One year

DEAD DOG WALKING – THE NICHOLAI BLOG

It's been one year. A year of long walks, hikes in the woods, swims at the river. A year I didn't think we had. A year since Nicholai was given between three months to live (without treatment) and twelve months to live (with chemotherapy and radiation). A year since Nicholai was diagnosed with cancer.

Nicholai is my main man, my canine buddy, my pack-brother, my friend. He's a 95-100 pound black dog (depending on how many pumpkin pies, loaves of bread, and slices of pizza he's snagged), reminiscent of the Hound of the Baskervilles. He's got some pitbull and maybe some Labrador or shepherd, maybe Rottweiler – who knows – in him. He hasn't always been an easy dog, protective of us and wary of strangers on his turf, but he has been a "best" dog, a one-of-a-kind dog.

Last January, I noticed swelling under his jaw. As my fingers probed in curiosity, I could feel nodules from the size of marbles to the size of a giant jawbreaker. I took a tense breath, those nodules couldn't be good. Grabbing my book of canine anatomy, I went straight to the page on lymph nodes. Using the anatomical charts as guides, I could feel little swellings in multiple locations on Nicholai. Panic started to grip me; no garden variety malaise causes lymph nodes around the body to swell. My first thought, my only thought, was cancer.

My veterinarian fit us in that week, and his immediate assessment when seeing and feeling the swellings under Nicholai's jaw, at the back of his knees, and around his shoulders concurred with my worst fear. He performed a needle biopsy and said he'd get back to me with the pathology results. As I listened to him I acted calm, but I felt woosy, as if the room drifted away from me a bit, or I from it. Biopsy, pathology, lymphoma . . . these were not words I wanted to hear associated with my canine main man.

Nicholai enjoys hikes in wild places, rolling in stinking dead things, swimming, and chasing deer. He shares my disdain for postage-stamp city dog-parks, and whines at me with impatience when I have tried to pass off a stop at one as a real walk. I couldn't picture him at weekly chemotherapy appointments, restless and annoyed at poking needles and prodding hands. The treatment would buy him an indeterminate amount of time in remission – if it worked – but would not affect a cure. In a worst case scenario, the chemical assault on his immune system would weaken him and shorten his quality time. Doctors assured me that this scenario, while possible, was not likely, but I had been up close and personal with such promises before – but I digress.

I opted for a middle route – "aggressive" alternative care, according to the vet I chose to work with. This "aggressive" care consisted of a home-made diet (already doing it), anti-oxidant vitamins, herbal tinctures, a mushroom complex, digestive enzymes, and a small dose of natural hydrocortisone (analogous to a very small dose of prednisone). This regimen was painless for Nicholai and painless for our family's pocketbook. More importantly, the treatment aimed to enhance immune function rather than tear it down.

In the initial weeks, Nicholai remained asymptomatic, all his vital signs and blood tests indicating normal function, and his energy and appetite unabated. I however, insisted on being gripped with anxiety and sadness. I hoped for a few pristine spring days, but would not let my vision of Nicholai peek past the appearance of daffodils and tulips. Soon spring gave way to summer, Nicholai continued to be robust, and I set my sights on hot weather swims and Olympic Peninsula vacations. The garden thrived, the temperatures soared over a hundred, and Nicholai kept on trucking. When the nights began to cool and the daylight to shorten, I told the vet we needed to see Halloween. Though I felt overjoyed about the summer with Nicholai, I did not really expect to get through the fall with my pack-brother still well, or even alive.

Halloween came and went. I began to threaten my vet with "writing something up" when Nicholai arrived at the one-year mark. I thought that people should have hope about their dogs diagnosed with cancer, and be informed about alternative care. I know some will say that the treatment we have given Nicholai has had no effect; it's just luck, or the "natural history" of his disease that he has survived the year. But you can be sure – I am – that if he had received standard medical treatment for cancer and survived, the doctors would take full credit, and we would all give it to them (and their magical pharmaceutical drugs).

This blog is a tribute to Nicholai, to his strength and fortitude; a salute to my dedication to provide him the best quality of life that a guardian can give; a nod to Nicholai's veterinarian for his courage to treat serious disease with non-pharmaceutical medicine. It's the story of our time together and the lessons that I am learning from my canine buddy. Nicholai is simply living – he doesn't give a damn if his days are numbered as long as they're good days; he's not counting. I'm the one who's counting, who focuses on the finite nature of our relationship, who wastes time worrying about the future, who calls my dog "Dead" before he is.

I don't know how long Nicholai will make it. His litter-mate has just been diagnosed with another kind of cancer; this month, they turn ten years old. In February, it will be a decade since Nicholai and the rest of his litter of four- week-old pups were found abandoned in the freezing rain in a Portland park. I've already learned a boatload from my big black mutt. Over the next weeks – and fortune willing, months – I will chronicle the remainder of our story.