27 February Razzle's Big Secret

Okay, I think I’ve figured it out. Razzle’s Big Secret. The thing that made him whiny and needy, now is making him anorexic and picky. It’s gotten so bad even Gordon Ramsey would say he’d gone over the top with his food demands. But you see, it’s all clear when you think about it. There’s a simple explanation for everything. As soon as you grasp this single fact, everything falls into place.

Razzle’s pregnant. Now, before your go running off to hide under facts like “he’s a boy” and other such nonsense, I can prove it. Of course, I haven’t slept in a few days and it’s possible my judgment’s a little shaky, but all that aside, I can back this up.

Coming back from Chemo on Tuesday last, I expected his appetite to be down. We were given an anti-nausea medication and an antibiotic (his white count is still about a third what it should be). I was told that they agreed his tummy was upset as he’d been eating grass, so I was to switch from Pepcid to Prilosec. What the heck, I’m of the “if Benadryl can’t cure you, you’re dead” school of medicine so, what do I know from antacids?

Anyway, I figured he’d be like he was the first few days last time (and he’d had surgery then, remember?). He didn’t want to eat much more than a few spoonfuls of peanut butter and lap at coconut water (an electrolyte Godsend by the way, it’s sweet and when we won’t touch anything else, he’ll lap down the coconut water). He worked his way up slowly and there was always peanut butter to stop gap us.

Well, the rules have changed. Even with anti-nausea medication AND Prilosec AND Pepcid AND feeding him in bed, the anorexia came out for a full blown brass and drum parade. Now, he wouldn’t touch anything and by Wednesday, peanut butter was off the menu. (What am I going to do with a CASE of organic peanut butter?)

His newest trick, when he doesn’t want to eat something, is to spit it out, then go to stand by the door as if to say, “if you make me eat this, I’m leaving”. Usually, in the past, if I could get a little taste of a food onto his tongue, he would then eat; it’s clear his sense of smell has been knocked into another ball park. But that's not working anymore.

So, I dithered, and went through FOUR kinds of dry dog food, peanut butter, cottage cheese, an omelet, a poached egg, toast, rice, poached chicken … well, the cupboard. Wouldn’t touch a thing and by Thursday he was living at the front door and most of his nutrition was by taking one bite of about twenty things. To top it all off, he’d stand in front of the kitchen entry, acting hungry, sitting down, waiting, as if to say, “I’ve ordered from the menu, and I have to keep sending the plate back because it’s not right – ‘you have to get real!’” So, I’m racking my brains and the cupboard feeling like I’m caught in some bizarre Canine Kitchen Nightmare.

Then, in the back of the cupboard on Friday I saw it. “Canned Pumpkin”. Now, we’d tried pumpkin in the past, before the Osteo and he wasn’t a fan; I mean, he ate it, but he’d eat anything and he’d leave bits of it in the bowl and look up at me with that “you can do better, Mom”, look.

But he ate the pumpkin. Spoon after spoon of it. It was very fragrant and that made me think. I went back to the cupboard and had a good long stare-and-think. I’d been giving him things for an upset tummy, but if what is wrong is his ability to recognize food by scent, I needed a food with a scent so powerful it would overwhelm his newly oh-so-picky nose (Mo has NOTHING on Razzle these days) and not be rejected as inedible, or tasting like metal.

And right there, on the stuff-I-never-use part of the shelf, were sardines.

Yep, sardines. Well, I used to love them, but since going Vegan, haven’t touched them. So out with the King Oscar and –

This is when I figured it out. He’s pregnant. Because only irrational hormonal cravings could possibly make you want to eat (or even look at) canned pumpkin and sardines. Or sardines, cottage cheese and pumpkin. They all have to be separate in the bowl, but while I’m feeding him (all right, while I’m hand feeding him) there has to be a variety and that’s the one that works. For now. For this minute. For this weekend.

Since I’m reliably informed he’s not pregnant, I have the dog with the strangest eating habits and shiniest coat in four counties.

I can’t wait until he’s past the lowered neutrophil phase and we can go back to Darwin’s – that at least I know he’ll eat, even when he’s not feeling well.

So, we do this at least two more times and if his system can manage it, four. They had decided to move his chemo from every three weeks to every four, hoping his white count would bounce back so they can continue the treatment.

But I’m running to the loo with a lurching stomach after every meal (which he has one about five times a day since he’ll only eat a little at a time). Something has to give here, and I’m fairly sure it’s going to be my stomach!

As long as he’s eating something, anything, pregnant or not, we win! And as you can see, our other victory this week was a full-blown, all by ourself, roach.

Ah, relaxed at last.

HURRAH!!

15 February 2011 -- Mom the Sucker (tee hee)

Okay. I chose the totally pathetic picture on purpose. I've been had. I've been had by my dog -- who turned me into his hook up (or his pusher, depending on your point of view). He had me flying to the hospital and badgering his doctors for new drugs, better drugs, drugs to stop the horrible, horrible pain. We had Tramadol, we had Neurontin, we had Codeine, we had Robaxin, we had ... you get the point. If three hours went by without something coated in peanut butter being served up to my desperately pained greyhound, it was that I accidentally fell asleep.

Right up until the minute I found out I'd been had. Now, don't get me wrong. It never occured to me that my slightly Munchausen prone dog was winding me up. After all, poor little baby had his leg hacked off and had chemicals pumped into him the next day -- but was bravely walking within hours of his surgery! He couldn't -- he wouldn't. (He did, and he was).

Now, I probably never would have discovered this. I would still be in the other room, where I've been most hours of most days holding his paw and cuddling him through painful screams as he cried and screamed until Mommy's full body massage made the pain go away (see where we're going here?)

But Mommy had not been sleeping very well (or, not to put too fine a point on it ... at all!). Being imperfect on her best day, ten days or so without more than about 3 hours sleep and Mommy ... well, Mommy snapped. The percipitating incident was after he'd demanded to be taken out no less than six times in the previous 20 minutes. I finally was able to serve him dinner and while I was doing that, I just put my hand on his head; you know, a nice, friendly scratch -- and he screamed blood murder. Seriously.

I lost it. Totally blithering idiot, walking the plank screaming lost it. I howled and screamed and cried ... until I noticed something ... he's stopped screaming and was watching me (the death threat uttered half way through my tirade seemed to shock him a bit). He very meekly walked over, ate his dinner like a lamb, then went to the bed he hand't been willing even to get up on because it didn't suit him, laid down and looked up at me with ... that look. You all know the one I mean. The one where you'd rather cut your heart out with a spork that deny him anything. And it was silent. Totally, utterly quiet. No whining, no screaming, nothing. Not for the next three hours (a world record). We went out for a walk without being begged and coaxed; we did our business in a minute; we took our pills without a bit of fuss. Finaly I realized -- I got it. I'd been had. Totally, completely, thoroughly had.

Not that he hasn't backslid. Pushing the limits, testing the waters. There's the odd scream in the middle of the night. The occasional whimper with pills or getting up after a nap ... and he's managed to make sure he still has his meals hand fed to him in bed (don't ask). But when the screaming whimpering whining performance doesn't ellicit an instant response, we give it over and turn back into a lamb. (Cora's going to kill me; he even refused during all this to walk on a leash for a day or so ... PUSHOVER). I've finally been able to do as the vets had insisted (why didn't they just TELL me I was being had??) and started weaning him off the pain medication. I've steadliy reduced his pain meds each day and AND the number of "incidents" (and their duration) has diminshed. I'm -- well, if I was delusional about having a modicum of intelligence, I've been disabused of the notion.

With the reduction in the pain meds he's more engaged and energetic. (Yes, he's trying a whole new book of tricks, but I've got my brain engaged before I react).

So, the next time someone tells you greyhounds are stupid --- they aren't. In fact, I'm pretty sure between him and Mo -- I'm the dim bulb in the room.

Our next chemo is Tuesday week. I'm hoping to have him off all the pain medications as soon as possible to ease the stress on his liver and kidneys -- I think the Robaxin is key; while I don't believe he's in acute postoperative pain, I'm pretty sure he is experiencing severe muscle spasms (I can feel those) from the drastic change in the muscles he's using. Frankly, this all started because every time he cried out he got a full body massage ... cause ... effect. I need a masseuse for him and a shrink for both of us -- how about couples therapy for a master and his human?

Did I flunk the chapter on Pavlov's dogs?

Yeah. The word sucker comes to mind.

What we do for love.

And I'd do it all over again.

2 February 2011 -- Home at Last

Home at 7:00 PM last nite and happy as a clam so far and very tired. New twin beds on the floors and people to fuss over him is making him very happy. He hasn't eaten anything and only taken a few sips of coconut water, but we have made it outside twice for big wees and the second time he made it DOWN and OUTSIDE the front steps (shallow, but amazing!) His ability to adapt to three legs is astonishing not only me, but the surgeon, too. He came by as Razzle was being discharged and just couldn't get over how well he was doing.

And I always thought he was sweet but a little slow in the smarts area, unless he was stealing food! He is showing an astonishing depth of bravery and intelligence while still radiating the warmth for which he makes friends wherever he goes. Goes to show you; you think you KNOW animals -- or people, and you just don't!! (Ain't that what makes them so grand? THEM and US! Because after all everyone has done for us this week -- trust me, like Dr. Who says, people are just incredible too.)

Pretty soon he will be able to follow the band who made him their namesake today (pretty cool, huh? He's still astonished, Casen! and I am too!) in person!

It turned out to be a beautiful day after all; back to sleep with my baby ...

31 January 2011 -- Surgery Day

Hi, All,
First and foremost, thank all of you who posted, prayed and thought about Razzle this week. It is all appreciated and I KNOW it helped. To catch you all up:
After a lot of research, I decided to go ahead with amputation and chemotherapy. There were several considerations in my decision.

• About four inches of bone in his distal radial leg was involved; there was so much bone compromised a break was a matter of days, may be hours.

• Given how deeply the bone was involved; he would either be in excruciating pain from a break; or he would be on pain medication that made him unstable, and susceptible to a break.

• Given the severity of the bone involvement, but with the rest of his x-rays and tests clear, there were two options, amputation and euthanasia. I felt he had a better-than-average chance at a good result for the following reasons:

o He is young, calm and happens to LOVE the vet (any vet). Anywhere he goes where he gets food for no work and be petted for no reason is a GOOD place. (He’s made friends already). I thought for a long time he had Munchhausen’s.

o I work at home and though I am very busy, I can pay attention to his needs and be here for him during the day.

o I have a wonderful group of friends, neighbors and staff who can help with my work and his care and want very much to do so.

o If he has seven additional months after healing (a conservative estimate) that would be 8% of his life. If someone gave me a conservative estimate of 8% of my life with a terminal cancer diagnosis I’d be thrilled. So I’m thrilled for him.
Every time a dog goes through treatment, every owner that tries new diets, therapies and ideas and documents them, something is added to the science. While this may seem hard, I want the next greyhound owner, and the next and the next to benefit, if possible, from what we learn. Whether he lives, seven days, seven weeks, seven months or seven years, what we learn and what we do contributes to the overall knowledge of first treating, then hopefully beating this disease. We have a responsibility to try, and, by trying, to help make the first greyhound to beat this disease not a hope, but a reality (and I hope that it will be Razzle!)

The surgery went well. He had an initially poor reaction to the fentanyl patch, but seems to be doing much better. They said he was showing some interest in eating this evening (about 1800 PST) and is interested in people watching again (surprise, uh, as we all know, Not.)

Mom made him four dinners (tofu, broccoli, eggs, coconut, peanut butter, more peanut butter, coconut water, love, love and kisses) and took them over so he would have something from home and no meat to contaminate his mouth. He also had hard boiled eggs, his jar of peanut butter and K9 Immunity for treats). For now and ever carbs are off the menu.

He’ll be starting his first chemotherapy treatment (poor baby!) tomorrow. Cisplatin (Platinol®): This will be, I believe, five treatments. This is an in-hospital intensive chemotherapy treatment.

Everyone should have access to the Ohio State Osteosarcoma protocols at http://www.vet.ohio-state.edu/assets/pdf/hospital/bloodBank/wellness/research/BoneCancerinGreyhounds.pdf

To some of you, this may all seem very clinical and cold. I grew up on a farm and I’m the daughter of a physician. I know keeping a positive and happy outlook for Razzle is critical to his recovery. I also know that, as my Dad used to say, don’t borrow trouble. Worrying about what MIGHT happen, steals the joy from what IS happening. Razzle and I spent the weekend in bed together, eating bad food and snuggling. No matter what happens tomorrow, that’s the choice of yesterday that I hold on to --- if, and only if, bad times come. For now, I look forward in hope, for him and for holding him once again.

Who Knows? It might work out.

Well, Razzle and Mo seem to be better. The Greyhound doesn't quite seem to grasp the Maltese is neither a squeaky toy or able to play with him. But he quite gently nosed Mo out of his bed yesterday; it was really quite sweet, seeing as how the old piss was trying to start a fight.

Razzle Dazzle

Well, this was Razzle's second day at home. We took a walk (okay, I drove) down to freeway park -- rocks, dirt, rocks. How much did this thing cost, anyway? It is about as inviting as a gravel pit with railings -- come to think of it, it IS a gravel pit with railings. So, we'll try up to the Volunteer Park or the Grand Army of the Republic cemetery (the last century's first war-to-end-all-wars that we would NEVER forget).

Mo seems a lot more active; for a 15 year old Maltese, he's holding his own with the three year old Greyhound. So far. It is only two days. I live in constant terror something will go wrong, he'll run off, get hurt, etc. ad nauseum. Mo went in the backpack down the hill and then back up -- I was a mess.