Downward Dog
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
If you've read some of the earlier posts in this blog, you may by now have realised that we're big animal lovers and that we have a few pets in our household; two cats and a dog, to be precise. We adopted all our pets from the humane societies in Ottawa and Toronto. In April 2006 we adopted a 19-year-old Beagle/Basset Hound mix named Lucky, whose previous owner had passed away after looking after her for 17 years or so. El Franco and I adopted Lucky and she eventually became known in our building as the diaper dog; she was incontinent, due to her advanced age, and we had to put her in a diaper whenever we exited the building when taking her for a walk. We didn't think we'd have Lucky for very long--maybe three months tops--but she surprised us all by hanging in there for a total of 13 months, at which point we had to put her to sleep once her heart started to fail.
The experience was sad, but also enriching.
Not long after Lucky's passing, we decided to adopt another old dog and, after regularly checking their web site, went back to the Toronto Humane Society and came home with a 12-year-old beagle. We've had Sara since around October, 2007, and at first she was completely unsettled at having moved into a new home. She would very often shake uncontrollably in her bed and flinch away if we tried to pet her. She hated going out for walks and didn't enjoy the company of other dogs in the neighbourhood, to the point where she'd turn around and pull on her leash to go back home to her bed. That's pretty much what she does all day, lie in her bed and sleep until it's mealtime.
The experience was sad, but also enriching.
Not long after Lucky's passing, we decided to adopt another old dog and, after regularly checking their web site, went back to the Toronto Humane Society and came home with a 12-year-old beagle. We've had Sara since around October, 2007, and at first she was completely unsettled at having moved into a new home. She would very often shake uncontrollably in her bed and flinch away if we tried to pet her. She hated going out for walks and didn't enjoy the company of other dogs in the neighbourhood, to the point where she'd turn around and pull on her leash to go back home to her bed. That's pretty much what she does all day, lie in her bed and sleep until it's mealtime.
Still, she's a cute dog and after spending time with us for almost 6 months now, seems to be relaxing more. The cats don't bother her; in fact they steer well clear of her, preferring to leave her to her own devices. She's settling in nicely and seems quite comfortable in our presence these days, to the extent that she doesn't shake too much anymore and even accepts a pat on the head without flinching away. She also seems to be enjoying her walks more and tolerates an unrequited sniff from a friendly dog or two, with an aloofness that's seemly for her age.
Sara's small bed appeared to be just the right size when we first brought her home, and she would curl into a tight ball and remain there for hours on end. That's not the case these days, though, and she gaining a reputation for practising her own version of Yoga, with the bed being her floor mat. Here are a few photos of Sara, caught in a number of positions as she excercises and stretches her old bones.
Labels: dog, pets, sara, toronto humane society, yoga
Warm Light
Sunday, March 16, 2008
We got Keaton from the Toronto Humane Society in November, 2007 - not long after my cat Milo died. He's a grey cat with lots of personality, who follows us from room to room. A regular lap cat, he likes nothing better than collapsing on me in the evening as I'm couch potatoing. He can also be found napping on the bed especially if there's sunlight streaming in, which is how I found him today.
If they're treated well, pets can have such a carefree life and it's grounding to see how little they have to care about. I often wonder what thoughts, if any, pass through their tiny brains:
"Warm light - must lie down and stretch!"
"Human - feed me!"
"Scratch my belly!"
"Purrrrrr..."
Here's a picture of Keaton, stretching in the warm light.
I am Cat, hear me snore!
If they're treated well, pets can have such a carefree life and it's grounding to see how little they have to care about. I often wonder what thoughts, if any, pass through their tiny brains:
"Warm light - must lie down and stretch!"
"Human - feed me!"
"Scratch my belly!"
"Purrrrrr..."
Here's a picture of Keaton, stretching in the warm light.
I am Cat, hear me snore!
Milo the Cat
Monday, November 5, 2007
October 26, 2007 was the day I had to put my cat, Milo, to sleep. That was hard, one of the hardest things I've ever done. Milo was my little buddy who'd been with me since I arrived in Canada in 1999. He was an orange and white cat who grew from a little ball of fur to a whopping 19 lbs - hard to imagine I could fit him into the palm of my hand when I first got him.
Milo developed cancer of the lymph nodes, which quickly spread, and the prognosis wasn't good - 6 to 12 months with chemotherapy and even that wasn't guaranteed to be a success.
I first discovered the lumps in his throat when El Franco and I were watching TV one night and Milo, as was his wont, jumped onto the couch and demanded his rightful place in my arms for a chest-and-belly rub. That's when I felt the lumps and I immediately realised something was wrong. My initial thought was that he had a virus of some sort; having just moved into an old Victorian house with a small back yard, I let Milo hang out with us whenever we were enjoying the last warm days of summer. He would spend a lot of time sniffing around the perimeter and I thought he might have contracted something from another cat's feces.
That week, the vet performed a biopsy and the results came back after more than 7 days. Needless to say, they weren't favourable and I took him to a cat oncologist who had some doubts about the fine-needle biopsy and wanted to remove two of Milo's lymph nodes in order to get better test results. I had to wait another week for the results and at this point I was already greiving for my little buddy. His personality had changed and he became more and more withdrawn, not wanting to spend time with me or lay in my arms. Eventually, the second set of results confirmed the first and that's when I got the final prognosis.
Throughout this whole period, Milo had been poked, pricked, pinched and subjected to a battery of tests, none of which were pleasant for the little guy. He had to be force-fed medication and analgesics, which tasted abominal to him and made him froth at the mouth whenever his teeth punctured one of the capsules. The poor thing had just about had enough, I think, and the last few days were a listless existence for him - and, it felt, for me too.
In the end, I had to decide on quality of life versus a humane and painless end for the best cat I'd ever had in the whole of my life. That was so hard. I never thought I'd be without Milo, at least not for another 10 years or so, and it was incredibly painful to take him to the clinic in a cab, in rush hour traffic, knowing that I'd be going home without him. All the while, he'd rub his chin against my hand in his carrier and nibble my fingers.
Milo died peacefully in my arms at the animal clinic, kneading my face and neck as I scratched his chest and belly, just like old times.
Although the pain will ease as time passes, I wonder if I'll allow myself to feel the same for another pet ever again.
Milo developed cancer of the lymph nodes, which quickly spread, and the prognosis wasn't good - 6 to 12 months with chemotherapy and even that wasn't guaranteed to be a success.
I first discovered the lumps in his throat when El Franco and I were watching TV one night and Milo, as was his wont, jumped onto the couch and demanded his rightful place in my arms for a chest-and-belly rub. That's when I felt the lumps and I immediately realised something was wrong. My initial thought was that he had a virus of some sort; having just moved into an old Victorian house with a small back yard, I let Milo hang out with us whenever we were enjoying the last warm days of summer. He would spend a lot of time sniffing around the perimeter and I thought he might have contracted something from another cat's feces.
That week, the vet performed a biopsy and the results came back after more than 7 days. Needless to say, they weren't favourable and I took him to a cat oncologist who had some doubts about the fine-needle biopsy and wanted to remove two of Milo's lymph nodes in order to get better test results. I had to wait another week for the results and at this point I was already greiving for my little buddy. His personality had changed and he became more and more withdrawn, not wanting to spend time with me or lay in my arms. Eventually, the second set of results confirmed the first and that's when I got the final prognosis.
Throughout this whole period, Milo had been poked, pricked, pinched and subjected to a battery of tests, none of which were pleasant for the little guy. He had to be force-fed medication and analgesics, which tasted abominal to him and made him froth at the mouth whenever his teeth punctured one of the capsules. The poor thing had just about had enough, I think, and the last few days were a listless existence for him - and, it felt, for me too.
In the end, I had to decide on quality of life versus a humane and painless end for the best cat I'd ever had in the whole of my life. That was so hard. I never thought I'd be without Milo, at least not for another 10 years or so, and it was incredibly painful to take him to the clinic in a cab, in rush hour traffic, knowing that I'd be going home without him. All the while, he'd rub his chin against my hand in his carrier and nibble my fingers.
Milo died peacefully in my arms at the animal clinic, kneading my face and neck as I scratched his chest and belly, just like old times.
Although the pain will ease as time passes, I wonder if I'll allow myself to feel the same for another pet ever again.
