veterinary care – Bridging the Paradigms: re-connecting people and the planet

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.”

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 6

January 30, 2012 by Robyn 9 Comments

my dying dog Sometimes we only know the true measure of a person when death stares us in the face. There, at the end of everything, is the simple, plain stark truth of it all.

Sometimes the truth is sad. It hurts.

Sometimes it exhilarates.

This is a story about veterinarians. Four of them. Told in four parts.

Starting with the simple fact that my beloved Murphy is dying. A Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, she’s 13-1/2, and had some serious health challenges early on, most caused not by her breeding but by poor veterinary care and some really bad luck. That doesn’t matter now.

What matters here is that in December 2011, only a month ago, we accidentally discovered that Murphy has a splenic tumor. I needed to figure out as much as I could about it, so Murphy and I could decide what to do. That’s what we’ve always done: find out what’s going on, what can be done about it, and choose our course.

Those of us who live in multi-species families know we have to make decisions for ourselves and for our animal family members. We know that the human-animal bond isn’t just cookies and games: it’s food, and socialization, and medical care. It’s choice. These days, choice is harder because we have so many options: the same complex and often questionable devices and procedures we use on humans can now be used on our animal companions.

It makes choice harder. Really. What is enough? What is too much? What can you live with? Should you?

The human-animal bond is how you define families and living together. It’s the choices you make that honor the commitment to family life.

All the choices.

I read. I think. I ask people’s opinions about things.

As an intuitive I can also ask other beings what their insight is.

I can ask my animal family members what they want. We can figure out what to do together. Food choices, play times, easy. Life and death, not so much.

It isn’t easy deciding what to do about a dog’s splenic tumor. The choices were clear: operate and remove the spleen and tumor or don’t operate. There is no certain way to determine if the tumor is cancer without taking it out, because of how insidious a cancer like hemangiosarcoma is. If that’s what it is.

They examined the tumor with ultrasound, making the diagnosis as clear as possible: Murphy probably has cancer. Meaning that she isn’t going to survive long, as surgery and chemotherapy would only buy her a few months. If it’s not cancer, the tumor is still going to grow and rupture at some point, and she’ll die anyway.

Without surgery, we don’t know what it is, only that it will most likely kill her.

We discovered the tumor because Murphy had a slight cough, and I thought that with a recent diagnosis of minor heart issues, she probably needed heart medication. Blood tests were funky, and they put her on antibiotics for an infection, probably a UTI, possibly a bronchial infection. But I insisted on a chest x-ray: which confirmed a bronchial infection, and spotted an abdominal mass.

So, naturally, I called our long-term vet, a wonderful person who has dearly loved sweet Murphy and cared for her for 11 years. A vet it takes us all day to see, since it involves a long drive and two ferry rides across Puget Sound in Seattle. All worth it to see someone who figured out Murphy’s eye issues 11 years ago and helped give her a wonderful quality of life. Someone of integrity and concern. Who was strongly attached to Murphy. A friend who wanted to do the right thing. We valued her.

I called her just so she’d hear it from me. That Murphy had a splenic tumor. Before I ordered the ultrasound or did anything else. Before I really knew what it meant or how Murphy and I wanted to deal with it. Just to tell her.

She expressed condolences and then insisted that I tell the vets that I wanted Murphy as long as possible and that they absolutely had to operate and take out the tumor.

I said I wasn’t sure yet what we were going to do.

She was quite insistent, and then the phone connection went dead.

I thought she’d hit the proverbial tunnel on her cell phone. But she didn’t call me back. And hasn’t for the last month.

So there’s the clear message. One answer to a perplexing problem: there’s an awful lot we can do these days, for humans and animals. But what is the right thing to do, and who’s the one who decides?

The right thing as a vet is to evaluate the options with you. To give you the best information possible. To answer questions. To honor the human-animal bond, which is a family matter. Paternalism is rampant in veterinary care, even among female vets.

Our long-term vet didn’t evaluate the options. Thinking back on it, I realize that somewhere along the line I somehow gave her the idea that she could decide for us what we should do in our family. She clearly stated it in the end: surgery to give me as much time with Murphy as I could get.

But is that really the right answer? What about Murphy’s quality of life? What about her choice? What do we put animals through because of our feelings, disregarding theirs?

Yep, if it’s cancer, surgery and chemo buy Murphy a few more months. But at what price?

Financial difficulties for a family on pinched means, as most of us are today (the recession is the great equalizer, isn’t it?): could we afford it?

Physical impairment, as caring for an old animal recovering from surgery, dealing with stairs, my own disability and health issues, the pain and exhaustion for my dog: is it worth it?

Emotional devastation, from the shock of hearing that your beloved dog may have cancer and won’t recover anyway, or may just have a benign tumor that will kill her if it ruptures, if she survives the surgery itself: how do you manage that?

That day in December I was in shock, grieving, appalled. I had only just learned of the tumor. I hadn’t investigated it yet, found out what our options were. All I was doing was calling our friend, to courteously tell her what was going on. We hadn’t made any decisions. I wasn’t sure what the best answer was.

My frank admission got me what?

Abruptly cut off.

As the days passed, I realized how much I appreciated that hang up. A long-term relationship built between our mutual love of my beloved dog was suddenly at an end. Perhaps we had outgrown each other, the vet and I. Or perhaps I had finally realized that what I thought was my family’s choice all along was being dictated by someone else. Or perhaps something else. Not sure.

No longer matters.

What I am sure of is that the old medical model, in fact, life model, of how we live in community has to change. The old paternalistic structure has to end. We have to respect individual choice, and family choice.

Now at the end of my beloved Murphy’s life, I absolutely insist on it. I am sad that I had to learn the truth of our relationship with our long-time vet at a time when my family needed love and support. I am exhilarated in that I was strong and brave enough to do the right thing, to give Murphy her choice, to honor her life as an equal being in a heart-bonded family.

I am grateful that my family has found its way to its choice. In the next three postings, the vets we have turned to, and how we found our answers.

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 4

January 24, 2012 by Robyn 4 Comments

Murphy is dying. Yes, she’s 13-1/2, old for any dog, but somehow her age snuck up on me. After her early difficulties, I thought getting her to 5 was a miracle, but she’s been vigorous for years.

She’s actually pretty vigorous now. Suddenly deaf, yes. Sleeps a lot. Loves to eat and explore. Slower with arthritis. A bit rheumy-eyed.

Dying.

Yes, that part. The accidental discovery of a splenic tumor. The almost certain prognosis of cancer. Which means surgery and she’ll die anyway, even if she has chemo. And even if it’s not surgery, she’ll die because the tumor will eventually rupture. Either way, she’s going to die.

Of a splenic tumor.

What causes these things? Hard to say, of course. Or is it?

Cancer is, well, I know what cancer is. I’m an intuitive, I have actually talked with cancer. Ultimately it’s symbiotic. Ultimately, cancer wants to pair with organisms, like humans and animals, and something different will come of it, but the DNA is too different right now. So cancer kills its ‘host,’ and then itself when the host dies. More on this later, honest.

But cancer is also epidemic right now.

Of all the things I thought would get Murphy, a splenic tumor never occurred to me. I wonder if her inherited platelet disorder and the tumor are related. If the spleen, which filters platelets, and Murphy’s body collaborated over the years to keep her healthy and vigorous, and the collaboration created this tumor. Which means removing it could kill her. Removing the spleen, with all the blood vessels, on an old dog with developing heart issues, including arrythmia, and a platelet disorder, well, no.

She deserves better. To be vigorous and healthy to the end. Quality over quantity.

How could I make that choice for her? Choose to refuse surgery?

Because I’d make the same choice for myself.

There are truly horrible things that come from this, as I’ll explore in later posts. But one of the most horrible is that I may have killed my dog by doing what I thought was the right thing. The thing we’re all told, that’s pushed by vets, by the shelter community, by breeders.

We don’t question it. We’re told that we should spay and neuter our animal family members early.

I always wondered about this. Sure, it’s convenient, especially for female dogs, since dealing with a dog in heat is complicated and annoying. And there’s the talk about male dogs being less aggressive. But don’t we interrupt their bodies’ natural growth process? Don’t we mess up their hormones, and all those chemical reactions that nature builds into them to keep them healthy?

We don’t spay or neuter our teenage children, so why are we doing it to our pets? Because we’re encouraged to be stupid and lazy.

Here’s why we absolutely need to re-think the spay/neuter issue.

Look at this article: The Long Term Health Risks and Benefits Associated with Spay/Neuter in Dogs, published in 2007 by Laura J Sanborn MS. I ran across it in spring 2011 while interviewing a respected breeder of golden retrievers in California. That’s the first time I heard that it is well documented that early spay/neuter can lead to all kinds of serious, debilitating, life-ending medical problems.

Like the cancer they say Murphy has.

Which would mean that all the years I cared for this beautiful dog didn’t matter, because I killed her when I spayed her as a puppy. Like we’re encouraged to do to be responsible owners.

Responsible family members.

And my other kids? Also mutilated as babies.

So I have three good reasons to go to war: Murphy, Alki, Grace the Cat. And when Murphy is gone, I’m going to war:

war against the shelter and rescue community, which refuses to acknowledge this issue because their agenda is to be the new puppy mill: socially accepted and sanctioned by the state and ignorant but earnest animal lovers
war against the veterinary community, for its silence on this issue
war against the people who adopt animals, know the facts, and go along with it, because it’s easier
war for the people who don’t know and so can’t make the right choice, whatever that is for their family: because somebody has to tell them

Do you live with animals? Did you spay/neuter early? Did you know this?

You know it now.

What will you do next time?

Join me. Let’s go to war. For life.

What Made My Deaf Dog Hear Again, Part 1

August 29, 2011 by Robyn 4 Comments

My son is deaf. My youngest dog, my Velcro boy, my goofy sweet Alki, is stone cold deaf.

It happened when I wasn’t looking. Somehow, the years between puppyhood and senior dog warped and folded in on themselves, and my little boy aged.

It shocks me, really. Just yesterday he was an exuberant, mischievous puppy, glued to me and his dog and cat sisters, and suddenly he’s almost 10. Gray-eared. Occasionally creaky.

Deaf.

Looking back I saw the deafness happening. I just didn’t piece it together—the busy-ness of life is often overwhelmed by the details. Even when you’re vigilant, the subtleties can get lost in the mix. And when you have a multi-species family, there are the obvious things—in our case, meshing a human with two dogs and a cat. Human-animal bond, indeed.

Somewhere late last fall I noticed that Alki was reacting to street noises differently. Despite his training, he’d shy away from others on walks. Like humans are apt to do, I dismissed it as a ‘phase,’ and polished his manners while reassuring him that he was okay, especially important because he’d been mauled by another dog a year and a half ago.

Yes, life’s been complicated lately. Alki accidentally ripped off a toenail and nicked an artery, then his toe got infected and he had to wear a cone for a month, which gave him an ear infection apparently unrelated to the hearing loss. I was down with the flu and complications for two months. It was life. Age. Stuff.

Which is all to say, I had good reasons to stop looking for answers beyond the obvious. Good reasons. Just not good enough.

How Deafness Asserted Itself

One morning I went to make a cup of tea and my Velcro boy, always at my side, suddenly wasn’t. I called him. Nothing. I found him in my office, sound asleep. When I called him, he didn’t move. I gently touched him, and he leaped up, startled.

When the clues build up, you eventually notice. I started testing him. He’d fall asleep and not awaken when I left the room. When he was sound asleep, I’d have to shake him hard to wake him if I needed to. If I didn’t gently touch him when I left the room, so he knew what was going on, he’d sometimes awaken frightened, and come racing to find me. Sometimes he could hear me, sometimes not. Sometimes he’d look at me, confused, uncertain, hurt, cringing as if he’d done something wrong and would fix it if he could. Even in his usual safe spot in my office he couldn’t quite relax; he’d curl up in a defensive ball, drop off to sleep reluctantly, and startle awake easily.

Even though his sunny adventurous personality always won out, I felt bad for him, and for us. I also had to be careful about touching him if he was sleeping or not looking at me: startled dogs can be dangerous. We changed routines, for his safety and the family’s.

Still, I kept my eye on him. While physically healthy, Alki was also anxious and nervous, not surprising.

Since I am also a professional intuitive, I checked him on a gut level, too. His hearing was coming and going in waves, and at extremes, either quite loud or too soft. Easy to see why he was both confused and terrified. In talking with him, I learned he didn’t understand what was happening. He worried about what he’d done wrong, that someone might steal him, or he’d get lost, or we wouldn’t want him anymore.

I’d gently hold and pet him as I explained that deafness was something that happened, he’d done nothing wrong, I wouldn’t let anyone steal him or let him get lost, and we would never stop wanting him. Alki would always be part of the family.

Then he suddenly went completely deaf. No response. Nothing. I had to physically walk over to him and touch him if he wasn’t looking at me, because calling him no longer worked.

I had to be careful, yes, because it’s rude and dangerous to surprise someone, but I also had to give him space: I had to learn how to keep a deaf animal close without being overprotective and making him dependent. Emotionally, I had to find a way to restore his confidence and create a positive new family dynamic while dealing with my own sadness.

It’s a fine line we walk in families, made more difficult by disabilities.

I know. We are familiar with handicaps at our house. I’ve been handicapped for years, and my oldest dog, Murphy, has arthritis and is slowing with age. But familiarity with handicaps only helps anticipate difficulties—it does not make them easier.

Making all of us, especially Alki, comfortable with his handicap took work. Here’s how we did it.

Eight Practical Comforts

Training. I reinforced the hand signals we’d learned in obedience class as we drilled on public and private manners, and practiced with friends and strangers. All of us, animals and humans, learned how to be around a deaf animal, and it deepened our bond because we mingled work and fun. Ironically, the one thing about Alki that I could do without did not depart with his hearing. He was deaf but he still barked, and yelling at him didn’t work. (Honestly, it never did. In my less rational moments I wondered if he went deaf so he could bark and not hear me bark back.)
Attitude. No coddling. Yes, I made allowances for Alki’s growing deafness: common sense, sympathy, support, and compassion are critical. But we all have to learn our limits in life, handicapped or not, and how to compensate for them with grace and humor. Ultimately, we all have to take care of ourselves: self-reliance is key.
Calmness and patience. Running screaming into the night doesn’t solve problems, it just sprains ankles. Be calm. Be patient. Teach that to other family members. Starting with yourself.
Attention. Everybody needs extra attention. Those who aren’t handicapped will feel guilty about it and be jealous they aren’t getting as much attention. Still, the newly handicapped really do need special treatment. Spread the love. Take time with everyone. Focus on them when you do. Play hard.
Courtesy. Learn new ways of getting along. It takes time. Think: what would you need and want if you were suddenly handicapped? What does this animal need and want? How do you respectfully meet those needs? For us it included making more eye contact, waving, smiling, petting, hugging, and matter-of-fact living. In short, big open physical demonstrations of love and acceptance.
Education. Alki is a cute dog: he’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. People love to pet them and you don’t always see it coming. A woman petted Alki when I wasn’t looking and he whirled around in shocked surprise; we were all lucky he didn’t bite her. Make sure people approaching your handicapped dog know what the situation is, and stay vigilant.
Don’t say it. Saying stupid things like “It’s God’s will” or “It could be worse” are pointless and insulting. I caught myself telling Alki that “it could be worse, you could be blind.” The astonished look he gave me said it all. It didn’t make being deaf easier. It demeaned a real agonizing problem. I was an idiot. I’m only admitting it here so you don’t become an idiot, too.
Caretaking. Handicapped animals need specialized care. Make sure everyone who interacts with or cares for your animal, from family and friends to vets to groomers to sitters, understands its specific needs and is willing and able to meet them. Don’t leave a handicapped animal in the care of someone who doesn’t understand what the disability means or doesn’t think animals have feelings. You could come home to an injured, depressed animal.

Practical comforts help us get through our daily lives as easily as possible. They make it possible for us to choose to expand our lives even while kicking and screaming about the injustice of a handicap. Deep lasting cultural changes occur because of how we choose to live with change. In Part 2: taking it cultural.

Worshipping at the Altar of Rimadyl

August 19, 2011 by Robyn Leave a Comment

My eldest dog, Murphy, a female Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, is 13. We never expected her to make it to 3, but she’s vibrant and healthy.

It took a lot to get her that way. Some of her problems were inherited, some medical mistakes, some the normal up’s and down’s of life.

Murphy’s health took choice. Rimadyl is one of those choices.

I had to learn a lot about veterinary care to take care of Murphy. And a lot about human medical care to take care of myself. Our journey together has been enlightening: it was a journey to shared wellness, to a new way of living with animals and of creating community with all life.

In my multi-species family I’m the only human. I live with two Cavaliers, Murphy and her almost 10-year-old brother, Alki, and their 8-year-old sister, Grace the Cat.

They’re my family. I’m not their guardian. Or caretaker. Or mother. They are my kids in that I’ve made myself the boss of the family (so I drive the car and buy and prepare meals and make the final choice on family issues). They are my family. We are living the human-animal bond.

My family has a say in their care, including medical care. Coming to an understanding of what they wanted, of how to explain things to them, of how to accept their choices, of how those choices play out in family dynamics—all of that took patience, thought, education, intuition, and my commitment to participating in a world where creating equal community with all life means all beings have choice, responsibility, and free will.

It included really living what I mean when I say that members of a multi-species family are equals.

Murphy has been through a lot. When degenerative arthritis reared up two years ago, I thought we might be at the end of our journey together. We had a deal: no more of anything that would prolong a life that involved chronic pain and disability.

I’ve been living that personal issue for over 20 years. Murphy’s lived it for 13 now. There’s a time to say enough.

And a time to find the right answers. For that family member. For that time.

When Murphy suddenly contorted in excruciating pain on a Sunday in summer 2009, I pulled out every medical remedy I had. We’ve used a lot over the years: from prescription drugs to Ayurvedic herbs, Chinese herbs, massage, chiropractic, supplements, acupuncture, energy work, acutonics, and animal communication. That Sunday I had leftovers of several things. I made myself calm down, closed my eyes, asked for the right remedy to show up, and picked up a bottle.

It was Rimadyl. I immediately started her on it.

Over the next few days, after extensive criminally bad emergency veterinary care, we ended up right where we were on Sunday: using Rimadyl.

Since then, we’ve added several things to the mix. And we’re still using Rimadyl.

Rimadyl works for Murphy. The other remedies we tried did not. The ‘natural, holistic’ remedies are great, including milk thistle, which Murphy takes to support her liver. But for her, in this time and place, Rimadyl works. I swear by it. I, frankly, worship at the altar of Rimadyl.

Here’s the interesting thing. So many people, interested in Murphy’s care and in our family, have generously offered their opinion on what we should be doing instead. Granted, many of us do not look at alternatives, so we immediately go for the easy fixes, like antibiotics and prescription drugs. But these people have acted as if I am doing something terrible by using a prescription drug.

Yes, Rimadyl can have side effects. Murphy has not had any. She did have side effects from the other things we tried, and some of them plain did not work. The truth? Everything has side effects, even the ‘alternatives.’ What matters is the side effects for that particular animal. What matters is: what are the consequences, and what is the choice?

There are people in the alternative community, from holistic vets to energy workers, who apologize when they use a prescription drug, as if the only choice is something else. They are as short-sighted as the vets who only use prescription drugs. Why can’t these people all get together and support healthy, responsible choice? Eastern and Western medicine can combine to create healthy families. I know. My family is proof.

Ditch your prejudices and use what works. It’s a trial and error process, no question. It requires educated vets, and there really aren’t a lot of them out there these days. It requires educated families, and there aren’t a lot of them, either. It requires weighing the risks and benefits. It requires informed choice.

The politics of care and the realities of care are different. Be proactive. Do the research. Find a good vet. Ask your animal members what they want. Honor their request. Use what works. Monitor it.

Frankly, I appreciate the people who suggest alternatives to Rimadyl. I do not appreciate their insistence that I am doing something wrong by not using something they think is safer or better. I do not appreciate their contempt for my choice, and for Murphy’s.

What did Murphy want? Whatever made her feel good. She deserves no less. Our family deserves no less.

And that’s what she gets. Rimadyl. Every day I am grateful that Rimadyl is out there. That when I asked for help it was there that Sunday, stepping forward to add itself to the mix that creates a healthy family. If Rimadyl, or any remedy, makes Murphy comfortable, we’re happy. If somehow her life is shorter because we chose that drug, then so be it. We have consciously chosen quality over quantity. We chose what works.

The truth is, any remedy can shorten a life, but not every remedy can improve it. And what works for one family member may not work for another. That’s where vigilance and common sense enter the mix.

Every day I live with a dog whose vibrancy at 13 astounds people. Rimadyl helped make that. I am grateful. It is our choice.

Don’t make choices, for or against any treatment, based on prejudice. Choose what works.

We have. Two years on, we’re still worshipping at the altar of Rimadyl. Respecting choice. Living healthy balanced lives.

What is your choice? What does your animal family choose? Have you asked?

Note: I do not receive any compensation from anyone, including the makers of Rimadyl. I just give my opinion. It’s free.

Co-incidence and Community: How A Dog, Three Women, and a Book Saved a Life

January 14, 2011 by Robyn Leave a Comment

Sometimes we wonder if we’ve done the right thing in life. Sometimes we get lucky and know we did, even though we were just trying to get by. Sometimes that story co-incidentally defines another, which is what building community is all about.

This is the story of how a chronically ill dog saved another dog 10 years later. Nobody saw it coming until it was over. It still makes me smile.

In 2010 I published a small gift book, with essays and comic stories about new ways of thinking about the human-animal bond. Bridging Species: Thoughts and Tales About Our Lives with Dogs, chronicled my journey of buying a dog as a pet, and how I ended up creating a multi-species family with two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, Murphy and Alki, and Grace the Cat.

My publishing goal? To get people together to talk about what it means to see our animals as not just pets but family members, and how that can help us create community, one family at a time.

I was thrilled when East West Bookshop in Seattle created a book signing event for me. I had three choices for a date, and instantly chose July 16. It just felt right, and I quickly realized why: it would be Murphy’s 12^th birthday.

Murphy’s birthday was a stunner all by itself. She’d come to live with me when she was 11 weeks old. We had lots of fun and too many problems: Murphy was chronically ill almost from the first, and at 2-1/2 years the anxiety and vet bills and just plain mystery and misery of her health woes were near to breaking both of us.

People told me to get rid of her and get a new dog.

People do that. The very idea shocked me, and even today is part of the reason why I work so hard to help define and live the idea of a multi-species family. Murphy’s problems were at times debilitating and often expensive, small things that added up and puzzled us, but never things that seemed worth killing her over. That just didn’t seem right.

By December 2000 Murphy had been suffering from a long-term infection no one could pinpoint. For some months she also had eye problems. We finally found Dr. Joyce Murphy, a holistic veterinary ophthalmologist who lived in Port Hadlock, a 5-1/2 hour round trip by car and ferry from our Seattle home.

The whole story is too long to recount here, but the gist of it is that Dr. Murphy took one look at her, exclaimed that she had the “medical record of a 13-year-old dog,” and promptly identified the problem. She operated the next day, essentially giving Murphy tear ducts and a tear gland she didn’t have, and the infection was finally resolved.

We’ve been going to see Dr. Murphy ever since. And when Murphy’s Cavalier brother, Alki, came along, he went there, too. And still does.

Dr. Murphy saved Murphy’s life, and, as I think about it, Alki’s, too.

She’s also been there for us through multiple traumas and illnesses, by phone or by appointment. Murphy, in particular, holds a special place in her heart.

Over the years I discovered that Dr. Murphy did a lot of volunteer work at the Jefferson County Animal Shelter. She and her partner and their staff have helped an awful lot of animals. Many happy multi-species families have benefited from her warm, generous heart and skilled veterinary services, families created through the shelter.

When I published my book I decided to give something back, to honor in my small way the work that Dr. Murphy did with my own—my writing. I gave her 5 copies and said to sell them and put the money into her shelter work.

Some time later the dogs and I were in Port Hadlock, getting a checkup with Dr. Murphy. She very seriously thanked me for donating the books to her practice, said that they had sold and the buyers thought my book was “excellent.”

She then told me what she did with the money. An older dog had come to the shelter, he needed “this and that,” medicine and surgery and general fixing up, but he’d recovered nicely, and was now in a happy home, as delighted with his new family as they were with him.

She said he lived because I donated book sales to the shelter.

In my usual blunt and occasionally tactless way I said, “I don’t think my books paid for all that.”

She didn’t miss a beat. She, too, is into creating community.

She said that her work as a vet and my work writing my book produced the sales that made the money that went to the shelter that saved the dog and created a new family.

“It’s all about community,” she said.

And she was right.

I felt pretty warm and fuzzy. My book got compliments and, bonus! somehow figured in saving an old dog’s life.

My old dog started it! It was her problems and our solutions that made me start thinking about looking at the human-animal relationship as something more than just a human and a pet. Dr. Murphy is the reason my Murphy lived, she’s how Murphy and I got the time to create a family that I could write about.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Clearly, Dr. Murphy is popular with dog people in these parts. One of her clients is a well-known, respected Cavalier breeder who had moved to the area from several states away. I didn’t even know that she was here or one of Dr. Murphy’s clients until she bought one of the books I donated to the shelter at Dr. Murphy’s office. And praised it so highly that Dr. Murphy passed on the compliment.

It was some of that Cavalier breeder’s money that bought the book that saved that old dog’s life at the animal shelter. And, 12 years earlier, that Cavalier breeder was also the owner of the stud dog who became my Murphy’s dad.

This was the story I shared at East West Bookshop at our book signing on July 16, 2010. On the very day that the little dog people kept telling me to give up on celebrated her 12th birthday: happy, healthy, energetic, a bit arthritic, and, practically unheard for a Cavalier at that age: heart clear.

Co-incidence? Let’s have more of them.

On July 16 people paid a small amount to come to my book signing. The money went to the Jefferson County Animal Shelter, in care of Dr. Murphy, to honor all of our work, together. We gave her $90, not a lot, but something.

And what she did with that money is another story, for another time.

For now, this is what I know: this story will never stop making me smile, just like the little dog who started it all.

We Mean Dog Business at The Cantankerous Dog Lover

January 11, 2011 by Robyn Leave a Comment

I’ve fired a lot of vets in the 12-1/2 years since I welcomed animals back into my life. Sometimes I think there isn’t a vet left in Seattle that I’ll talk to, let alone pay to take care of my kids.

That makes me The Cantankerous Dog Lover, standing up for better, more common sense relationships between vets, professional animal services providers, our multi-species families, and our culture. What works, what doesn’t, and why? How can we come together and create a compassionate, interdisciplinary multi-species community in our fast-paced, complex world?

Okay, clarification for those who think I’m cantankerous just to be … cantankery. We have some great vets in Seattle, and I use them. But our favorite is in Port Hadlock (on a good day it’s a 5-1/2 hour round trip via ferry and car), with backup from an emergency clinic and an acupuncturist/herbalist each 30 minutes away.

But that’s beside the point. For now.

The point is that my vets are my partners, not my bosses.

This, surprisingly, rules out a lot of them, just like that. Past time for that to stop.

I think vets trying to be in charge is cultural, affected by the exclusivity of specialty training (like most professions) and larger societal preconceptions. I think veterinary medicine is donkey years behind human medicine in how it treats its clients (but human medicine is only an ooch better, a real concern for all of us). Like specialists, vets are locked into a patriarchal structure where ‘father knows best.’ Surprisingly, the vets I’ve seen who are the worst about this have been female. Shocking, isn’t it? Shouldn’t women who have risen to the think about their cultural preconceptions? Or do the barriers they face create more?

This is a topic that covers a huge territory, which we’ll be doing here.

But for now, this is what I know.

I’m a pharmacist’s daughter. I worked with my dad in his store from age 12 through college. We were in a small farming community, so the first thing my dad taught me was that the farmers wouldn’t come in from their fields to go to the doctor. They’d come to my dad at the end of the day for supplies, and my job was to calmly look at a gaping wound and efficiently gather the things they needed to clean, treat, and bandage themselves until they could get to the doctor.

I learned the common sense things we sometimes don’t get when we treat our animals, because emotions and money and balance and species and what’s just plain right get confused. I learned the simple first aid things we can also use on our dogs, and I have (from upset tummies to cuts).

My dad believed in drugs, in Western medicine. But he also believed in vitamins and healthy eating. Today he’d be a compounding pharmacist with an herbalist’s bent.

I believe in drugs, too, when necessary, and at our house we use a combination of prescription, over-the-counter, herbal, and homeopathic remedies. I’m also a professional intuitive, so I can (sometimes) look at things and see how they work. I will always be grateful that, on a Sunday afternoon when my eldest dog was suddenly contorted in pain, I spread everything I had out on the counter, closed my eyes, asked for the best help, and picked a bottle of leftover Rimadyl. And no, I don’t do this for other people.

We keep Traumeel at our house, and it works, too. And we do massage, and chiropractic, and PT, and energy work, and anything else that makes sense and that experimentation proves works.

I believe in what works, and I keep finding out what does. And doesn’t.

I believe in science. When I was 9 my 14-year-old brother, Randy, was dying of leukemia. There was no hope for him, and my parents, shocked and grieving, agreed to one thing that proved both how brave and humane they were. They allowed the use of an experimental drug, hoping that some day it would help other people.

We buried Randy a few weeks later.

Fifteen or more years later, a friend developed leukemia, and lived. Years later, my dad developed rheumatoid arthritis, and they had a drug that helped him. Today that drug is helping a close friend with rhuematoid.

The drug is methotrexate. It was the drug they experimented with on Randy.

There are consequences to our actions. Methotrexate is one of them. I am proud of my family’s contribution to that research, and grateful that it has helped people I care about. And thousands, perhaps millions, more I will never know.

I am also a DES baby. My mother took diethylstilbestrol when she was pregnant with me and my brother, to help with morning sickness. Years later they learned the horrible things that DES could do to babies, something my mother felt guilty about until she died. My brother is fine. I had rare congenital reproductive health issues traced directly to DES, and had multiple surgeries, not children. Those DES babies like me who are still alive have uncertain futures, which everyone has, but ours are complicated by a bad drug. Period.

And, finally, I’ve been physically handicapped for over 20 years, after failed foot surgery. What happened then, and next, changed my life.

So did a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who came to live with me in 1998. Murphy had so many issues that people told me to ‘get rid of her and get a real dog.’ When she was 2. I didn’t. I researched, I gave her opportunities, I experimented, and together we both got well, in ways I never expected. Today, Murphy is healthy, happy, a bit arthritis, and heart clear at 12-1/2. And there’s another healthy, heart clear Cavalier, my tri boy, Alki, who’s 9. And Grace the Cat, healthy and goofy at 7-1/2.

My multi-species family is thriving because I took charge of their care, and because I listened to professionals who knew what they were talking (or writing) about, from vets to holistic care providers. And because I resisted recommendations that didn’t make sense to me. But the things I have to keep learning to save us are astounding. The average person can’t learn that much about caring for a dog, and shouldn’t have to. It seems that all our amazing technological achievements have simply made life more complex, more difficult to live. Why is that?

I hope we can change that by talking about what we want and what it looks like in community. With our vets and all the other providers who really do care and want to be part of a team. Our team as families.

So here’s a long way of explaining how I became The Cantankerous Dog Lover. Really, so you don’t have to. Here are some of the things we’ll explore through the best medium out there: storytelling.

What happens in our multi-species families, what do we do, what we think
Common sense in veterinary care
How high tech helps—and hinders
Alternative care: supplements, holistic care, energy work, animal communication
What makes sense when, and why
How we establish a great partnership with our vets
How we explore alternatives
How we establish boundaries
How culture affects care, and what we can do
How we live with uncertainty
How we help our dogs live graceful old ages

So, to start. Our vets matter. What is your single best experience with a vet? Keep it short. What happened, and what do you think now?

« Previous Page

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

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

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

How We Found the Tumor

Splenic Tumors, Ultrasound, and … What?

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 6

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 4

What Made My Deaf Dog Hear Again, Part 1

Worshipping at the Altar of Rimadyl

Co-incidence and Community: How A Dog, Three Women, and a Book Saved a Life

We Mean Dog Business at The Cantankerous Dog Lover

Bridging the Paradigms

Alchemy West Inc.

Blog

Email Robyn

Phone Robyn