TBO.com - TBO is Tampa Bay Online

I'm Not Ready To Finish My Journey With Foxy

ADVERTISEMENT

By MICHELLE BEARDEN | The Tampa Tribune

Published: October 14, 2007

John loves Harley.

I can see it in his eyes as he rubs the scruff on his mutt's neck; I hear it in his voice when he talks about Harley's remarkable intuition.

"Won't call it a night until both me and my wife are in bed. Not one of us, but both of us," he chuckles.

I nod. Of course, I happen to think my dog, Foxy, is the smartest, most beautiful and loyal dog on this planet. But dog owners are willing to defer to one another in the bragging department. It's canine etiquette.

We are in the waiting room of the cancer treatment center of Florida Veterinary Specialists in Tampa, fighting for our dogs' lives.

Foxy and Harley don't know it.

Both have lymphoma, the third most common killer of dogs. Untreated, a dog will usually die within two months of the diagnosis.

Cancer! I didn't even know dogs got this insidious disease until I felt a lump on Foxy's groin. She was splayed on her back, legs spread promiscuously when I saw the golf ball-sized aberration. It wasn't there the day before.

"A fatty tumor," my friend, Patty, another devoted dog mother, assured me. "Have the vet check it just to be sure."

So on a sunny Saturday morning last spring, my vet gently broke the news over the phone. If Foxy has to have cancer, he tells me, then lymphoma is one of the better ones. It's not curable, but it's treatable.

Bartering With God

Thus began our journey to keep this partnership going just a little bit longer. I started bartering with God, lighting candles to the saints, avoiding cracks in sidewalks. Help me help her beat this, I pleaded.

When you get a puppy, or in my case, a year-old abandoned dog, no one tells you they come with an expiration date. You don't think of what's ahead while you're enjoying the adventure.

But age has a way of creeping up quickly on our dogs. When I was 49, Foxy was 7 — technically, we were the same age. Two mature women, brimming with knowledge and experience, but still capable of turning on the after-burner for some excitement and thrills.

She got a little gray around the muzzle. I color my hair. We both take Glucosamine for our joints.

We understand each other's moods and accept each other's quirks (she likes to chew on ice; I can't sleep without a fan). She is my best friend, my closest companion, the love of my life. Particularly since I opted to pursue a profession and bypass the baby thing. We are each other's family.

Resistance Was Futile

I saw her picture on a flier put together by her rescuer. A red mutt of mixed origin left on the street after her first owner bolted. She had six puppies and, like me, she wasn't so maternal. She looked forlorn, sitting behind a fence. Her oversized ears were slightly askew.

"I'm Foxy. I weigh about 50 pounds and I love to jog. Will you give me or one my puppies a home?"

I had no business owning a dog. I had two independent cats who didn't mind so much that I'm always on the go. But something about this dog weakened me. Maybe it was time to grow up and assume a little responsibility. I went to meet her in person, and she did that thing that she still does today: She locked her limpid brown eyes with mine.

I couldn't escape her spell. We were bound. It has been 10 years now.

On our first night together, it was eerie sharing space with such a needy creature. She kept tabs on my whereabouts, following me from room to room. I drew the line: You will not sleep in bed with me. She stared back. Then a bolt of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a roll of thunder. She leaped into my bed and that was that.

Foxy and I have been good for each other. She got a human companion who put her needs first; I got a loyal friend who made me the center of her universe. With my friend Ed, she got a bonus. Since he works at home, I drop her off daily. When I travel, she has a second home. No boarding kennel for this mutt.

Ed takes her to dog-friendly restaurants and business appointments. He even takes her flying in his Cessna 210; she wears the first officer's shirt he had made by a Korean tailor.

She makes frequent trips to his family cabin in North Carolina, where she romps up and down the mountain by day and chases fireflies by night. Not bad for a dog who once slept under a car.

Now, Foxy has a vet specializing in oncology. She gets chemotherapy nearly every week, except when her white blood cell count is too low. Dogs are typically far more tolerant of this treatment than humans; she hasn't thrown up or lost her luxurious coat. Except for a shaved band around her legs where they stick in the IV and a lower resistance to infections, she's sailing through.

But they can't cure the disease. They can only hold it in check for a while. I feel for swollen nodes daily. I worry a lot.

"Foxy doesn't know she has cancer," says her vet, Stacy Santoro. "But she does know when you're depressed."

So when I feel like crying, when I start obsessing on the eventual loss of my best friend, I go into the bathroom, shut the door and turn on the shower. I can wail with abandon in this noisy, private space.

But not for long. Foxy scratches at the door. She misses me, and wants to know how I'm doing. So I collect myself and put on a happy face.

It's a powerful thing, this dog love. Don't leave me yet. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready.

Share this:

Loading Comments...

Email Print

ADVERTISEMENT