The Wee Wee Hours

When my oldest daughter was a baby, I used to enjoy the middle of the night feedings. The hard part was dragging myself out of bed at two a.m., but once I got over that hump, the rest was gravy. There was something peaceful about being alone with her in the wee hours of the morning while each of us enjoyed -- for different reasons -- her efficient emptying of my swelling breasts.

She would go right back to sleep, and I would hold her for awhile before depositing her in her crib, savoring the sweet smell of her newborn head, marveling at the soft outlines of her face as she dreamed her sweet dreams. Her bow-shaped lips would open and close in tiny spasms as she concentrated in her slumber; her tiny body pulsed with each breath. Finally, as I felt myself drifting off, I would tear myself away and look forward to the bliss of a few more hours of sleep before she began her early morning cooing. Sure, the days seemed endless sometimes, but those nights -- before life became complicated by other (equally wonderful, of course) siblings and a not so wonderful job, passed way too quickly.

Almost twenty-two years later, I find myself being awakened on a regular basis at two a.m., but this time by an old dog. I've gotten used to hearing the telltale sound of Leo's toenails tapping on the wood floor downstairs, knowing a few low, tentative barks are soon to follow. I rush downstairs to let him out before he starts barking in earnest, waking fat Manny from his beauty sleep. (I don't worry about him waking my younger daughter; a Bolivian marching band could pass through her room without rousing her.)

As was the case with my daughter's middle of the night feedings, I look forward to the bliss of a few more hours of sleep, knowing that Leo will rest quietly after he does his business. But the process of letting him outside to pee -- especially in the dead of winter -- and waiting inside, on the cold kitchen tile, for him to finish, isn't quite as enjoyable as feeding time used to be. Especially now since I worry constantly that he will just lie down and never get up.

It's official. The tumor they removed along with Leo's spleen was cancerous. The good news is there was no evidence it had spread to the liver, but still, it's an aggressive form of the disease. So last night, when I waited patiently for him to show up at the back door and he didn't appear, I found myself putting boots and a down jacket on over my pajamas and trudging into the frozen back yard. There he was, enjoying the snow, glancing over at me as if I was nuts. Duh.

We're visiting the doggie oncologist (I picture Snoopy in a lab coat) next week, so we can discuss the chemo options that might extend Leo's life for a year. When you think about it, that's seven years in human time, so nothing to sneeze at. And I'm going to go for it, as long as I feel reassured that the drugs will not make Leo uncomfortable. Given the way he has rallied after major abdominal surgery, I'm optimistic.

A dog is not a child, and a dog is supposed to go before you do. And if I've learned anything from the "Leo crisis" this week, it's that Leo will let us know when he's had enough, and when that happens, we will listen to him. But my tail wagging, barking, jumping Leo is not ready yet, and neither are we. So I will just have to appreciate the fleeting time I have left with him -- even if it's spent freezing my ass off in the middle of the night waiting for him to pee.