Cavalier King Charles Spaniel – Bridging the Paradigms: re-connecting people and the planet

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

February 17, 2012 by Robyn

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.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, bridging species, cats, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, death, dog care, dogs and dying, euthanasia, human-animal bond, multi-species families

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 8

February 14, 2012 by Robyn

my dying dog Now at the end of Murphy’s life I write again about veterinarians. This is Part 2 of four parts. See Entry 6 for the first article.

Murphy is my beloved Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She’s 13-1/2. And she’s dying.

I got at least 10 years longer with her than I expected. She had a lot of health issues early on, mostly bad vets, vaccinations, some odd things and many that are just the stuff of an exuberant, fun-filled life.

Somehow Murphy got old, and now she’s dying. They say splenic tumor but they’re wrong. It’s advancing old age complicated by bronchitis. The thing we went in for, before they found the tumor in December. Not quite two months ago.

Back to vets.

I won’t say anything about Murphy’s first vet, except that he’s the reason she had so many illnesses for the first two years of her life. Obviously, I figured that out and switched vets much earlier than that, but it took a long time to work through Murphy’s problems. She and I suffered through that. The damned vet didn’t.

Our second stop was the West Seattle Animal Hospital, where we met Dr. Glenn P. Johnson, medical director. It was a combination of frustration with our first vet—who couldn’t bother to see us when destructo puppy chewed up a used inhaler for migraine medicine—and a back injury that took us there.

But in the rotation of vets we didn’t see Dr. Johnson again. We saw another vet there, and Murphy had an infection that we couldn’t figure out. We suspected something like stump pyometra, an infection that spayed dogs can get. I wanted to do an ultrasound to pinpoint the problem. The vet told me that the mobile radiologist had one opening—and the vet was taking it for her own cat.

I understand the emotion and situation, but, really, when honesty is crass and unprofessional it really isn’t the best policy. It was clear I couldn’t trust the vet and I left that clinic and embarked on a tiring search for a great vet, which included alternative care and a host of things that helped Murphy get well. And so did I. But that’s another story.

Last year my neighbors were dealing with their own dying dog, an aging girl they wanted as long as possible. They, too, had tried various vets, who told them that the dog was very old and who didn’t support them in their choice of daily subcutaneous fluids to support her.

Again we see the paternalism that is rampant in our culture, particularly in the veterinary community. Ironically, they’ve caught up with the technology used in human care, but still cling to the ‘doctor knows best’ mentality that a lot of human doctors are finding isn’t respectful—and costs them money because people will just find someone who will listen and work with them.

Vets aren’t yet desperate enough to be human in their practices, so we’re left with the ones who are naturally that way and respect choice.

How We Got Back to A Former Vet

So when my neighbors heartily recommended Dr. Johnson—for his empathy, his patience with aging animals, and his skill—I decided that he was someone to check out.

And then Murphy coughed on Christmas Day, on her Cavalier brother’s tenth birthday, and I knew she needed to see someone the next day.

Going to our long-time favorite vet was out of the question: it takes a whole day just getting there and back, and we just needed vet care closer to home. I called the next morning and asked for Dr. Johnson. We saw him that day.

I liked him the minute he walked through the door. I appreciated his concern and thoroughness, his matter-of-fact approach. I choked back a laugh as I realized he had matured since we’d last seen him and realized that Murphy and I had, too: it had, after all, been 12 years.

After a thorough exam he suggested blood work to diagnose an infection. While I disliked spending the money, I had to appreciate the perspective of someone who hadn’t seen us in years and who wanted to be thorough. It made sense. When the tests were in we quickly put Murphy on antibiotics.

What Happened When It Got Complicated

Dr. Johnsons hesitated on the heart medication, didn’t think her heart was the issue.

But Murphy had been diagnosed with heart disease in October, kind of late for a Cavalier. Coughing was a symptom that she might need medication, so I was uneasy. I got it into my head that we needed a chest x-ray to prescribe heart medication.

Now I work was a professional intuitive, so I’m clearly open to information from outside sources. I became convinced that we needed a chest x-ray for her heart and that’s as deep as I went into it (a lesson in listening as closely for ourselves as we do for our clients). When Dr. Johnson called me back Wednesday afternoon after we’d missed each other several times, he promptly agreed. Not only did we do the x-ray a few hours later, but he carefully re-examined Murphy and heard the cough, which he hadn’t heard on our first visit.

“Is that the cough?” he asked, nodding at my confirmation. “It sounds bronchial,” he said, but he couldn’t hear any fluid in her airway. He picked her up, had her x-rayed, and then walked us out.

I was impressed, but the next few days turned me into a confirmed believer. It started with an early morning phone call, in which he carefully reviewed the radiologist’s overnight report on Murphy’s chest x-ray. A bit of fluid in the lungs, confirming bronchial issues, but no heart issues. However, Murphy had an abdominal mass, what they suspected was a splenic tumor, possibly cancer.

That meant Murphy was dying unless we operated on her, and maybe anyway. I was stunned. Part of me couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Another part honestly felt compassion for a man whose job involved delivering bad news, especially unexpected bad news. And admiration for how well he was doing it.

He was kind and thorough. I picked up the report that afternoon, so I could read it and understand it. The following week he met with me to look at the x-ray and discuss treatment options. He spent a half hour with me. Didn’t charge me. I ended up deciding we needed an ultrasound to get more information. To figure out what to do. That will be Part 3 of my four part series on vets.

The Bottom Line

Dr. Johnson took the time to treat Murphy and me. Both of us. He was thorough, honest, compassionate. Realistic. He balanced the cost of potential surgery against Murphy’s current illness and age. He didn’t urge surgery. He said to evaluate it based on her current condition, that it had to be my call. That was respectful. He has since seen Alki, my other Cavalier, and Grace the Cat. Same thorough care.

We are full circle at our house. We are back to a vet we saw when Murphy was a puppy. As it turned out, we didn’t have to go far from home: the clinic is 10 minutes away. We just went a long way in between: on a search for a vet who would offer support, advice, and expert knowledge balanced with consideration for the family bond between people and their animals.

A vet who would help us explore our choices, and be wise enough to support them. No bullying about what they wanted you to do.

What else can you ask?

Sure, it’s a whole lot easier for a vet to just tell you what to do, so you don’t have to second guess yourself about making the wrong decision. Yes, we make wrong decisions all the time. That’s human. Thank goodness, though, we’re not adding the paternal ‘do what I say’ toxic attitude.

We’re doing the right thing: exploring our options, choosing what works for Murphy, for me, for our family. I’m grateful we have a vet we can count on.

Next time: the radiologist. And the alternative vet.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: bridging species, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, dogs and dying, family harmony, human-animal bond, intuitive communication, multi-species families

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 7

February 10, 2012 by Robyn

my dying dog They avoid you, the people you know: friends, family, the medical professionals. They can’t help it. The “C” word is in the air.

They just plain look at you differently when there’s cancer in the family. Even if they only think there is. Because they know it means death.

I noticed it the first time when I stopped in at the animal hospital to pick up a report on Murphy’s x-ray. I had first taken her in because she was coughing, and several days later I demanded an x-ray. I thought she needed heart medication. It was bronchitis.

And a tumor on her spleen. Pretty much a death sentence.

So the first time I took her in, it was friendly, happy, open. Murphy is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, and at the time didn’t really look her age, a grand almost 13-1/2. She wins fans just because she’s gorgeous, but her charming, curious personality wins more.

Then the vet called with the radiology report.

Later that day, I stopped in to pick up the report. I wanted to hold it in my hand and try to make sense out of getting my dog on antibiotics for an infection and ending up with a terminal diagnosis. For something I didn’t even know was there.

The receptionist looked up with a smile when I walked in. Then her face changed and she looked away.

She flinched.

When other people hear the news, same thing happens.

They flinch.

They don’t mean to. It just happens. Even when it’s their job to give you the really bad news—that someone you love is dying.

They flinch.

I know some cultures—and here I’m thinking of my Japanese friends—who refuse to acknowledge death with the dying person. Instead, the family steps in, handles all the care, including putting the person into a nursing facility, and they never tell the person what’s going on.

The dying people are just expected to know. I guess in their culture, silence means death. So they do know.

I think that’s completely wrong, and I’ll never stop saying it.

My Japanese friends say, “But we wouldn’t want to know.”

But you do know, because you’re clearly failing and no one is talking to you about it. So you can’t talk. You’re left to face the fear, and the end, with distant politeness.

My personal experience says that’s cruel.

I was 9 the day my parents told me that my brother “had gone to heaven.” It took a minute for it to register. I knew he was sick, I didn’t know he was dying. Granted, they didn’t have a lot of time with leukemia back then, but everyone else knew he was dying.

If I’d known, I would have had a chance to say goodbye.

He would have had a chance to say goodbye.

No, they never told him. But I remember the last time I saw him, and the look in his eye as he reached out to hold my hand.

They never told him, but he knew. I am still haunted by what I think he felt: fear, loneliness, grief, anger, confusion. Abandoned.

And now to Murphy. Granted, she’s a dog. However, I believe in the equality of all life, whatever it is. So in my multi-species family the human-animal bond means that my animals are family members.

They are not pets. They are living beings, amazing souls who have the freedom to choose their life’s path. Equals.

They have a right to know what’s happening: from where I’m going when I leave them at home to what’s happening to their bodies.

They have a right to choose their course.

Murphy has chosen hers, and, forced to make my own choice about her condition, I did. We are united. No surgery. Quality time.

We see the world through a different lens now. We see it with our eyes and hearts open, knowing Murphy’s time is limited. It’s heartbreaking and exhilarating: we know what’s coming, and we can share it. But it’s still death.

We’re pretty sure, at our house, that it’s old age that will get to Murphy faster than the tumor. In just the last month the bronchial issues have slowed her down, she’s tired, she’s sway-backed with the tell-tale old dog ribs. Time was at a standstill for a bit, like the ocean receding before the tsunami.

But the tsunami always comes ashore. Ours is almost here. We can see it.

To some cultures, dying is a silent process.

To ours, the patchwork American culture, dying is at least a bit more respectful. The dying usually know. They get to choose. Sometimes.

Murphy got to choose.

But Americans still flinch.

It’s time in our culture to stop flinching. To stop ignoring the inevitable. To embrace death as the place where you leave one life and go on to another.

We need to acknowledge it. Yes, it’s awkward. It’s painful. It’s an ugly reminder that we are all going to die.

It’s life.

Death is what happens. Community can make it something else: a time to celebrate a life, to say goodbye, to cherish the ones leaving and the ones left behind.

Community means you don’t flinch.

Where is ours?

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, bridging species, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, dogs and dying, human-animal bond, multi-species families

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

January 30, 2012 by Robyn

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.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, bridging species, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, human-animal bond, intuitive business consultation, multi-species families, veterinary care

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 5

January 27, 2012 by Robyn

Murphy is dying. My beloved Cavalier King Charles Spaniel has a tumor on her spleen.

Murphy is 13-1/2. Because of early problems, I’ve been cooking for her for 11 years. Turkey, veggies, fruit. Supplements. A strong healthy diet for a vigorous dog.

Yes, I’ve been cooking for my dog. It works for us, but it’s time-consuming.

I have to think ahead, to make sure she has food, and because I’m handicapped, and working, I have to buy and cook enough to freeze it in portions in case something comes up and I can’t cook.

Dying came up and now I’m stumped.

We discovered the tumor by accident. Pure really dumb luck, if something that horrible can remotely be termed ‘luck.’ But here’s the thing.

In being practical and planning ahead for meals, how far do I plan ahead for a dying dog?

Usually, I stock up on turkey once a month, buying eight pounds or so to feed Murphy and Grace the Cat (poor Alki has to eat something else). But yesterday I was standing in front of the meat counter, wondering just how much I should buy at $5.50/lb for Diestel ground turkey. I caught myself literally thinking: “How much do I gamble here?”

True, Grace the Cat and I can always eat the meat. The problem is in mixing all the ingredients, including bone meal and spirulina, to make the particular meals I feed Murphy. The meals that got Murphy healthy years ago, and kept her healthy until, well, now.

But how many more meals should I make for Murphy? A month’s worth? That would take more than eight pounds. And the freezer is pretty full.

Should I go for realism, meaning I have no clue how long she’ll live? Should I just give in to despair and buy a few pounds? Or, when 10 days go by and I have to cook another batch for her, will I smile, because I won one—I beat death a bit longer?

I don’t know what made me decide.

But I bought three.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, bridging species, cats, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, dogs and dying, family harmony, human-animal bond, multi-species families

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

January 24, 2012 by Robyn

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.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, animal communication, bridging species, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, human-animal bond, multi-species families, splenic tumor in dog, veterinary care

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 3

January 23, 2012 by Robyn

Murphy is dying. Can’t stop it, might be able to slow it down a bit, as long as she’s comfortable. Not sure.

All I’m really sure about is that she’s dying.

And that many people, including well-meaning friends, are idiots.

I’m sure most idiots don’t mean to be, well, idiots. But here’s a painful situation where all you can do is laugh at them, because what you really want to do is scream and cry and yell.

People say, “She doesn’t look like she’s dying.”

Well, what the hell does dying look like? Ask them that, nobody seems to know. They shrug, embarrassed, because truth is, in our ridiculous self-centered, youth-blinded culture, we have no idea what dying looks like. Because we don’t have to look at it. So we don’t.

Instead, we assume that death is old, debilitated, too feeble to walk, too sick to care, crippled and pathetic. Kept alive by a blind faith in technology and a refusal to let go until there’s very little left to let go of.

Death is something we lock away in nursing homes, or ignore until we can’t anymore.

People say, “She looks good. Are you sure she’s dying?”

Idiots. Yes, I’m completely sure. Don’t like it, but I’m sure.

And you know what? I’m glad she looks good. I’m glad she feels good. I’m glad the idiots are saying things like, “She doesn’t look like she’s dying.”

Because I realized that my life with my animals and theirs with me has defined a new way of living together as multi-species families. It’s defined a new way of looking at the human-animal bond.

It looks at animals as equals. At lives as valuable. At choice as real.

At death as part of the process, part of our lives together.

Ironically, it’s only at the end of a beloved animal’s life that I realize we are defining something more for multi-species families: we are defining what death looks like.

Death looks like Murphy. Vigorous. Happy. Tired.

Dying.

We don’t like it. But we’re living with it. Until it’s here upon us. And then we’ll say goodbye.

Not one second sooner.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, bridging species, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, dogs and dying, family harmony, human-animal bond, multi-species families

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 2

January 17, 2012 by Robyn

my dying dog So dogs with splenic tumors can abruptly die, or abruptly go into just about dying. Meaning in Murphy’s case, the tumor could rupture and she’ll bleed out.

The words ‘bleed out’ and ‘my beloved dog’ just don’t make sense together. They really should never make sense together. Apparently that doesn’t matter.

Besides that, what the hell does ‘bleed out’ look like?

So I’m out there, walking Murphy and Alki, getting ready to pick up their poop. This is a fact of life, picking up dog poop, all part of that mystical, smelly real life human-animal bond, not the reason why mine is a multi-species family, but part of it. At least I’m not paying for college.

No, I am not a poop voyeur, I’m just someone who really does clean up after her dogs. And, well, poop comes in all forms, depending on how the dogs have digested whatever it is they’ve chosen to eat.

I cook for Murphy and she disdains things on the street, so I know what she’s going to eat, unlike her brother, Alki, who eats whatever he can as quickly as he can because he knows damn well he shouldn’t.

Murphy eats what I give her to eat.

So I was surprised to see big red globs come out in her poop.

My heart stopped. What, is she bleeding out? There were no signs! What the hell does bleeding out mean, anyway, and why should I have to know this? This can’t be happening.

Besides, that’s really round globs of … cranberries.

I’d put whole cranberries in her food, and Murphy had just pooped them out intact. One by one.

Anybody who saw us at that moment would think I was crazy. Laughing. And crying. At once.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, animal communication, bridging species, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, dogs and dying, human-animal bond, humor, multi-species families

My Dog Is Dying: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 1

January 16, 2012 by Robyn

my dying dog The lure of immortality dances through our lives, weaving delicate patterns that tease us with the possibility.

To live forever.

And then, of course, we don’t.

Honestly, I never expected to live forever. You’re born, crap happens, fun happens, you die. Nope, I never expected to live forever, and I didn’t, either: last February I died of the flu, and, sure, I obviously came back, but I still died. At home in bed with my kids: my dogs, Murphy and Alki, and Grace the Cat.

I never thought Murphy would live forever. My dog. My eldest. She had so many things go wrong early in her life, we were surprised she made it to 3 and celebrated when she hit 5.

Today, January 16, 2012, she is 13-1/2. She’s been healthy and vigorous since she was 5. Mostly. There’s arthritis, things like that.

But to think of “Murphy” and “old age” astonishes me. I’m still more astonished that, somewhere along the way, deep down inside, I thought she would live forever. What an idiot I can be.

I just never expected it: either Murphy’s old age or, then, Murphy dying. I should know better, since I was only 9 when the first person I thought was immortal died, and I’ve lost many people and several animals since then. But somehow I just assumed that Murphy would skip that phase.

And now in the last few weeks I’ve learned that she is dying. Purely by accident, since I am the super careful slightly neurotic overly analytical intuitive, we discovered that she has a tumor on her spleen.

Murphy is dying.

Somewhere in the last few days I decided to record our last journey together, from the shock of discovery to the agony of choice to the stupid things you think of when someone you love is dying. A running journal. The story of almost immortal.

I know how it’s going to end. I don’t know when. I only know it happens a little bit with every breath I take, I can feel it.

The human-animal bond is a strange and wonderful thing. Living a multi-species family life is both inspiring and terrifying: every day you should be realizing that it’s one less day, not one more, but you don’t. You can’t.

Living an intuitive life where you know that all life is equal is also a strange and wonderful thing. You learn about choice, about individual choice, and family choice, and community choice. It’s beautiful. Terrifying. Absurd.

Real life is about choice. Crappy choices are part of it. How do you live, and die? What does it look like? Why should we share it? What can it mean for our lives in community, for our lives as humans with animals, and homes, and businesses, all wrapped up in the mystery of nature and of the planet itself?

What happens when someone you love is dying?

Once again, I’m going to find out. Write about it. Maybe see what you think.

Will it be cathartic? Maybe. Angry? You bet. Resigned? Never. Goofy and absurd? Most likely. True? Every single word.

Even in my most optimistic moments I can’t see anything positive coming from this, because at the end Murphy will be gone.

But something is coming.

We shall see.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, bridging species, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, dogs and dying, human-animal bond, inspiration, intuitive, multi-species families

Love and Choice at the Crossroads

January 10, 2012 by Robyn

Every January people think about New Year’s resolutions. I never did get that, maybe because I think of life as a choice, and I’m glad I get them.

Or I used to be.

My work as an intuitive, as one being on the planet, is about choice. How can we grow as a society by recognizing that the world, and everything in it, is alive, conscious … and free to choose its path? Everything.

Humans are not guardians and caretakers. We are equals. Equals to everything from our chairs to our cars, our homes and businesses, the land and water around us.

Equals to the animals who are part of our multi-species families.

They get to choose. We get to live with their choice. With them.

Sure, it’s cut and dried in theory. In practice, it’s fascinating and exciting, because that’s when participation in the great dance of life helps us hear, for example, what a hurricane thinks about its work, or what little tweaks would please and invigorate our homes and businesses.

But choice can be painful, and we’re living that now in my family.

My beloved eldest dog, Murphy Brown Fritz, has, in her own words, chosen to ‘walk the mystery’ and to refuse surgery that would complicate but possibly save her life. For a short while, anyway. Maybe. Nobody really knows. I tried to find out, and I couldn’t.

At 13.5, she’s had a long and fascinating journey to wellness, one that I walked with her, that we all did as a family. This fabulous life I shared with this stunning dog has inspired my work as a writer and intuitive, my view of the world and the human-animal bond, my work with my crystal partner, Fallon, my sense of humor. Together, Murphy and I got well and went out into the world to do our work.

But we now know that Murphy’s journey is ending. She has a tumor on her spleen, and there are no easy choices. Remove her spleen and she may live, a few weeks or years, we don’t know. But if it’s a bruise or a tumor that is the spleen’s own way of dealing with a lifelong platelet disorder, maybe, just maybe, surgery is not the answer. And right now it isn’t, anyway, because this all started because she had a mild cough and UTI, and she has an infection to beat first.

That we even know about the tumor is because the intuitive in me kept insisting there was something more. Now there’s another part of me that asks why I insisted on finding out.

I thought science would give us an answer, a time frame to plan our year, an answer of some kind, a clear path: if you do this, then that happens.

But science doesn’t give answers like that.

Love does.

This surgery for Murphy would be complicated. And we had a deal. Through the ups and downs of our journey to wellness our deal was that we would fix what we could because the larger journey to wellness was healing our wounded souls. We got well together. That done, we agreed that I wouldn’t ask her to do any more, but she’d get whatever she wanted. No matter what.

And she got it. She’s been healthy and vigorous for most of her amazingly long life.

But science and thoughtful care take you only so far. Love and choice do the rest.

Stunned and griefstricken at this news last week, I had sense enough to give this choice back to Murphy. “What do you want to do?” I asked her.

“We had a deal,” she said. She thinks her time is close anyway, and she doesn’t want the complication of surgery. At least not now. We are exploring her options, to give her more information. But right now she thinks she will live longer without the surgery, and she could very well be right. She wants to “walk the mystery” as freely as she can. I’ll be there with her, as will Alki and Grace the Cat. Our medical team. And our intuitive team, which includes guides and dragons and Fallon and the entire Alchemy West Committee and the one intuitive in the world I trust when I need to step aside and ask for help: Debrae Firehawk.

Murphy’s defied the odds before: the little dog no one expected to make it to 3 is 13.5. In my less rational moments I want to grab her and run as fast as I can, to outrace whatever it is that’s taking her from us. In other moments I’m arranging supportive care. For all of us.

We’ll be chronicling our journey, wherever it leads us, and we invite you to share it at our magazine, Bridging the Paradigms.

For this month, we’re just pointing us all back to New Year resolutions. Forget them. Instead, ask yourself what you will do with your choices. What do you want your year to look like? What will you do if things change? How does love choose its way? How do you honor love’s choice?

This choice terrifies me. I guess the important ones should. Everything I believe about how we should live our lives comes down to honoring Murphy’s choice. Find out everything I can. Explain it to her as best as I can. And then let her choose her path.

When I could throw everything in the universe at a tumor that may be killing my beloved dog, would I take her choice away to suit mine?

Can I? Should I? What does love look like?

It looks like choice. Her choice. We’ll find out where that takes us.

Oh, and another thing. There’s a new “energy” system, something that showed up here about five years ago. I kept trying to give it away. It kept coming back. Fallon and I have been using it at times during our intuitive consultations, when it has shown up and clients have agreed to experience it.

When I say I am not a healer, I mean it. I am not a healer. Fallon is. But I can use this new “energy” in a new way, and I will. So I can say for now that I’m a healer, but that word has no real meaning in the new paradigm. A new word will come.

This “energy” is something very new in the world. Very right. A new paradigm for vibrational work. For healing. For choice.

Murphy chose that as her option. Fallon and I are on it. As are Alki and Grace the Cat. It does not promise a cure for Murphy, whatever that means. It just helps create space for choice, for Murphy, for the tumor, for us.

Can’t define the energy right now. All I know is that it’s about love and choice.

So this New Year I resolve to honor choice. Whatever that looks like, wherever it takes us.

What choices will you honor this year?