After Pip had his spleen removed and we got the pathology report back, I promised him that he would never have to take a bath again. It seemed like a reasonable promise since the prognosis was about as bad as it gets; the metastasis rate for hemangiosarcoma is described as “approaching 100%.” The only thing we didn’t know was how long we had, but by most estimates somewhere around two to three months. Once the initial disappointment and hurricane of grief had passed, we tried to use our remaining time well. For the most part, we did a good job and have had a real good time.
Soon those two to three months had passed. Then four. We celebrated his birthday, and a few weeks later it was five months since his surgery. Right now we’re sitting at six months. So much more time than we ever expected, and though I knew it was dangerous I’ve slowly allowed a tiny part of myself to believe maybe we had dodged a bullet. That my dog was one of the lucky ones who allowed that “approaching” to sneak in ahead of the “100%.” And since we’d been taking him down to the river a lot, I thought maybe I was going to have to break that promise about the bath.
Then earlier this week he had a real bad day. We repeated some blood work and x-rays, and it was the worst news… evidence of metastasis to his liver, and he’s anemic. (HSA is essentially a tumor of blood vessels, so they can rupture and bleed; the anemia suggests that’s what happened although he didn’t lose a critical amount of blood.)
The better news is that there is evidence that his body is repairing the anemia by producing new red blood cells. And by the next morning, he was acting like himself again. He’s eating well, jolly and excited about the things he normally gets jolly and excited about, chewing his bones, coming to work with me and working the crowd for snacks at lunchtime, yelling at Squash when he gets out of line. (Maisy isn’t really in a position to get out of line right now, having torn her other cruciate ligament last week and surgery a few days ago, but that’s a whole ‘nother can of worms.) All we’re really seeing right now is that he doesn’t have much stamina; he gets tired more easily and sleeps a lot more.
So now I know for sure what I really knew in my heart knew before; that he’s not part of the “approaching.” And I’m sad, really sad, although part of me realizes that in reality nothing has really changed… we just have that final piece of certainty plugged into the equation and a more specific time cap. We’re down to a few weeks, mostly likely a month at most, and I don’t want him to go. But at least we’ve had so, so much more time than we ever expected. Really good quality time, and I’m so grateful for it. He can’t really hike or birdwatch at the park with me anymore, but he can still chew sticks in the backyard while I read and there are some boat launches nearby where I park close enough that he can wade around in the water and eat grass on the riverbank… the things that make him happiest.
If the rules were relaxed before, we’ve gone positively feral at this point… chicken with breakfast, a spoonful of whipped cream at lunch, roasts in the slow cooker specifically for him, bites of Kit Kats. He goes where he wants, when he wants.
And absolutely no baths.