Dog Days of Winter

Yesterday, I brought Leo in for his second round of chemotherapy. It seemed like a reunion of long lost best friends when the veterinary oncology nurse came out to greet him. Leo practically knocked her over as they hugged and behaved as if the three weeks that had intervened since their last visit had never happened.

He emerged from his chemo session as upbeat and downright hyper as he was when he went in. The only evidence of illness was the bright red bandage around his left hind leg. And, of course, the fact that he appeared to be a patient in the veterinary acute care facility. I went home armed with five days worth of anti-nausea medication and some interferon to be administered by me, at home, complete with rubber gloves and stern warnings about handling and storage and keeping away from children and other animals. I sure hope the stuff doesn't smell like dirty underwear, or I'm going to have to put Manny in a hazmat suit just to keep him safe.

As I waited for Leo, I sat near a man who was on the phone solemnly breaking the news to his wife of their dog's prognosis. First came the cost of the surgery, a number that would elicit a horrified gasp from anyone other than those of us who have been down this road. And the surgery and chemo, if successful, would buy the thirteen year old pooch a year, at most. They decided to let nature take its course. I know how painful that decision had to be.

I discuss the meaning of life with Leo pretty much on a daily basis now. I tell him that as long as he feels up to it, he's staying. He passed the battery of tests they put him through before administering chemo yesterday with flying colors, but I could have predicted that. Leo, five weeks into his ordeal, and minus one spleen, is about as robust as I've ever seen him. I questioned my sanity when I signed on for the elaborate and expensive course of treatment for a ten year old dog, but as each day passes and Leo's mood swings from a low of mere contentment to a high of complete euphoria, I know I made the right choice. Misery is not even on his radar, and he is a constant reminder of simple pleasure.

As far as Leo is concerned, life's pretty good, so why worry? This morning he got to lick peanut butter off my fingers, and he will be thrilled to discover that he will get the same extra special treat for the next four days, until he finishes his anti-nausea pills. It don't get any better than that!