – blood work was required for her spay anyway.

We did notice one other small ailment – a small cough – that came up a few times during the day prior to her exam.  As soon as we mentioned it to the vet, our eyes locked.

Now let me back up again.  I am in the animal husbandry field.  I also would like to think I have learned a thing or two about behavior and modification.  But I have not myself owned a dog since I lived with my parents.  I have never owned a dog in the mosquito-ridden south, owned a dog that was not spayed, etc., etc.  This does not absolve me from the situation – a responsible pet owner will educate themselves as necessary when they bring an animal into their lives.  So I do not mention my ignorance in defense; I simply mention it to point that I was indeed ignorant.

But my eyes locked with the vet.  Cough.  Loss of appetite.  Lapse in heart worm prevention.

Shit.

And so it was.  The vet’s office was very reluctant to tell us the news over the phone – a sign that they care and they were scared to scare us.  Especially over the cost.

I am very lucky that I DO have almost daily access to a vet.  So when we brought Lady in for her consult yesterday, I understood exactly what was going on.  I even jumped in with a few questions on some extra medicines to help make the heart worms easier to kill.  (The vet responded favorably to my questions and we left with a second prescription.)

We are in for two months of treatment.  A complete change in our daily lives.  And over a thousand dollars in vet bills.

Perhaps the saddest thing in all of this story was that when we decided we would leave the facility while she got x-rays – to buy her more yummy food no less – we were asked for a deposit.

People say they are coming back, and then don’t.

Tom and I have not behaved as the most responsible people in this story.  But before we knew anything, we agreed we would see Lady through this regardless of the cost.  We are very lucky that we can make such statements.  I understand not everyone can.

For those who can’t, please know there is help out there.  Breed-specific rescue organizations are a great resource in your local community.  If you have to forfeit your animal, please contact one.

And for those who are even luckier, please consider donating time or money to such organizations.

And for those who know us, please consider donating a kind thought to Lady.  She is in for a rough two months.

Georgia was nice, although no time see Lori or TG.  I survived the first family gathering (at least on Tom’s father’s side.)

I don’t think I come off particularly well during these visits, at least to people other than his mother and grandparents.  (All three of those people are because I spend time one-on-one with them.)  I am just definitely the sore thumb in the family (Yankee, liberal, tree-hugger) and I get rather tongue-tied.

We did indeed bring Lady home.  For the first week, I was severely depressed.  Her mannerisms are so different from Busch, that I just missed him even more.

Then Tom left for a business trip.  The very day he left, she got shit in her hind leg hair AND got her period.  After such bonding, how could I not love her?

But I will try.

Busch died yesterday evening, close to 6pm.

We had walked to the neighborhood park.  It has an enclosed playground on one side, some wide lawn, a basketball court, and a boardwalk surrounds the far side, stretching into some swamp area.

Usually there is some touch football in the lawn, or a pick-up game of basketball.  But yesterday all was clear except two families in the playground.

We decided to let Busch off his leash.  He lived a very confined life in the condo.  He never complained about it, loved to be in bed with us or curled up on the sofa.  Nevertheless, he still got very excited at the sign of shoes and keys and leashes and the possibility of more.

We walked the distance of the lawn, with him running into the bushes to look for rabbits.  At the other end, we used the PETS ONLY water fountain.  We laughed because Tom decided to throw away the poo bag mere seconds before Busch decided he had to go again.

We started walking back on the boardwalk – we love to look at the swamp area and how it changes with the rain.  But Busch was very interested in going back the way we came.  We were deciding on letting him have his way (we thought he wanted to roll in swamp mud), when I turned around and saw a rattle snake crawling onto the boardwalk.

I yelled for Busch, then yelled for Tom.

It was too late.

Busch attacked a 5-foot timber rattlesnake and then ran off yelping into the lawn.

Tom ran past me and stomped on the snake’s head.  He yelled at me to get Busch.

I ran to Busch and looked for bite marks.  I saw none, but was sure the yelping wasn’t for show.  I scooped him up and started to run the 1/3 mile back home.

Tom caught up with me and wanted to take a look.  We saw a superficial gash on his bottom jaw.  Tom took the dog and walked to keep him calm while I kept running.

I ran upstairs, grabbed keys, and made an attempt to locate a closer ER vet than the one I knew of.  That failed, so I ran back outside.

Tom was coming up the walk.  I told him to wait.  When we got in the car he said he thought Busch wouldn’t make it.  He had already seized once and Tom had been running since that point.

At the stoplight, I grabbed an empty water bottle and told Tom to perform mouth-to-mouth.

I got on the Interstate and said I was putting my hazards on.  He said it was too late.  He felt a heartbeat with the first two breaths, but it was gone after the last.

It wasn’t until then that Tom noticed the bite marks on the back of his neck.  A human probably would not survive a good dose of venom administered thusly.  It was impossible for a sixteen pound dog.

There was nothing we could have done after the attack, but I’m glad we did what we could.  I know we did not give up on him.

I know I should feel regret that we had taken him off his leash.  But he was having such a wonderful time.  In a rural environment, we might have thought twice.  This was a freak accident.

We are heartbroken and in shock.  For me, I have had to watch many animals go from long illness and old age.  The visceralness of the event haunts me.  At thirty-two, I am still unable to understand that everything can’t be fixed by different, faster, better methods.

The last pictures I have of Busch are from July when we stayed at Tom’s family cabin in Port St. Joe, FL.  I actually didn’t take any pictures while there, and started clicking away on the drive home to try and capture a few memories.

I’m glad I did.

Busch, you helped bring your father and I together.  I hadn’t dated anyone with pets in a long time.  I fell in love with you so hard and fast.  I know you went how you wanted to go, attacking critters.  But I wish you were still here.

Zulu came to the sanctuary very young.  Other bengals that came with her were adopted out at that time to other volunteers.  She stayed, but came to live with me when she was diagnosed with cancer.  It is difficult sometimes, knowing I opened my home to an animal that is certain to pass away sooner than later.  But she is getting an awesome quality life until that happens.

Maybe a month ago, we started to notice that her right pupil was bigger than her left.  It grew until it almost took over her whole eye.  Then it started to get cloudy.

She tolerates us touching her, but not picking her up.  We’ve had to crate her twice, have her examined, have her sedated, and try and put ointments in her eye.

This from a cat I’ve seen bite down a pole so hard that if it were my finger, you’d be calling me stubby right now.

Luckily, tests proved it was a detached lens that we can leave alone for now.  But almost as soon as we put the carrier away and tried to get back to a normal pattern, she seemed to get worse.  She wasn’t eating, wasn’t playing.  Of course she could barely stand to be in the same room as me – I’m the one doing all the mean things to her.

Today was the first day I’ve breathed easy looking in her general direction.  She’s holding that eye completely open.  She’s moving around the apartment a lot.  She’s eating.  And more importantly, she’s energetic enough for a sterile romp on the table with Roark.

(He’s never shown any sexual interest in another animals – in fact, we always thought he was gay.  But he’ll hump her at the drop of the hat.  Of course, everyone’s fixed so the entire act looks a little silly and Zulu definitely looks confused and pissed off by the end.)

So, we’re still on Zulu watch.  But right now, we’ve downgraded to threat yellow.  Which probably means she’s about to spray on something.

I had driven to the condo by myself to change a lightbulb.  ST wasn’t feeling well and stayed home.

I had just finished up at Target (needed a bulb in order to change one), and saw I had two missed called, both from him.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s up?” I quipped.  To be honest, I was a little worried he had thought of something else he needed and I would have to brave the shoppers once again.

“It’s Cocoa.”  (Our guinea pig)

“He’s dead.”  I don’t believe I’ve ever said those words as a question.  You hear it in someone’s voice and you know.

“Not yet, but he’s close.”

We discussed one or two things, then I suggest just wrapping him in a towel and snuggling in bed with him.

“He’ll like that.”

I got home to say goodbye.  Celeste, the little black cat who had taken to climbing in his pen with him, came and gave a farewell sniff as well.

The lump he has always had on his left hind flank was now a mushy ball.  He was between six and seven years old.  A good age for a guinea pig.

We discussed getting a vet friend over to give him a shot, but nature took her course quickly and seemingly without pain.

This is the on the heels of losing a lioness at the sanctuary to cancer on Thursday.  I’ve been trying to give myself time to write eloquently about it, but now I don’t think I will.

Hug your loved ones, bipeds and otherwise.

I got an offer on the condo last week.  I got the voicemail on Thursday after class, before I got to read the actual offer.  It sucks to get excited and then face reality.  It was way too low. 

ST can tell you, I am not good at bartering.  I am able to get away with it during car purchases because I am very, very aware the whole car industry is so confusing that it’s possible the dealership cost involved imaginary numbers multipled by pi.  But otherwise?  Give me a sticker.  I won’t even complain that it has .99 at the end.  I just want to know how many paper strips and shiny disks I should hand over in return for said object.

But thankfully, ST’s around to stop me from doing things like selling the condo for six dollars and a goat.  We countered, but so far no further interest.  I wouldn’t be surprised if I hear from the guy again.  But I won’t be surprised if I don’t either.

Strangely, the fact that I got an offer, even a low one, made me a bit more relaxed about the whole situation.

Jinx-me-not-the-second:  I had a job interview today.  For, of all things, PR work.  Sadly, I think my lack of experience will edge me out.  It would have been interesting and challenging, but to be honest perhaps a little more commitment than I could make with my school load.  It’s hard to say since they seemed very unsure of exactly what I’d be doing.  I’ll know for sure by the end of the week.

Other items of interest: The cat (Zulu) continues to thrive; my camera cable continues to roam free; and I got a ‘B’ on my organic chem test which I am guiltily proud of (I know I should be shooting for an ‘A’, but have you SEEN organic chemistry??).

Update!  Camera cable located!  In a desk drawer.  Not the freezer.  Not the litter box.  How the hell was I supposed to know to look for it there?

Presenting…the ‘Lu.