Sick as a Dog

Nicholai has been eating skanky things for almost a decade now. I figure with his superior canine nose – a nose that could sniff out cancer – he won't eat anything too dangerous. For a long time, it played out exactly that way.

My birthday comes in early December. This year, the morning dawned icy cold and a layer of frost covered the garden (my poor greens huddled under a plastic cover), the lawn, and my Subaru's windshield. No matter, the sun was poking its head from behind the clouds and a long walk on the beach of the Columbia seemed a perfect way to start another year of life on this crazy planet. I herded the dogs into the car, scraped the window clear, and we were off.

The morning was spectacular with a wide blue sky and a striking view of Mt. Hood. Frost clung to each blade of yellowed grass, each tall weed, and the bare branches of the cottonwood trees, giving the landscape a twinkle. When we arrived at the beach of the Columbia River, a flock of seagulls sat on a spit of sand, the sun glinting off their white bodies and sparkling on the water. I felt like I had hiked into a National Geographic photo. I stood soaking up the vista, taking deep breaths, feeling fortunate to be here. Like Nicholai, I have had a cancer diagnosis. Like Nicholai, I have lived far past the dire predictions.

The dogs raced off to chase the seagulls into the air, ruining the pristine photo moment. They roamed the beach, sniffing who-knows-what and dropping out of sight momentarily. I have become accustomed to their wanderings, and Nicholai has trained me not to fear his culinary indiscretions; I mean, if the nutria didn't kill him, what would? After a couple of moments, I called them to me. The girls – Izzy and Kelley – soon joined me, but Nicholai stayed out of sight. I trust him, so I gave a holler – "Nicholai –Hey, hey!" and began the trek back toward the woods and trail, knowing he would follow when he was ready. Our hike was a delight, I couldn't have thought of a better start to a birthday and I didn't give another thought to what Nicholai might have been doing on the beach, out of my sight.

Two days later, I headed the opposite direction for a short early walk where the Willamette River meets the Columbia. Nicholai seemed needy, whining at me twice and hopping into the car too willingly at the end of our short jaunt. When I pulled the car into the driveway at home and opened the door, he didn't jump out as usual, just laid on the back seat. Hmm, I thought, that's odd. Maybe he was hoping to accompany me on my next errand, still . . .

For six hours, Nicholai lay in the back seat. Several times I went to talk to him, to offer him breakfast, to encourage him to hop out of the car and come into the house. "Come on buddy," I coaxed. He refused everything, his eyes slightly glazed. I backed the car out of the shade and into the sun, as temperatures were still low. I covered Nicholai with a blanket and then I began to panic. Was this the beginning of the end?

I called the vet's office, explained the situation, and asked for an appointment. When the veterinarian examined Nicholai the next day, he was alarmed by the increase in lymph swelling. I described Nicholai's malaise of the day before and his refusal of breakfast again. For a boy who eats everything from whole loaves of zucchini bread to still wiggling voles, refusal of food had me deeply concerned. Feeling that this sudden downturn indicated a worsening of the lymphoma and nothing else, the vet recommended a wait-and-see-approach before pursuing more draconian measures. My chest felt heavy, my stomach tight. I couldn't get my head around such a sudden change in status. How could my boy go from intrepid hiker one day, to "sick as a dog" the next? I took him home to wait and see, but something bothered me, something didn't fit. I just couldn't figure what it was.