Vet's day = Good Day

Contrary to our often somber mood about Chester, he's still kickin' and kickin' in a lively fashion.

He's developed a sore under his belly, right next to his penis. A gaping hole, actually, so we took him in to see our friendly neighborhood vet, Dr. Jones, a lovely gay man with a gravelly voice.

In order for Chester to see the vet he must be muzzled lest he take off sweet Dr. Jones' face or hand or nose or elbow. Then, just how I used to hold a sheep when the vet came for a checkup, I brace Chester against my body, his muzzle in the palm of my strong right hand, my left arm wrapped around his chest.

At first, the old guy submits, leans right into me and relaxes, calm and submissive like the Dog Whisperer encourages. Then, as the vet pokes around a bit, the growling starts, then the jerking to get his muzzled teeth around the doctor's ear or chin. But I hold on, not as firmly as you might think, but firm enough to let Chester know he will not get loose.

The doc shaved Chester's underbelly, pulling at mats that have developed because of his nightly diaper (for his incontinence) and his bulging fatty tumor that sits just to the right of his penis and, in fact, makes his penis point sideways. (On a windy day, Chester can spray a mighty mile!)

We talked with the vet about Chester's progress and this is what he said:
1. He's amazingly still alive.
2. There is some neurological damage to his back legs (he bent up his feet and they stayed like that until eventually, they straightened out).
3. His heart murmur is a bit worse, but doesn't seem to be doing anything other than making him tired if he walks too long.
4. In generally, he's in good shape for a dog with a brain tumor and a gaping infected hole under his belly.

Bad news? Just a bit...the gaping hole could be an infection or it could be cancer. We'll know in about a week or two if he responds to the antibiotics.

When we are alone with Chester, we worry that perhaps we are keeping him alive because it is too hard to imagine our lives without him. Today, in fact, I realized that I haven't cried much because I know how much energy that kind of crying is going to require and frankly, I don't want to require it of myself until I really have to. Also I know that the last time I cried like that I was immersed deep in a heavy state of depression. I always want to keep the depression at bay, but I have yet to learn how to cry meaninfully and not let the sadness overcome my saneness.

Perhaps this is yet another lesson Chester is offering me.

So we worry and wonder exactly when is when and will we know when the when is the right when.

But then we go to the vet, bracing ourselves for bad news and Chester prances in because he knows he's going to get treats from the receptionist, treats from the vet tech, treats from lovely Dr. Jones (despite all the poking, prodding, shaving, and examining), and we realize how very alive Chester really is.

I need to spend more time enjoying that.

Of course...we must now put on an "Elizabethan Collar" or lampshade (as I call it) on his head tonight so he doesn't lick the sore spot under his belly.

We tried to put it on at the vet. Not a good idea. He snapped and snarled and looked like a fighting bull, crouching his body back against the wall ready to strike if we pressed any harder.

We'll see if we have better luck tonight.

So, as always, we wait...will he respond to the meds or won't he? Will he have another series of seizures or won't he (it's been 6 weeks since the last ones)?

But every day he is our lesson in the NOW...in pleasure and patience, in whimsy and in rest.

He is still a joy and still ready to be here with us now...we must and can only do the same.