human-animal bond – Bridging the Paradigms: re-connecting people and the planet

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 16

April 17, 2012 by Robyn Leave a Comment

my dying dog How do we walk that last mystery of life with our beloved animal companions? How does the human-animal bond end?

I write this as our mystery is over: I lost my dying dog, my beloved Murphy, on March 8, 2012. I continue with our diary because her life ran out before our story did, and our story matters. We lived it passionately and clearly: it is helping others deal with their own impending mysteries.

Murphy had splenic cancer: at least we’re pretty sure she did. On Dec. 26, 2011, I took her to the vet for a slight cough: that led to a diagnosis of bronchitis and anemia and infection, and finally to splenic cancer. A radiologist confirmed it on ultrasound, and on January 12, 2012, a surgical specialist in Seattle told me she was pretty certain it was cancer.

Splenic cancer. You don’t beat this cancer. Ever. You can only delay it. The specialist figured it had only been there a month (about the time I noticed a subtle difference in what I thought was progressing arthritis). It is unusual to find it before a crisis develops, but the end result is the same.

If it was cancer, Murphy would live six months with surgery and chemo, three months without.

If it wasn’t cancer (and three vets were now sure it was), it was still growing and would kill her if it wasn’t removed. The surgery itself might kill her.

How do you make these choices?

What in hell do you do?

Get the Facts

Some people say they don’t want to know if their beloved animal is dying.

I say my definition of a multi-species family is you’re lucky if you get to know what you’re dealing with. In Murphy’s case, the vets were pretty sure it was cancer, an aggressive cancer you never beat.

Our best advice here: sit down, write a list of questions, and fill in the blanks. Take it all to a trusted vet and go over it in detail.

I looked at the X-ray, read the report, participated in the actual ultrasound, had Murphy examined by a surgical specialist who had a lot of experience with it.

We looked hard at Murphy: at 13-1/2 she was old and arthritic, although mostly comfortable on Rimadyl. She had bronchitis, heart arrhythmia, and a mild heart murmur.

Surgery was possible but risky. She’d need several days in intensive care and about 10 days recovering before she could walk comfortably. We had stairs to negotiate and I am handicapped: I would simply not be able to provide her the level of care she’d need, so we’d have to hire help.

All possible, but was it necessary? Should we do it? Why or why not?

Murphy and I had a years-old deal: we’d come together in this lifetime, in a safe place, to heal. We’d done that. I’d promised her I wouldn’t ask her to do any more. This seemed like too much: for her and for us. But I’d go with her decision.

It wasn’t that easy, of course, because her decision was this: she believed her body was gradually breaking down, that she was dying anyway, and she believed she’d have more time if we did not operate.

What did the vets think?

Well, that’s part of the blessing, and the curse, isn’t it?

Get the Vet

We parted ways with our long-time vet because she insisted we do things her way.

“You tell the vet you want as much time with her as possible,” she said. Operate and remove it and do chemo.

What I heard: “Torture your dog to keep her with you a few months longer.”

What was really meant: “We force them to stay for our sake, disregarding the quality of their lives, and I the vet am the boss and you do what I say.”

So, bottom line: make sure you and your vet are on the same page. We hadn’t seen the vet we ended up with in years. He was there for us: calm, precise, balanced. He didn’t tell me what to do. He told me what it would look like, and left the decision to us: to me and Murphy. Where it belonged.

What do you do? Make sure you have a vet whose mindset matches yours. Stay informed. Run from anyone who insists that you should do what they want. It’s not their family: it’s yours.

Paternalism should die before we do.

Grace the Cat guards her sister's dreams

Get Support

Tell your friends and family what’s going on. You will end up making new friends and losing old ones. Both are fine. Death is part of living: if anyone in your circle can’t handle it, they can’t handle life. You don’t need them.

Ask for help. I knew there might be problems if Murphy went into crisis in the middle of the night and we needed help to get to the ER. Asking someone to be available to drive you is a big deal: emotionally and physically. Think about who in your circle could possibly help. Ask, but be clear that it’s strictly up to them, and make no judgments on who agrees, who ignores you, and who says no. And why. It’s a growth process all around.

Backup helps. I wouldn’t leave Murphy for more than a few hours those last 2-1/2 months: with a splenic tumor, a crisis could occur in an hour (ultimately, it did). Some people called and wanted to stay with the kids for a few hours, to give me a break. Excellent.

Remember: people are grieving with you, in their own way. Let them help. Let them bow out. Keep the lines open.

I am grateful for everyone who did or did not show up for us. I found a new level of community in the process.

How will you find yours?

Chart Your Course

I knew what we were facing. I focused on comfort and care. We used acupuncture and herbs (thank you, Darla Rewers, DVM, for greeting Murphy so cheerfully, picking up where we’d dropped off a few years before, and helping us with acupuncture, holistic remedies, and loving advice) and the good food and medications we were already using.

I looked at dying naturally and at euthanasia, and what the cancer would actually do to her.

I looked at hospice alternatives for animals and created my own: after all, I was not a stranger to death.

I was grateful that I’d spent so much time over the years learning about veterinary medicine and thinking about creating families with animals: I knew what I wanted my family life to look like, and I knew what my animals wanted it to be like.

I discussed this all with Murphy. And the rest of the family: Alki, my Cavalier boy, and Grace the Cat.

And then we lived our lives together: we walked the mystery, step by step.

We loved.

So here’s what you do: if you’re lucky enough to know the end is coming, find out as much as you can about what it will look like, and figure out how you can live through it so the only regret you have at the end is that you ran out of time. You’re the only one who knows what that will look like to you.

If you don’t know it’s happening, here’s what you do: you stop right now and make sure each day is one you’re grateful for. Live a full life with your animal family. There is no other way.

Hire an Intuitive

I am an intuitive: people pay me and my crystal partner, Fallon, to talk to things with them.

I was smart enough to hire someone else to talk with us.

That means I had someone talk with Murphy and with me regularly throughout the process. I could sit back and be the client: I could hear what Murphy thought and felt, and she could hear me, and a compassionate, objective, loving intuitive could be the bridge between us.

That intuitive is Debrae FireHawk. In the process she relived the loss of her own dog, which helped her as well.

With that support Murphy and I said goodbye to each other. We grieved losing each other. We cried. We accepted. At some point, she became excited about the new life she was moving towards, a bittersweet moment for me.

And then she died.

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 15

April 4, 2012 by Robyn 1 Comment

my dying dog How civilized are we, really?

As things stand in our society, grief is a reality largely reserved for humans. By humans.

My grief is not. Neither is my family’s.

I was at an expo last weekend in Portland, a place where people come together to celebrate and explore metaphysics, from crystals to healing arts to intuitive consultations. I met people who don’t put the kinds of limits on mindset that a large part of our society does. People whose minds are open to the possibility that there is more out there than human.

And that it is worthwhile.

I was there with my crystal partner, Fallon, doing intuitive consultations and teaching a workshop on space clearing, what I call Space Cooperating^SM.

In my work I talk about how we bridge paradigms by acknowledging that the world isn’t all about humans, but about all life together. The mindset that really works is the mindset that acknowledges that humans and all life are equals: that everything on our planet is alive, has a soul, is conscious, and has responsibility and free choice.

All life. From humans to animals to trees and rocks and volcanoes and weather systems.

Something happened at the expo last weekend.

Someone who works professionally as an intuitive, as I do, looked over at me, met my eyes, and immediately came over to me. Her face changed in the moment our eyes met. Simple human curiosity changed to loving compassion.

She came up to me and said. “You’ve recently lost your soul mate. I’m sorry for you.”

I felt my grief well up. Yes, I had just lost my soul mate, my beloved dog, Murphy. A complete stranger, an intuitive, had seen the loss written on me and offered condolences. When told, it didn’t matter to her that it was my dog I’d lost: what she acknowledged was how profound the loss was to me. Her understanding and compassion were based on a love of all life.

Somehow we humans are growing as a species. When I lost my beloved dog, Maggie, so many years ago, my family ridiculed my grief. I had to get on a plane and go visit friends who loved and honored her.

This time, love and support have come from everywhere: from long-time friends to new ones, from clients to strangers, in phone calls and emails and cards and gifts and visits. Complete strangers who find my blog and who are living the human-animal bond with animals as family members. Some of them are people who are struggling with their own loss, and finding community in grief.

This time, people understand.

Somewhat.

Truth is, some of the response have bewildered me. People who are long-time friends who haven’t bothered to call. People who are new friends who have, whose simple acceptance has given my grieving heart, and my family’s, space to try to find a new rhythm.

There are people who don’t understand and don’t try. The people I was with the day that I took Murphy to the vet and watched as a radiologist carefully examined her and showed me, on the ultrasound, what was going to kill my beloved. The day I learned that the mass they’d seen on an x-ray was most likely splenic cancer. The day I learned our days were numbered.

That was the day I was going through the motions of being a supportive friend and businesswoman, listening to two people bemoan their difficulties and annoyances and wondering what I was doing there. The day I was thinking of my family’s future, and trying to think plain thoughts about how I’d find someone to drive me and my dog to the ER in the middle of the night if Murphy went into crisis and had to be euthanized, and I might not be able to drive us.

The day both women turned to me and shouted, “Don’t call me for a dog.”

Truth is, it never occurred to me to consider either of them as potential help. I was simply brainstorming out loud.

The vehement response is still with me. What were they so afraid of that they had to shout it at me? What was lacking in them that they couldn’t simply say, “I’m sorry for you”?

Yes, in many ways we’ve matured as a society. Today, a perfect stranger can see grief on a stranger’s face and understand that losing an animal soul mate is every bit as devastating as losing a human one.

It’s just not always as socially acceptable.

I already knew that, as it did not occur to me to ask either of these people to help me, but respected their cool business heads enough to see what logical ideas would come to them as I grappled with the sure knowledge, only hours old, that my last days with Murphy were upon me. Nevertheless, their cold hostility shocked me, and still does.

I am grateful that this story shocks others who hear it. That what resonates with others is that, as advanced as our society supposedly is, we still aren’t really there.

We still don’t see all life as equal to humans.

Or that grief is not reserved for humans.

My surviving dog, Alki, and Grace the Cat grieve. I grieve. Others grieve with us. And some absolutely do not.

I wonder what that means. The people who refused to help when help wasn’t requested: were they just not ‘animal people,’ or were they just afraid to acknowledge grief?

Maybe they thought death would rub off on them.

Maybe animals aren’t good enough. After all, I’m expected to care about their children and spouses, and I do. I care about all life. I care about their families. They just did not care about mine.

Some few others do care.

We are the ones who will make a difference in the world. We live compassion. We live love. We can see what life with a soul mate can be like, whatever body it is in.

And what death does to us.

Grief is universal. It should unite us. Civilize us. Beyond species.

Will it?

Daily Rituals with Our Animals: Saving the World One Family at a Time, Update 3-2012

March 29, 2012 by Robyn 1 Comment

I first published this article on January 17, 2011. On March 8, 2012, the story changed: that was the day I lost my beloved Cavalier, Murphy. In the coming days and weeks I will have much to say about grief, dying, death, and loss, but for now, perhaps this says it best. Twice a day I miss Murphy the most: the times when it’s achingly clear that our daily family ritual is over, because Murphy is gone. The bed is now bigger, my heart is emptier, Alki is a depressed single dog and Grace the Cat prowls restlessly. Several weeks later we are still feeling our way through new rituals: Alki is beginning to like getting his ears rubbed, but he doesn’t snuggle as long or deeply as Murphy did; when he’s ready to get up he’s ready, although he’ll wait patiently for me to move. Grace the Cat comes up several times, early in the morning, both seeking and giving comfort, always in search of a gentle pet and a warm snuggle.

We are grieving, yet one part of me is watching this process and wondering: when will we know when a new ritual is in place? What will our new daily life look like when a new routine spreads itself across our morning greetings, and our evening good nights? How does grief change our landscape? How does it enrich our lives? We’re learning. We’re patient. We’re waiting. We’re wondering: how do you grieve, and what does it teach you about compassion, community, rebuilding a shattered family, daring to love again?

For now, this is what I know: Murphy’s ashes sit in a tin can from the crematory. I’ve covered it in her favorite blue fleece jacket, the jacket she would wear six months out of the year, inside and out. On top of that is her favorite harness: the blue harness she chose and that she hasn’t worn in two years because she needed a neoprene harness to make life with arthritis more comfortable for her. She loved both the jacket and the harness, and it is a bit of comfort to see them so close to her. Each morning I place my hand gently on her jacket, remembering. Each night I do the same. Does it feel better? No, but it does feel right. For now. The one thing we can do for our beloved animals in death is to remember and honor them in simple ways. I wonder, though, who will remember us when we’re gone?

We start and end the day at our house the same way: in a big pile on the bed while I tell my kids, one by one, with many hugs, how much I love them. And why. Every day. Every night. And I get lots of hugs and kisses in return.

What astounds me is that this astounds other people, who say they don’t even do this with their human families, let alone their animals.

Let alone their animals?

No daily rituals?

I have the world’s best family. They are two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, Murphy and Alki, and Grace the Cat. I am the only human here (honestly, I can’t imagine a man I could put up with for 20 minutes who could put up with me for 10). I have extended family and friends I cherish, but the day-to-day life at our house comes down to us (and my crystal partner, Fallon, and the rest of the Alchemy West Committee, but I digress).

In the morning, when we’re finally awake, I roll over on my back and call my kids. We start with the eldest and work down. Murphy flops down beside me, her face snuggled into my neck, while I gently massage her back, and rub her ears, which makes her grunt appreciatively. When she’s ready, she gets up and Alki takes her place.

Alki, my tricolor Cavalier, snuggles up, but what he really likes is a neck and chest rub. As quickly as he deems appropriate he will sit up, turn sideways so his butt is planted at my hip, tuck his front paws to his chest, and flop over backwards across my abdomen (where my bladder also resides). Somehow he’s always perfectly aligned, so I don’t even have to move my arm, just scratch.

Our Beloved Murphy: July 16, 1998 - March 8, 2012

I make sure I tell each of them how much I love them, how great the morning is, and what we have planned for the day. Then it’s up and at ‘em.

At night everyone gets a treat before our evening gathering. Then Murphy cuddles in my lap while I pet her and tell her how much I adore her, how happy I am that we’re together, how she’s the best girl dog in the universe, and we review the day and tomorrow’s plans.

Alki’s turn is usually a deep massage, which he loves. Everything else is the same, except he’s the best boy dog in the universe.

It’s then Grace the Cat’s turn. She purrs while getting petted, then paws me and climbs on my shoulder to lick my head (I assume this is a cat thing). She hears the same things, except she’s the best cat in the universe (because she’s the only cat we don’t have to divide it by sex).

I have very little time to read in bed.

Every morning I greet the day and my kids with a smile and words of praise. Every night we end the day with praise and thanks for the day just ended. They greet me back.

The truth? Some days I adore my kids more than other days, which is exactly how they feel about me. Some days I adore more than other days. But I have my kids, and they have me. And we have our days, and nights.

: Grace the Cat guards her sister’s dreams

We are a family. In its simplicity and routine we have found our way to love, and we use these rituals to deepen it. If we somehow skip them I feel incomplete, and by the looks of them, so do my kids.

When I hear that other families don’t do this, I wonder how their days, and family lives, really work. Do they just zip by, without remark, or appreciation? Does it matter?

I think it does. Could we change the world by doing this one simple thing—by beginning and ending our days with love and peace and respect for our families, regardless of the bodies they live in?

I say yes. I say we save the world, one family at a time, by honoring our families, day and night.

Simple daily rituals. It’s a start.

What are your rituals? What do they mean to you?

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 14

March 27, 2012 by Robyn Leave a Comment

Murphy Brown Fritz

July 16, 1998 – March 8, 2012

Beloved companion

Devoted sister

Terror of squeaky toys

Friend to the universe

AMBASSADOR TO THE DRAGON KINGDOM

Our hearts are broken. We have lost our beloved Murphy. Our thanks to the wonderful people who have both honored Murphy and tried to ease our grief with kind thoughts, emails, phone calls, visits, cards, gifts, hugs, food, and loving support that last day. When we needed community, it was there, and continues to be. My friend, Sue: thank you for being there those last two months, for sitting with my beautiful family when I had to be out, knowing we might have to meet at the ER. My particular thanks to Debrae FireHawk, the intuitive I turn to: Debrae was there for us for two months, and in the days that followed. I’m a writer, and I have only two words for the blessing of our wonderful community: thank you.

Murphy taught me how to be a human, and I taught her how to be a dog. We just never did anything the normal way. Somehow, that worked for us: we journeyed to wellness together and stepped into our work in the world. Our relationship helped me to create and write about a new way of living the human-animal bond: as a multi-species family. And it helped me forge new ways of connecting with all life as an intuitive. It helped Murphy step into her role as ambassador to the dragon kingdom, a job no one knew existed, and that has enriched the planet.

Grace the Cat guards her sister's dreams

I’m glad I knew she was dying: we had two months to grieve together, to tell each other how sad we were, to get excited about her upcoming new work in the dimensional realms. She thanked me for saving her life so many years ago, for making sure she wasn’t handicapped, and had a long, healthy, fun life. I thanked her for loving me, and Alki, and Grace the Cat, and gleefully sharing her brilliant life with us.

After years of working on it, I can at last say that her book is almost done. Murphy’s Tales: How Saving My Dog’s Life Saved Mine, will be ready this summer.

In the coming weeks I’ll have more to say: about the great gifts that nature brought us on Murphy’s last day; about euthanasia; about our responsibility to our animal companions; about choice and life and death in a multi-species family; about why we absolutely must re-examine long-held animal care beliefs like early spay/neuter and the role of animal welfare agencies. While the title, “My Dog Is Dying,” no longer fits, the story isn’t over, because I literally ran out of time to tell it while Murphy was with us. However, I’ve realized that multi-species families need and want to discuss the dying process, to share their grief, to participate in community even if it’s painful. I also believe that talking about choice, about how we come to the choices we made in our community, and what happens and how we grieve, and why, will help others go through this process, or complete the one they’re in.

I will finish the series because stories matter: love matters. It will have to wait a bit, though. For now grief has overwhelmed me and my family, and we are simply together, as we should be.

My work in and view of the world, my sense of humor and awe at the universe, my business and my life, my openly loving and grieving heart, were, and are, enriched by this amazing dog.

I am grateful. And undone.

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 13

March 11, 2012 by Robyn 51 Comments

So here we are, at Part 4 of a four-part series on dying dogs and veterinarians. Like life, the series hasn’t been quite linear, so you can find the other parts in this diary here: Entry 6, #1, where we lose our long-time vet; Entry 8, #2, where we meet up again with a former vet; and Entry 10, #3, where we meet the radiologist.

Today, we’re at diagnosis and solutions, with a consult with a veterinary surgeon.

The Vet and the Radiologist

I’d taken Murphy straight to Dr. Glenn Johnson at the West Seattle Animal Hospital on Monday, Dec. 26, 2011. I know most people wouldn’t have taken their dog in for coughing four times in the morning and at night, but I admit to being overprotective and proactive, and I’m proud of it (it is, however, expensive). Blood tests and a U/A revealed an infection, and we put her on antibiotics. On Wednesday, I was still convinced she needed an x-ray because I’m an intuitive, right, and I was convinced it was her heart (and I didn’t look any deeper than that, since we’d discovered a mild heart murmur in October).

Dr. Johnson humored me, partly, he admits, because of my stories of Cavaliers suddenly presenting with serious heart disease that started with a mild cough. But I was wrong: Murphy had a splenic tumor. A follow-up discussion with him and a look at an x-ray convinced me to order an ultrasound to be completely certain, so Murphy and I could figure out what to do.

I admit, I had lost my beloved English Cocker, Maggie, to a sudden illness and to exhaustion: mine. I had felt guilty for years about what I decided was a precipitated death: I believed I had given up on her without trying very hard to help, even though it was back in 1986 and veterinary care in the backwoods wasn’t anything like it is today. Still. I was determined to do right by Murphy.

We would figure it out step by step, I decided.

The radiologist made a special trip to the clinic to do Murphy’s ultrasound. He was determined to save her, convinced from the x-ray that it was cancer and determined to give her the best chance of surviving.

Except our dogs do not survive hemangiosarcoma. Ever.

I appreciated the irony. I had left the West Seattle Animal Hospital when Murphy was a young dog because of an issue over an ultrasound, and now we were back, and a radiologist and the clinic were turning Murphy’s care into a mission.

Awesome.

They were very clear. The radiologist, Lee Yannik, DVM, was sure she had a splenic tumor that was cancer, but everything else, including her heart, was fine. He wanted me to operate on her to give her the longest life possible. Dr. Johnson hesitated because of her age and underlying health issues: arthritis, bronchitis, her heart murmur, and the strong possibility it was cancer and couldn’t be cured. If she had surgery it had to be in a specialty clinic where she would be in intensive care 24/7.

It was clear I got some information, but not enough. I needed to talk with the people who saw these tumors all the time, so Dr. Johnson consulted with Jennifer Weh at ACCES in Seattle, and then I took Murphy to see her.

The Veterinary Surgeon

I had been to that clinic before, with a dear friend who lost her beloved dog to the same cancer they suggested Murphy had. What I noticed this time is that half their hospital, and half the reception area, was for cancer care. The waiting room was busy.

I quailed to see that. Would that be our future, waiting for cancer care?

Jennifer Weh DVM, was matter-of-fact, cordial, and, something I’ve seen a lot of in recent years: younger than me. I took an instant liking to her when she walked in the room and I explained that I wanted to explore Murphy’s options while understanding that as a surgeon she was predisposed to surgery.

“Now, don’t judge me,” she gently chided.

I liked that, gently reassuring me that she was not only capable of looking at the options but of also being open-minded. I figured we were going to get straight answers, whether I liked them or not.

And we did. She had discussed the case with Dr. Johnson and reviewed all the file notes from the radiologist. She also carefully examined Murphy, paying particular attention to the weakness in her hind legs that I had first noticed on occasion in early December.

Here’s the thing. They can’t ever be sure what they’re dealing with in these splenic tumors until they operate and take them out. Sometimes they look like cancer on x-ray and ultrasound, sometimes they look benign and only pathology on removed tumors reveals the cancer.

Most of the time, Dr. Weh explained, the tumors abruptly bleed and the animals go into crisis, when they had appeared perfectly healthy the day before. It happens, but it isn’t as common to find it early like we did, before there were obvious signs of a problem, like a bleeding episode or swollen belly.

Except we had a clear indication following blood tests on Dec. 26 that indicated anemia and an infection, and the x-ray on Dec. 28, which indicated the anemia could be from the tumor, which had bled and then sealed itself off.

It was possible it could be a benign tumor, meaning it was still on her spleen but it wasn’t cancer. In that case, not operating and removing was essentially a death sentence, because it would eventually rupture and Murphy would bleed out.

I asked about the possibility that her inherited blood disorder, a macroplatelet condition, had caused a problem with the spleen. It seemed logical: the spleen filters platelets, and since macroplatelets confuse it, what if the tumor was her body’s way of compensating for this condition? Then removing the tumor could kill her. An interesting theory, Dr. Weh said, but there were no studies, so no one knew. What they had been doing more recently, she said, was removing the spleens of these dogs. I have no idea when that therapy arrived, if I could have saved Murphy by removing her spleen as a young dog. I will investigate that at some point, so I can talk intelligently about it, but it was a moot issue for us: we had a spleen with a serious problem.

The Decision

What were we going to do about it?

Obviously we had to look at Murphy’s current condition. She had developed a heart arrhythmia, which occurs in dogs under distress, particularly old dogs with existing murmurs, and she had two murmurs: a mild mitral valve murmur, common to Cavaliers, and a moderate tricuspid valve murmur. She had arthritis, which was painful and slowing her down, although she was still pretty vibrant for her age. She had bronchitis, which was being treated.

Surgery would be complicated but not impossible, Dr. Weh assured me. They would compensate for the heart, and she would need to be in intensive care for several days. She would be down for a week or so, and probably not be able to do stairs for about 10 days. That was assuming everything went well. The actual removal of the spleen isn’t as hard as getting all the blood vessels properly tied off: that was a difficulty in older dogs.

It was daunting enough. I am handicapped, and we live one flight up in a condo. Getting Murphy up and down the stairs was hard enough with arthritis. It would be impossible with surgery: we would have to get help, but we could do it. But could I ask her to go through another surgery, to be uncomfortable and in pain from surgery, when I’d promised her I’d never ask her to do something like that again?

And what about cost? The initial surgery and stay alone would be about $3000, barring complications. Frankly, I couldn’t afford it, I just couldn’t. But I’d find a way if I could help her, because that’s just what you did. Everything we’ve faced together as a family had been to beat something that we could beat, to give Murphy a healthy, happy life, to give her the chance to make her contribution to the family and to the world. To do the right thing.

What was the right thing? That’s what we were trying to find out. That’s why we went to see the surgeon, Dr. Weh, to the people who saw tumors like this every day, to understand what we could about what we faced.

Dr. Weh proved invaluable for that. She said people usually bring in their dogs who’ve presented in crisis, and the people are shocked, because they had been well, and they insisted on surgery to save them. To get more time to process the shock, to say goodbye, because it was usually cancer. In our case, we knew before a serious crisis presented itself.

The question was: if it was cancer, she was going to die anyway, because I’d already heard that you couldn’t beat it. The problem is: if it wasn’t cancer, simply a benign tumor, then Murphy would still die if I didn’t remove it, because it was still growing and would rupture and Murphy would bleed out.

What a hideous decision: unless I operated Murphy would die, but if it was cancer, she would die anyway, and with her age and underlying health issues, it wouldn’t be easy and might be impossible. The problem being: it might be impossible.

So what did Dr. Weh think it was?

Dr. Weh emphasized that the only way to know whether Murphy had cancer was to operate. Her best guess: she was more than 90 percent certain that it was cancer. The word ‘cavitated’ is very bad in medical terms, and a pretty good clue.

“This cancer is insidious,” she said. Even if you remove the tumor, it hides, and a single cell means doom. It’s aggressive and it’s fast. In fact, the early signs were on us in mid-December: the weakness in her hind legs was the tumor, she said, not the arthritis. I thought about that: the weakness I’d noticed, that I thought was different than her arthritis, actually was: it was the tumor.

We couldn’t beat the cancer. No one ever does. All you can do is buy time.

Murphy’s odds: six months with surgery and chemotherapy. Three months without.

I blinked back tears as I petted Murphy. I had wanted straight answers, and I got them.

I could operate on her, put her through surgery and the debilitation that comes with recovery and old age, complicated by arthritis and a weakening heart. Adding chemo to the mix, which could make her ill. All knowing that she was going to die anyway.

Or I could spend as much time with her as I could, keep her comfortable and happy. Keep the family happy.

I had a lot to think about. A lot to talk with Murphy about.

We had to make decisions on the bargains we’d made with each other: that we came together to get well, to heal, that we had done that, and that I had promised not to ask anything more of her.

Surgery was asking a lot. A lot to suffer through, for all of us, not just Murphy in recovery, and me being handicapped and in pain trying to carry her and care for her, but Alki and Grace the Cat suffering with us as our lives were disrupted.

I stood there and stared at this surgeon, this young woman, so matter-of-fact and so passionate about her work. So aware of the intimacy of the human-animal bond. So clear that what we were facing was a family decision, something for me and Murphy to decide together, and that her role as the veterinarian was to give her us the benefit of her knowledge and experience.

I was stunned and grief-stricken again, because I knew that either way I was most likely going to lose Murphy: she was spry for her age, but she was old for the breed, and she was starting to show it.

But another part of me was looking at this woman and wondering about what made her tick. What people choose to do with their lives is fascinating. How they live them. What they stand for. I admired her decency and integrity. Her smarts.

It was not the normal veterinary model: she was not playing the role of “I know best, you do what I say,” which is why we’d left our long-time vet. Here was a vet like Dr. Johnson and Dr. Yannik: people who cared, who were realistic, who knew their role was to relate their experience and opinion and let you choose your own course, even if, like Dr. Yannik, their choice was clear.

So I wondered what Dr. Weh thought, and decided to ask.

Biting back tears, I asked her, “So what do you call people who say ‘no’ to surgery?”

She stopped and looked me straight in the eye, a slight smile on her face.

In a soft voice she said: “Compassionate.”

Our Beloved Murphy

March 10, 2012 by Robyn 18 Comments

Murphy Brown Fritz

Murphy Brown Fritz.

July 16, 1998 – March 8, 2012.

Beloved companion.

Devoted sister.

Terror of squeaky toys.

Friend to the universe.

AMBASSADOR TO THE DRAGON KINGDOM.

My beloved child and friend. Soul mate.

We rocked the universe at her funeral. “This is fun!” she yelled, as she danced with us. It would been perfect if she’d still been in her body.

We love you, Murphy. Always. Thank you for the great gift of sharing your life with us.

With me.

You made a difference. You loved. We will always love you.

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 12

March 2, 2012 by Robyn 4 Comments

Not every moment in an old, dying dog’s life is grim. Far from it, or neither humans nor animals would, or should, put up with it.

Way back when, Murphy was a puppy. Now, at over 13-1/2, I think about the funny moments. Many of those involve that chew toy, Kong.

I got it so I could stuff it with treats and keep Murphy occupied so I could work. Or at least rest up after participating in her rambunctious puppy (later growing dog, later senior dog) moments.

She had other ideas. She would take the Kong, try to get the treat out, then wise up. Literally.

She’d get up and carry the Kong over to me and stand there, giving me the look.

The first time it happened, I looked at her and said, “You’re supposed to get the treat out by yourself.”

She was having none of it.

I ended up sticking a pen through the short end of the Kong so the cookie would barely peek out of the other end. Murphy would then yank it out, demolish it, and give me that look again as she walked off.

Murphy has always been way too smart for the Kong (and, frankly, usually, me).

For years now we’ve used it as a peanut butter dispensing device. Murphy and, later, Alki each got a Kong in bed at night with a little peanut butter on it.

Just the other night, remembering the old Kong days, I stuck a treat in it for Murphy to toy with, then snapped a picture of her trying to get the treat out. It ended up the same way: with me digging it out for her.

I’ll treasure this photo. It will remind me of her quirky personality, her cut-to-the-chase attitude. She is a wonderful, smart, loving dog.

I think of what a heck of a corporate CEO she’d make: innovative, cunning, easygoing.

And, as this second photo will prove: satisfied.

What else is there?

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 11

February 27, 2012 by Robyn Leave a Comment

my dying dog We were just sitting on the deck together, and I was reminding Murphy of the very first time we were in that exact same position: back in October 1998, when she’d just come home to live with me. She was 11 weeks old, my introduction to Cavalier King Charles Spaniels.

Today she is over 13-1/2, and dying from a splenic tumor.

Time is clearly on our minds these days.

Last week she was in crisis, having breathing difficulties because the tumor had apparently bled—it’s internal, hidden, silent except for her loud breathing. We learned that the bronchial infection we’d fought for two months was gone. What was left was what dying from a splenic tumor looks like.

She wasn’t in pain, was hungry and interested in life, and even the necessarily dispassionate vet was telling us she was a long way from dying. That was clear to see. I was grateful. I’d take what time we could both get, as long as it was time on her terms.

Good time. Time that was comfortable, that made her want to stay in her body. With me. With all of us.

As the bleeding ebbed and the fluid absorbed in the last few days, she began to breathe easier, and cheerfully greeted the babysitter who came to stay with her and Alki, her Cavalier brother, and Grace the Cat, so I could attend to business. A few hours away, that’s all, and only because staunch, experienced friends have generously come to help.

Friends who agree to come knowing that time might end on their watch. Brave people who’ve been there before with their own animals, and know what it’s like.

Time heals all wounds, they say. But not this one.

Today it was sunny and cold in Seattle, with a stiff wind that rarely leaves our beachside neighborhood. Then, just a few hours ago, the wind died down, I took Alki on a walk, and came home to sit on the deck with Murphy. We’d done that a few weeks ago, but she was too weak to sit up and peer out at the world. Instead, she curled in my lap and the warm sun soothed her old bones.

She was stronger today. Just like when she was a puppy, she stood with her hind legs on my leg and her front on the deck railing, watching people and dogs and cars go by.

That’s when I thought about how much time had gone by. Over 13 years.

She is deaf now, but she can see, and she’s generally alert and interested. She has her moments when time stands still, when she gazes off into the distance, when it’s very clear that time has taken its toll.

If that’s what time does.

It passes, and we wonder, where did it go? As we sat on the deck together in the cooling afternoon sun, I thought of all the things I could be doing: writing another article, cleaning house, updating my website, the things we do to live.

Ironic, that, because what we were doing together right then was living. On her terms. And mine.

What mattered? The time that was passing in those moments.

As I held Murphy tightly, giving her the security to lean into me for support so she could spy on the neighborhood, I closed my eyes to relish the feel of her warm body in my arms, the soft beating of her heart, the things that will be gone in a few short weeks.

Time ends bodies, true. Weeks from now this time will only be poignant memories.

As I held Murphy, I knew that I won’t regret the unwritten article, the dog hair bunnies all over the floor, an old date on my website.

I would only regret not holding her there on the deck on this sunny afternoon, for as long as she wanted to stare at the world.

So we sat there together as the afternoon cooled, until she was ready to come in.

Now I write the article, and all three of my multi-species family members snore beside me in my office, proof that the human-animal bond can be as ordinary as it is strange and wonderful.

Murphy breathes, the soft gentle snoring of old. This crisis has passed, for now. They say that the final one will come abruptly, some day. Some time. But this much I know.

Time is still with us.

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 10

February 24, 2012 by Robyn 1 Comment

my dying dog I say it and it doesn’t sink in: my dog is dying. Not just on that you’re born you go through crap (and good jokes) and you die bit, but the real life one none of us get to skip. In a few weeks, Murphy will be gone. She has a splenic tumor, and they think it’s cancer.

Which makes this Part 3 of a four part series on veterinarians, the human-animal bond, and how we got to where we are today.

In December 2011 we’d gone full circle, back to a vet we’d seen when Murphy was a puppy a dozen years ago. We’d left because one of the vets at the West Seattle Animal Hospital had known Murphy had a serious illness we needed to diagnose with ultrasound, which required a mobile radiologist who traveled to area clinics, so appointments were hard to get. The vet took the only available space for her own cat. And had the gall to tell me about it.

But recently I’d heard great things about the hospital’s owner and general director, Dr. Glenn Johnson. Like how good he is with old animals. How he’d helped neighbors through a lengthy final illness with their beloved old dog.

And that’s what Murphy is: old. Somehow she was 5, and then 13-1/2. I still wonder how that happened. Even now, as she rapidly declines, I am both thrilled that we had so long together, and appalled that it flew by so fast.

So, we left the practice in December 1999, because a crappy vet wouldn’t schedule an ultrasound, and we ended back there in December 2011, because they helped a neighbor’s old dog through her final days.

How We Found the Tumor

I wasn’t looking for an ultrasound on Dec. 26, 2011. Murphy had coughed a bit on Christmas Day, something most people probably wouldn’t have thought twice about. She’d shown no sign of illness, but that morning, as we crawled out of bed preparing to celebrate her Cavalier brother’s 10^th birthday, she coughed four times. Mild coughs. But I’m an intuitive, and I froze when I heard that cough as I felt something shift in me, something that felt like shock and loss. I turned to look at her in horror.

She coughed a few times that night and we called Monday morning to see Dr. Johnson.

I assumed it was her heart, that the mild heart disease she was diagnosed with in October had finally asserted itself. That’s what a cough can mean in the Cavalier world, in an old dog’s world.

But Dr. Johnson wasn’t convinced. He hadn’t seen her in years, and she didn’t have recent blood tests, so we ordered a round. The results showed an infection and a mild anemia. We put her on antibiotics.

Two days later Murphy was still occasionally coughing, and I wasn’t convinced we were on the right track. But I had work to do. My partner, Fallon, is a Citrine Lemurian Quartz—yes, he’s a crystal ball. We do intuitive consultations privately and at East West Bookshop in Seattle. I was scheduled to be in store that Wednesday afternoon. I hesitated. I didn’t have set appointments (sometimes people book, and you’re expected to be there, other times you’re there and they come in), but I thought about it and realized I had to go. Not just to keep my word, which is important enough, but because I suddenly knew that I would meet my most ‘significant’ client of the year between 12-2 that afternoon at East West. Not most important client, but the most significant. So I went.

At 1 p.m. I realized that I was the most significant client of the year. That Murphy had to have that x-ray that day. I called Dr. Johnson and insisted we do the x-ray that day. He worked us into the schedule.

I am a professional intuitive. I knew it was her heart.

The next morning Dr. Johnson phoned with the x-ray results. Apparently he’d seen it on the x-ray, but wanted the radiologist to confirm it. Murphy did have fluid in her lungs, which they couldn’t hear on exam. Everything else checked out fine: heart okay, kidneys, liver. But she also had an abdominal mass near her spleen, so they suspected she had cancer.

I am a professional intuitive. I knew it was her heart. How had I missed that?

Because I ‘knew’ what it was and didn’t look deeper. Because I assumed what it was and didn’t become my own client. I leaped for the obvious and I was wrong.

Stunned and grief stricken, I talked with Dr. Johnson, at once both horrified at what I was hearing and admiring a man who so calmly and compassionately told an unprepared owner that her beloved dog was dying. That took guts.

I picked up the radiologist report and felt my way through the holiday weekend (which included my 60^th birthday and a celebration with friends, talk about not what I was expecting for a landmark birthday). I then met with Dr. Johnson, looked at the x-ray, and decided the best course of action was to order an ultrasound to better decide on a course of action.

Ironic, yes. Back to the clinic where a vet had refused an ultrasound for Murphy.

Splenic Tumors, Ultrasound, and … What?

All I really understood was that a splenic tumor was fatal: either it was cancer or it wasn’t, but if left alone, it would most likely not make any difference: death was a certain outcome. Either cancer or the natural process of a tumor growing and eventually rupturing would kill her. Unless we operated and removed the tumor. If it was actually a splenic tumor, which the ultrasound would confirm.

Time was important in the decision making process. You don’t have time when you might have a splenic tumor, because they rupture. I asked how soon the ultrasound could happen, since I knew that ultrasound services are provided by mobile vets. Within a week, he said.

The deal breaker: as a professional intuitive and Murphy’s human partner, I needed to be included in the ultrasound process. I wanted to be there so I could see the tumor for myself and talk to the radiologist about how I would treat the tumor with directed energy. There was no point to it otherwise.

Dr. Johnson hesitated, said he wasn’t sure if they would agree. My terms, I said.

He called me that afternoon. The radiologist would be available in two days, if I could bring Murphy within a two-hour window. He’d agreed to me being present during the exam. Terms met. Deal.

In less than 48 hours Murphy and I were at the West Seattle Animal Hospital when Dr. Lee Yannik and his assistant rushed in. Dr. Johnson joined us as Dr. Yannik performed the ultrasound.

Despite her age, Murphy was in great shape. Some bladder irritation, which we knew. Liver and kidneys fine. And definitely a tumor on her spleen.

They couldn’t do a needle biopsy, which they sometimes do on tumors, because they were pretty sure it was cancer, and didn’t want cells to escape from the tumor and spread throughout her body. Agreed.

Dr. Yannik was upbeat. “I found a tumor like this in my sister’s 12-year-old dog in April,” he said. “We found it like this, looking for something else.” They removed the spleen and the dog was still doing fine in January.

“With surgery and chemo?” I asked.

Yep, that’s what it sounded like.

Dr. Yannik was clear. They can’t diagnose the type of tumor it was without removing the spleen. Sometimes they look benign even when they remove them, and then pathology proves otherwise. He was pretty sure it was cancer, based on how it presented (beware of the word ‘cavitated,’ not a good thing).

They got Murphy up off the table and she went trotting down the hall to explore things, Dr. Johnson in her wake, urging me to talk with Dr. Yannik. When they returned, Dr. Yannik put Murphy back up on the table to quickly check her heart to see if her early heart disease was an issue. No.

While he discussed it, I asked about the possibility that the tumor was a result of her underlying platelet disorder: idiopathic asymptomatic thrombocytopenia. Cavalier King Charles Spaniels can inherit this strange disorder, which results in cancer in other dogs and in humans, yet seemingly has no effect on the Cavaliers. I think differently. I think the disorder causes immune system dysfunction, and the reason Murphy had a healthy long life was because I worked really hard to give her one, and she did, too.

I asked, “If the spleen filters platelets, and Murphy was born with macroplatelets, so they’re not the right size, what if that confused the spleen and the tumor is actually the spleen compensating all her life, for over 13 years now? If so, then removing the tumor could actually kill her.”

Drs. Yannik and Johnson looked at each other, then at me. I’m not sure if they thought I was insane or if no one had ever considered this. By the dumbfounded looks and the ‘Ah-ha’ I saw on Yannik’s face, I realized that it was an intriguing theory but totally worthless, because they’d never know what the tumor was unless they removed it, and clearly if anybody else had thought what I was thinking, no one had ever investigated it and published their results.

I also emphasized that I was an intuitive, and I wanted to know how to direct energy at it. Either Dr. Yannik was prepared for me or he had a pretty good poker face or it wasn’t the first time he’d met an intuitive. Whatever, I asked about directing a beam of light at the tumor and burning it. No, he promptly said. Burning it wouldn’t work, and he had a good reason why, I just can’t remember now. But it made me glad I asked.

He advocated surgery.

Dr. Johnson spoke up, disagreeing. He didn’t think Murphy was well enough currently for surgery, and because she was older, he thought the decision was more complicated.

Interesting.

I had to admire Dr. Yannik’s zeal for his profession. I realized that he had seen her x-ray, strongly suspected cancer, and made a special trip to West Seattle that day to do Murphy’s ultrasound.

He was on a mission to save an old dog’s life. An old dog he’d never met. Because it wasn’t just his job. It was his passion.

And Dr. Johnson was advocating for his new patient. It wasn’t as clear cut to him.

I thanked Dr. Yannik and then discussed it with Dr. Johnson. Because of Murphy’s age, he said it had to be my call. If she were younger, yes, they would advocate the surgery, but any surgery on an old dog was complicated, and a very old dog with arthritis and an underlying platelet disorder and developing heart disease was a risk. Murphy could die during surgery, or suffer a protracted recovery.

And if it was cancer, she would die anyway, because that was just how it worked.

So what did I get out of the ultrasound?

Confidence that I had come back to a vet and a veterinary hospital that was interested in doing the best for my aging dog. A vet who had taken a lot of time to talk with me about her condition, arrange for an ultrasound, be present through the ultrasound, discuss it afterwards—and, in a money-oriented culture, not charge me for it.

Confidence in the people the vet referred business to: Lee Yannik is an excellent, thorough radiologist, well-respected, and clearly in tune with the human-animal bond. He essentially made saving an old dog an emergency, kind of the white knight in hospital scrubs. I imagine he’s disappointed I chose a different course of action. He shouldn’t be. He gave us room to make a clear choice.

And so did Dr. Johnson.

It was clear from our discussion that I needed more information. If we did the surgery it had to be done in a specialty clinic because Murphy would be in intensive care for a few days, and that assumed everything went well.

And I knew most splenic tumors presented themselves in a crisis, so families are caught off guard for life-ending prognoses. The best course seemed to be to take the information that Dr. Yannik offered us and find a veterinary surgeon who saw a lot of these tumors. What was their experience? What could they add to the mix?

Turns out Dr. Johnson could help with that, too.

In Part 4 of the vet series: the surgeon and the holistic vet.

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 9

February 17, 2012 by Robyn 2 Comments

my dying dog Yes, my beloved Murphy is dying.

I have to say, it’s weird.

I am no stranger to death. I lost my brother when I was only 9, and he was 14. The losses cascaded over the years: friends, family, animals.

Each death affects us differently. Of course, there’s the manner of death. Sudden unexpected death just happens to you. Obviously, the dead person doesn’t have a choice, but you always do—you have a choice of how to deal with it.

Shock, grief, anger, disbelief … these are the usual things. First things. The ones that are okay to talk about, because they are socially acceptable, respectable, respectful.

Don’t have to mention those things. You’ve most likely said them at one time or another.

It’s the things we don’t mention that define us and, perhaps, our true relationship with the deceased. Those things range from, “I never liked her that much anyway,” to “Thank goodness it isn’t me,” to “Driving drunk will kill you, what was he thinking?”

These are the things we just have to let go of. They mean we’re human. That we understand death happens and we’re glad we avoided it—for now. The things we’re expected to shut up about, because they don’t matter anyway and just make us look bad.

Yes, they’re normal and they may make us look bad, but they may also make us feel bad. Still, we have to let them go. Are they petty things? Mean? Sentimental? Acknowledge them and move on.

It’s when death is prolonged that the things we’re thinking add up. That’s when the crazies can occur.

I remember when my dad was dying. He had been miserable for two years, crippled by rheumatoid arthritis and severe heart disease. He wanted to die and yet ‘want’ wasn’t enough, because his soul just couldn’t let go of his body.

I cherished the time I had with him, even though I, too, wanted him out as quickly and painlessly as possible.

I came home from Scotland with a bottle of Scotch, something my dad taught me to appreciate. By then he was in a hospital bed at home. We opened the bottle and I poured a shot for both of us. Yes, he was on morphine. Yes, we knew what we were doing. We toasted each other and drank.

My mom walked into the room, saw the Scotch, and said, “Are you trying to kill him?”

Dad and I looked at each other, at her, and back at each other. We smiled. Mom stomped out. Yep, we were hoping. For us, it would have been perfect. Of course, it wasn’t that easy.

Those are the days I thought a lot about euthanasia. About helping out somebody who wanted to die. I didn’t, mostly because I didn’t know how to, and because I knew society would call me a murderer and put me in jail. But I thought about it. They danced around giving him enough morphine to dull the pain. They let him linger. And when it got bad enough that he was in hospice, and into his last days, then I could help him.

I honored his wishes and turned away services. It was hard, but it was what he wanted. A long-time pharmacist with a strong medical background (he would have been a doctor except he went off to serve in World War II and came home damaged), he knew exactly what he was doing when he signed the form that allowed him to die. I knew what I was doing when I honored it.

Do I miss him? Every day.

Did I do the right thing? Absolutely, because it was his choice.

It was the last loving thing I could do for him.

Now my beloved dog is dying, and I think strange thoughts.

How much food do I buy to cook for her? If I get another can of sardines will it make her laugh and gobble it up?

What business events do I cancel to be home with her? How long is this going to last?

If I hold her tight in my lap will she live?

How does she want to die? Is this really necessary, the whole death and dying thing? Why can’t we just skip that part?

Sure, she’s having breathing issues and sleeps a lot, but does that mean I should kill her?

Can spring come early so we can sit out on the deck together and just enjoy ourselves?

Can I get her to play with her ragged dinosaur toy?

Do Alki and Grace the Cat care? Does anybody care?

Should I be hysterical or just sad? Should I be happy she’s comfortable, even though I’m not so much?

Can I be there when she needs me?

As all these thoughts drift through my weary brain, I know that some of them make no sense, because death doesn’t make sense. Endings don’t make sense.

We live through it anyway. Weird whimsical sad thoughts pop in. We acknowledge them and let them go. They remind us that someone we love is facing their last choice, and that we care.

That sometimes we wish we didn’t care.

Well, no, not true. If I didn’t care I would never have loved this magnificent being in a dog body. The beautiful girl I’m losing.

Never would have happened.

There is one thing worse than death: the ‘never would have happened.’ At the end of it all I can say that I understand my true relationship with this wonderful dog.

We love each other.

That isn’t weird at all.

« Previous Page