Nutty's Life is Slipping Away

It's with a heavy heart that I report that Nutty, our beloved Sheltie, has still not perked up.

He is sleeping most of the time, occasionally heaving himself up on his shaky old blood-stained paws to follow me about. Sometimes if I've left him downstairs sleeping, he will wake up and drag himself up the narrow wooden stairs to find me.

He has barely eaten anything in the last few days although I've tempted him with freshly cooked chicken and Lily's organic chicken and turkey sachets (which he normally loves). I've resorted to syphoning Daylesford's excellent Scotch Broth into his mouth which he seems to like well enough. At least that will give him some nourishment. His mouth tumour, (squamous cell carcinoma, to give it it's horrible title) is about the same. It's distressing how people turn in the street and stare with horror as he perambulates past in his pram, it does look very gory, it's true.

When we take him to the park he finds it hard to walk, he is so fragile, the smallest gust of wind will blow him over. Boyfriend on a Short Fuse is quietly devastated, he bottles it all up whereas I sob at the slightest opportunity. Friends say I am being `very brave' but I'm not, I have always been emotionally incontinent, although in recent years have embraced my family's stiff upper lip, but now I have returned to my old weepy form. Better out than in I suppose.

I felt calmer after chanting with some friends this afternoon. Dear Julie came by with 2 beautiful bunches of scented stocks. She is so thoughtful and it gave me such a lift.

Friends are very understanding. They know that grief is grief, whether it is for a dog or person. Losing Nutty is far, far worse than losing my mother or my grandparents, something I find quite surprising. But many people say they felt the same. Because love for your pet is unconditional and how many people do you love unconditionally? None in my case. I loved my father unconditionally up to the age of about 30 when he toppled off his pedestal, no great reason for that, just growing up I suppose.

So tonight my heart is heavy and my legs feel that they are full of lead. I am reassured that Nutty has had the most wonderful doggie life, most of them spent with his beloved sibling in the bucolic Surrey Hills, with acres of land to run free in and the last 4 years with us in London. Not so much land to run around in, but we made up for that by lavishing him with all the love in the world and the best food money could buy. Nothing is too good for my beloved Nutty but I must be brave and think about saying goodbye because he is worn out and tired and ready to go fairly soon.

Nutty's tumour grows bigger

I haven't written for quite a while as my beloved Sheltie Nutty's mouth tumour (it's full horrible title is squamous cell carcinoma) shrank considerably and I was lulled into a sense of security about his long-term prognosis.

But I am sad to report that over the last few weeks the tumour started to grow again, though fortunately outside his mouth instead of inside, as it had previously done. At least he can still drink and he's enjoying his food and his walks. But the tumour is swollen and bulbous and he drips blood everywhere. I carry tissue around, stuffed in my bra, all the time to mop up after him. Yet the vets and my psychic insist he is not in pain. He doesn't seem to be suffering, so I will take their word for it as there is no point pumping him with pain killers unless he needs them.

Talking of medications, Boyfriend-on-a-Short-Fuse has been quite up and down of late. This morning he was in a terrible mood. Was it very dreadful of me to slip half a Valium into his porridge? It seemed to work a treat and today he has been calm and happy. But I wonder if it is illegal to foster drugs on people without their knowledge? The last time I was involved in this sort of terrible activity was 30 years ago in Verbier when some bad men in our skiing party slipped dope into a very dull girl's soup. It cheered her up no end. Do not try this at home, etc etc.

But back to my beloved Nutty. I'll never give up and I'm keeping up with all his treatments. C recommended he see her healer, who has really helped her, so I'm making an appointment as soon as he can tear himself away from his stall at the Mind Body and Spirit Exhibition. Why someone of his calibre wants to exhibit at that pulsating hell-hole of spiritual shoppers and desperadoes, I have no idea. I speak as a reformed spiritual shopper you understand.

We had a terrible moment in the park with Nutty today. I am trying to exercise a bit as the less exercise I do, the more weight I lose, I'm getting far too skinny. So I was doing a hand stand against a tree and as I kicked up I knocked Nutty's jaw. He was right behind me but I had not seen him. He cried out, a terrible whimpering, all the more terrible as he is so stoic and that is the first time I have ever heard him cry. I came down straightaway and to my horror, he was shying away, his mouth a mass of blood. His tumour had split open and a piece of it was hanging from his mouth....

Can anything be more terrible than hurting an innocent creature? Why didn't I look behind me? If only I could have gone back in time and checked. We all walked home feeling dreadful but Nutty, tough little soldier that he is, seemed to buck up. When we got home he polished off a plate of fresh chicken and seemed no worse for his ordeal.

10 hours later the wound now looks as it did before, a black and bloody mess, but it is not bleeding and he seems in good spirits. Click clacking around the flat on his little white fluffy paws as he follows me around.

And so we all soldier on. Please pray for my lovely old boy who has never had a bad thought in his life and is so kind to all dogs and people. Even when the Bichons gobble his food he is easy-going and equable. `C'est la vie', he seems to say as he staggers away and leaves them to it.

I Drink a Little More and I Cry a Little More

Much of the colour has been sucked out of my life but I still enjoy a glass of champagne. Very much. When the witching hour arrives (6pm on the dot) I dart to the fridge, unearth a bottle of whatever is open, grab a glass from the cupboard and oh what a relief. Pop, fizz, pour. Ah, relief.

I'm not hung up on the time. Sometimes I will wait till 5 minutes past 6.

Usually a bottle will last 3 days, which isn't bad. Or maybe it is. I really couldn't care. I was teetotal until I was 30 and didn't have much energy back then and often found socializing pretty dull. SInce I have embraced steady, moderate drinking I get fewer colds, have more energy and every evening a great treat awaits. How I love my fizz.

But since Nutty's diagnosis of squamous cell carcinoma (oral cancer) I drink a little bit more ... and I cry much, much more. My drinking is still controlled but a bottle will last me just over 2 days, which means on the the third day I finish a slither in the bottom of the bottle before opening a new bottle. At times like this I wish I could drink even more to be honest, oblivion would be heaven, but it goes against the grain to do anything exessively. Except cry of course, I cry excessively. All the time. At the drop of a hat.

Later in the evening, when things have calmed down, I sit on the stairs and drink up the sight of Nutty. He slowly perambulates towards me before sitting down with a sigh at the foot of the staircase.

I suck out the beauty of him as if the next moment will be our last. My beautiful, beautiful boy, who I love more than anything else in the world. How lucky I am to have found such love although the thought of losing it tears my heart apart. My heart is choked with tears, it feels like a big wet bomb bursting out of my chest, about to detonate at any moment.

We watch each other for a while before I turn away and walk up the stairs to bed. He follows loyally behind, click, click, paws against the wooden floors, before sinking gratefully onto his fluffy rug and falling asleep.

When I wake up in the morning his mouth will be thick with matted blood and there will be a trail of crimson drops on the stairs.

The Worst Day of My Life...

 February 28 2013

Today we had the devastating news that our beloved 15-year-old Sheltie, Nutty, has cancer of the mouth.

It started off an ordinary, perfectly pleasant day.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse noticed yesterday that there was a bit of blood dotted about on the floor and we thought one of the dogs might have a scratch and weren’t too worried. Then he looked in Nutty’s mouth and noticed he had a pink bleeding growth around the teeth in his lower jaw.

His appetite has been good and he is drinking normally (although he always drinks rather a lot), he is in good spirits and wagging his tail as usual. So we thought it must be some sort of abscess or tooth infection.

I rang the homeopathic vet but he had just left so we took him down to the conventional vet in Elizabeth Street. While Boyfriend on a Short Fuse was waiting with Nutty, I popped into the off licence next door. At this point I wasn’t too worried and joked to the assistant, `I’m taking my dog to the vet, so if it’s bad news I’ll need a glass of champagne and if it’s good news I’ll need a glass of champagne’ (shades of Mrs Bollinger).

Imagine my horror when she diagnosed squamous cell carcinoma (a type of mouth cancer). I am no longer the public weeper I used to be, I actually dislike public displays of emotion the older I get (very English), but the pain was so visceral, like a knife in my heart and I just lost control. I burst into tears and was unable to stop sobbing for hours afterwards. While I waited to pay I was sitting in the waiting room full of people, just sobbing.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse stormed off with Nutty as he hates it when I cry and everybody else studiously ignored me.

I couldn’t believe the diagnosis. Nutty has always been so lucky, somehow untouched by the ravages of illness or old age. He is a super-dog. This is so much worse than Mum dying, isn’t that odd? But I love my beloved boy more than anyone, more than boyfriend, more than family. He is my family. He has been part of our pack for over 15 years. He knew my mother and grandparents, we have so much shared history. He is always with me, his little foxy snout always smiling, never complaining, he is so stoic.

I’ve taken some Ignatia for the grief and feel a bit calmer, but it is a nightmare. We aren’t that keen on this vet so I have booked a telephone consultation with the homeopathic vet, Richard Allport, tomorrow morning.

How I pray there is a treatment, the conventional vet can only offer surgery. She advised against this as the cancer often recurs…. But oh, surely it is worth trying. He is such a strong dog.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse is doing his healing method, I am doing Reiki (I trained in it years ago and am rusty but it comes back) and we are chanting.

What else can we do?