Buster, 2000 - 2012

He looked up into A.’s eyes as he went.

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After slow but steady improvement, Buster’s health took a quick and decisive turn for the worst Friday night. Belle, A., and I went down first thing Saturday morning and spent some time with him, loving on him, calling him all his many nicknames. Then we let him go.

It is the hardest thing I have ever done.

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Buster. Silly Goose. Goose. Orange-headed Goose. Damn Goose. Buster Butt. Orange-headed Mutt. Damn Mutt. Super Mutt. Littlest Boy. Little Guy. My Baby.

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I remember exactly when I fell in love with Buster. We were snuggling close, and I was petting the back of his neck. His hair changed from super soft orange to soft orange and black to course black and blond. I was studying the different colors and textures.

If anyone hurts a single hair on your body, I will kill them. The thought came to me clear as day and as genuine as a sunrise. I loved every single hair on that dog and every breath he took.

Buster was simply the sweetest dog. There is not other way to describe him, cliche as it may be. He was 100% love and innocence. He was the epitome of a good dog. He was perfect. Really. He trusted everyone. He was so loyal. My goodness, it warmed my heart to see how much he loved A. Buster would look me right in the eye and just love me.  His big, beautiful, incredibly dark brown eyes, rimmed in black. I am so glad A. was his daddy. Anyone less tender and kind could have really hurt Buster.

Buster just wanted to be with the people. (Though kids? Not so much.) He always wanted pets and loves. He’d stick his nose under your arm or hand and nudge you for pets. His ears were the softest I’d ever felt. That was his favorite spot. If you rubbed his ear just right he’d lean in and moan. He was a champion snuggler. He’d curl up with us, right in our armpits. He’d have his nose one inch from my face and snuggle in for a long session of cuddles. He’d sleep on my feet. He always let out a big sigh when he was settled in for the night.I miss the weight of him so, so much.

We always teased him, saying he wasn’t very bright, but that is not actually true. He was a very quick learner. He figured out to tip over the auto-waterer thing when it was almost empty. He’d just take a paw and knock it over, matter-of-factly.

His favorite place in the house was a spot where the sun shined just right in front of the wood stove. He’d just lay there and cook himself, happy as can be.

When he was happy and content he would roll over on his back and squiggle and scratch, using of his hind legs to really get some momentum going. He’d stand back up and shake, then pant and grin at us.

I could go on and on. I loved everything about this dog.

I am not used to talking about him in the past tense.

I feel like I am still supposed to go to Fort Collins and pick him up. How is he just gone? Just like that? I watched him go. I knew the very instant he was gone. It literally took my breath away.  I just don’t believe it. And, yet, I have cried for days straight. I cry at the slightest mention of him or when I look at the places he liked to nap. I look outside our window and can imagine him trotting around, just as I’d seen him do just days ago.

How is he just gone? I am so very, very sad.

Friday Five

1. I am exhausted. Basically, on Wednesday night it seemed that we would be saying bye to Buster if his health did not improve within a couple of days. Of course, he woke up perky the next morning. (Yay!!! Roller coasters are fun!) It was a tiny improvement, but it meant a lot to me. Wednesday night he didn't really care I was there to visit. He did not attempt to get out of his crate to see me, or go outside or anything. Thursday he walked to his potty appointments and up to me and was perky-ish. He did not wag his tail, but he definitely paid attention to me. 


He is slooooowly improving and is not out of the woods yet. I have been working half days and driving to Fort Collins for 15-minute visits with Buster. Totally worth it. I even brought Belle yesterday and they set it up so she could visit him, too! I am telling you, the CSU Vet Teaching Hospital is fucking fantastic.


2. Apparently, the Universe did not think I was freaking out enough about the well-being of dogs. When Belle and I were walking up to the hospital entrance yesterday we had to make way for the Humane Society van. They were unloading a hurt dog for emergency treatment. Oh, hello. My heart is dead now, thanks. 


My mind raced through all the possible worst-case scenarios of how this poor pup came to be in this sad situation and I walked in to the hospital crying. I had left the day before crying. 


I am a real treat to be around, lately.


3. So, this extended (and unexpected) puppy hospital stay has put a rather large DENT in our budget. LARGE. 


But I still want my new dryer!!! (Insert self-pitying sniffle here.)


What do I do, Internet? Keep the dryer or return it? It hasn't even been delivered yet, so I am sure returning it won't be a problem.


4. My heart is so heavy for A. He loves Buster so much and is so, so tender toward him. It is amazing. And heart-wrenching.


5. On the drive home last night, a car came up on me really fast and then passed me on a two-lane highway with a double yellow line! I was so pissed! I flipped the driver off.


It was a highway patrol.


Oopsies.


Happy Friday to you!

So many cycles!

In other frustrating news, over the weekend I bought myself a brand-spankin' new dryer to replace ours that has not been drying worth a damn for a few months. It takes nearly two to three hours to dry a moderately-sized load of laundry. Uncool. 


On Saturday, I’d had enough. I replaced the venting tube, dismantled the damn dryer and vacuumed every possible hiding place for lint to build up. I felt empowered and kick ass as I tore apart an appliance that could electrocute me. (Yes, I unplugged it first.) 


Still no improvement.

So. I decided to buy myself a new dryer. I did not want to mess with having someone come out and maybe put in a new heating element or some such. If I was going to spend that much money, I wanted a new goddamn dryer. (For those who may not know me well, I agonize for weeks over spending $40. So to just buy a dryer on a whim? Uncharacteristic.)


I marched downtown and bought a dryer. For me. A dryer. For me. New and shiny. It arrives on Thursday.
I have never owned a new washer or dryer. Or a new dishwasher or fridge. I have to admit, I am really, really excited for this new dryer! It is huge and fancy. It is not one of those super fancypants front-loading pretty ones, but it is still pretty spiffy. It has more options than our current machine, which offers HOT or LOW and that is it. What about medium? Why no medium?


It can sanitize. You guys! I use microcloths to clean everything in the house - including the toilet (not the inside of the bowl, but everything else). To know that I can sanitize those fuckers before using them again DELIGHTS ME TO NO END. 


[Cleaning info tangent: Currently, I wash the cloths in hot water, then again in cold water with bleach. Normally, I would dry them on HOT AS HELL as well, to kill any leftover grossness. I have a designated set of cloths for the toilet, because I was never convinced they would be clean enough to use for anything else. Even if this new dryer does sanitize, I am still not ever using them on the kitchen counters. GROSS. The end.)


Yesterday, I went out back with Belle. As we were returning to the house I noticed the dryer vent on the outside of the house. I was convinced it was a rigid plastic vent and so never bothered to check it while searching for the cause of the dryer shittiness. But, no.It is not rigit, it is flexible. It is some flimsy metal dealio. That was squished against the house.*


Huh.


A. pried it open for me, and removed a couple of clumps of lint I'd missed.


I put in another load of laundry to see if the dryer worked any better. I hoped, silently, that the dryer would still be a piece of shit. At the sound of the buzzer, I slowly opened the dryer door, dreading what I might find.


The clothes were dry and piping hot within 35 minutes.


Damn it. I wanted my fancy new dryer. But I suppose the responsible thing to do is to return it, seeing as how I have a dryer that works pretty damn well, apparently.


But I don't want to. I am thisclose to pouting. For real.


Our budget has no wiggle room right now with Buster's treatment and the oodles of tests and whatnot he had to get diagnosed with lymphoma. We rarely have wiggle room as it is. I am usually quite okay with this. I have never been in a place in my life where I have extra money to spend on things for fun rather than necessity. Rather, growing up and for nearly all of adulthood I have not had extra money for fun stuff. We've been a bit more comfortable lately, before the Buster Cancer. I have a hard time buying stuff for myself. But that is another post for another day.


I try really hard not to let myself want things, as I usually cannot have them. This usually works.


But, damn. Once I let go of that hesitation and guilt and just BOUGHT MYSELF A FANCY THING, I do not want to give it back.


Anyone need a dryer? Do you know of a family who is in a dire financial situation who needs a dryer? I will gladly give them mine. So I not feel like an asshole about keeping the shiny new appliance.




* Also another story for another post: We figured out the dryer vent got smooshed in when A. FELL OF THE ROOF and hit it. He was fine, but damn.

Feeling Helpless

(Please forgive the state of the grammar and spelling throughout - I just don’t care to edit today.)

I will try not to drown you in details. There are many, as we went through two weeks of unenlightening vet visits and test and whatnot to figure out what was going on with Buster. But first! He is still with us!

Buster has lymphoma.

We made many, many more trips to the vet and were finally sent to the Colorado State University Veterinary Teaching Hospital. (Excellent institution, if you ever find yourself needing their services. Also, not nearly as expensive as you might assume.) After more ultrasounds and aspirates, the folks at CSU determined he has Stage 4b Lymphoma.

The good news, is that 95% of dogs treated for this go into remission and get another year or so of happy, healthy, comfy living.

So, we decided to go with the most aggressive treatment. It is not nearly as horrid a process as that which humans undergo. He might feel a little nauseated or have a bit of diarrhea for a day or two. He has actually tolerated chemo quite well, so far. He gets one treatment a week for three weeks, then a week off for a total of 15 treatments.

His appetite has returned, and he was getting stronger. He looks much, much happier. He is still too skinny. He hangs out with us and goes for short walks around the house. He wags his tail and suns his belly on the front lawn. He trots over to me when he hears me opening a treat bag. These are all improvements.

A. took Buster down to Fort Collins today for his third chemo treatment. Upon arrival, his vet thought his breathing was labored and admitted him into critical care. They are measuring his vitals and will likely do another chest x-ray. This completely blindsided me. I guarantee he has not had any labored breathing, at least at home. (And I watch this dog obsessively for any signs of change - of whatever sort. I have an entire binder I created to keep all his discharge papers and prescription info, and I write a daily journal entry of every damn minute detail of his behaivor. I am a pain in the ass! I am THAT PERSON!)

If they don’t think he is strong or well enough, they will postpone this chemo treatment for at least another week. While I don’t want him being treated if it could further kick his ass, I also want the cancer to be attacked! Don’t let the cancer have a week off!

You guys. We only agreed to do this because it seemed to make him feel so much better. My heart is breaking all over again. We won’t put him through treatment if it doesn’t make him feel better. That is all we want.

He is so sweet. I am not ready to let him go, dammit. But, I suppose I never will.

Pro tip: Elderly Dog Owners Should Only Wear Waterproof Mascara

Oh, my. Buster is putting A. and I through an emotional wringer. 


He stopped eating again. Friday's visit to the vet involved phrases such as "last resort," exploratory surgery," and "get emotionally prepared."


A. and I were to discuss whether we wanted to have the vet perform exploratory surgery on Buster, and what to do depending on what she found. Do we wake him up, or say goodbye?


I was a fucking mess on Friday. So was A.


Buster continued to get weaker and weaker. The dark, dark color of his diarrhea scared both A. and I into immediately thinking he was dying. I mean, it was one of those instances where you just know what you are seeing is wrong. (Although, he has had no accidents inside; he still asks to "go outside to go potty.")


So we took him to another vet on Saturday (because they were open. And maybe because I wanted another opinion.). I asked the new vet to do a complete exam, blood work and an ultrasound on his belly.


Again, his blood work came back perfect. The only thing she found on the ultrasound was his spleen looks slightly enlarged, but she could not find any masses, pockets, or fluid in his belly. His coat is shiny and soft. His eyes are bright. His tongue is pink and his gums are healthy. She did not see any reason to rush into immediate surgery, and thought he was healthy enough to try and give a cocktail of meds some time to make him comfortable.


Good? Bad? What is wrong with my baby?


The second vet has him on steroids, a morphine derivative, antacid and nausea pills for the next few days. The concoction seems to be helping him feel better. Buster eats his treats and spits out the pills, so I have been prying open his jaw and shoving them down his throat. He loves me. 


The meds seem to be helping keep him more comfortable. He is eating treats like nobody's business, but still has no interest in food in his bowl. He trots over when he hears the word "treat" and enthusiastically gobbles them up, then looks up in anticipation for more. 


Yesterday, he trotted around outside with us for well over a half an hour, wagging his tail and looking much perkier. But he is still not near his normal, happy self.


Then, last night, he started panting heavily and kept asking to go outside every hour. He would try to poop, but couldn't. Is he constipated from too many treats? Is there some sort of fucking tumor pushing on his belly and innards making him feel like he has to poop, but of course, can't? Do we get biopsies? Are those possible without major surgery? Do we do major surgery? If it is early cancer, do we treat him? Jesus Fucking Christ, I am losing my mind.


And I know that A. is going through hell. He is so tender and caring and loves this dog so much.  He just wants to make him happy and do what is right for him. It is killing him that he can't just make it better for Buster, like he always does.


I am so frustrated and scared and sad. I am scared to be optimistic. I am scared not to be.

Attachment Disorder

I am always on a mission to remove clutter from the house. I moved to DC on an airplane and shipped my books. I moved back to Wyoming on an airplane and shipped my books (and my nicer kitchen things, CDs and photos). I am pretty good at not getting too attached to things. 


It is so much easier not to have stuff.Before, my extracurricular activities did not generally require props. Now, my hobbies require things like fly rods. Before I just required cash to go out for drinks, dinners, symphonies, plays, etc. A.'s hobbies come with entire ice shanties, a bazillion ice-fishing poles and do dads, rifles, vests, blinds, ETC. So, my lifestyle has changed enough that it follows that my physical environment has also changed.


But. I am itching to just really overhaul the whole house


A. is relatively on board with my decluttering and helps often, though he is not willing to go as minimalist as I think I want to go. And I do have to give him plenty of credit - he has gone through most of his stuff and whittled his possessions down to a fraction of what he'd been holding on to prior. Now I am trying to REALLY force myself to look at my stuff and see what else I can get rid off.


My goal: A comfortable space that is easy on the eyes and easy to (keep) clean. A place for everything and everything in its place (without having to first move 18 other things to put/get it in/from its place).


Here is my conundrum of the day: I have some really nice 9-inch cake round pans. I have not made a round cake in, oh, seven years? I am rather miserable at leveling off the cakes, frosting them and generally having them look presentable. I should probably give the pans away, yes? But they are of fantastic quality. They feel so, so good in your hands. And they bake up delightful cakes without any scorching.  I also have a really high quality bundt pan that I use about once a year. Ok. I use it maybe once every two years. It, too, is great quality but was also a gift from a very close friend. It, too, turns out great cakes.


A. and I do not bake cakes too often. (Not because I don't love cake; I do.) With just the two of us, we either gorge on cake for a few days and feel horrible, or we are reasonable about it and then I have to toss a brick of a cake out a week later. I work for a nutrition program, so bringing in half of the cake for my co-workers doesn't work so well. My co-workers generally follow what we preach and don't regularly eat sweets. I would still end up throwing much of it away.


Maybe I should start attending a local Lutheran church so I can bake cakes for the coffee hour after services.


Or maybe I can freeze half the cakes> Do cakes freeze well? Pre-frosted?


Anyway. All of these lovely, heavy, gorgeous cake pans take up a helluva lot of space in my over-crowded kitchen cabinets. If I had more space freed up in my cabinets I could store the rest of my small appliances out of site and off my counters. 


What is more important - keeping these high-quality baking pans or having a clear counter? I think I want the clear counters more.


Oh, man. I think I am going to get rid of them. 


How do you do it? Do you have ample storage? Do you have items on your counters, and do you mind? Do you have lots of gadgets, pans, etc.? Should I just stick to boring rectangular cakes and call it good?


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Quick Buster Update:

Buster's x-rays came back fine. There are no suspicious masses or a plugged up Buster belly. The vet prescribed him some super stinky, mushy canned food and he ate that with a bit of enthusiasm. Now he is back on the "recovery" blah food and is not too interested. 


He is also on pain meds, because over the course of positioning him for the x-rays, his yelps confirmed that arthritis has set in. (My heart broke with every little yelp. The vet would run in my room and tell me what caused the yelp and that he is better. She is very sweet.)


It is amazing, and perhaps pathetic, how much this furry, goofy creature means to me. I wish he could talk and tell me what is going on.  I am hoping that once the pain meds have been in his system for a while he will perk up