The Cone of Shame

Last week, I told our vet that I might as well move into his clinic. He looked at me strangely, but nodded his head slowly. In the last month, I have spent more time with Belle's vet than I have with some of my friends. The poor old girl has had a huge lump in her foot for about three years, and I have had it repeatedly checked. It grew even larger and more oddly shaped lately, though, and since my old vet (literally) was struggling to walk across the room this last year, I decided it was time to seek a new one. This young guy (by young I mean my age) took a sample of the thing taking over her paw and his demeanor instantly changed from friendly and chatty to all business. He scheduled Belle for surgery; within a few days he did the deed and described it as one of the most violent surgeries he'd ever done on a dog's foot. The tumor was invading her bones, and to fully get it all, he had to deform the side of her paw just a little bit. The fist sized mass was sent off for biopsy and sure enough, it was a mast cell tumor, which moves like a biochemical weapon through bodies. It was only at stage I, so we caught it in time. But the bad news was that another one popped up on her leg just a week after the surgery and her bandaged foot wouldn't stop leaking something. It was some weird fluid that just gushed through her padding, bandages, socks and all over my floor. Every chance she got, she pulled those things off and started working on suture removal. Everything, it seemed, was messing with her foot healing. Age, Belle herself, the fact that the wound was on a foot, which a dog cannot stay off of, and some unidentified fluid. It was becoming a time sensitive matter - the vet could not remove tumor #2 until tumor #1 healed fully. Daily, I dragged that quivering dog back to the vet, who finally threw the cone of shame of her head. She's now been wearing it for two weeks, all of her dignity stripped from her. After suffering an infection that went septic and a bit of dermatitis, I think we're finally on the upswing. Her paw is now almost healed, just in time for surgery number two next week. Jon and I have decided that this is it. No more surgeries after this one. For me, caring for a pet means looking out for their quality of life. If that declines permanently, the kind thing for us to do is to help her move on.

Jon and I have been reflecting on Belle's gentle nature while we watch her bumble around and stumble into walls, and he made the statement that all three of my pets have been some kind of reflection on my personality. Looking at Belle, I took that as an enormous compliment. She's happy and perky, sunny, always forgiving, deeply loyal, makes friends with everyone, blonde and adventurous. She would rather ride the Sea-Doo or swim more than almost anything in the world, just like me. But I flipped that around a bit, too. She is also obsessive, wants food all of the time, smells bad, like old carpet - even after a bath, digs through the trash, and steals toys from small children. And that habit of greeting people at the door with Jon's dirty underwear in her mouth? I don't do that.

Then there is Sammy the cat, who is so laid back that at least once a day I think she's dead and check to see if she's breathing. She purrs every second that she's awake, which granted is only about 22 minutes a day, but it's a glorious 22 minutes. She is calming, trusting, and content and spends her waking moments traveling from one sunbeam to another. But she's also the dumbest living creature I've ever known, and while walking across the room will stop mid stride and pause for five minutes while she remembers where the heck she is. She will eventually start meowing for help, but that's just pathetic as her meow is broken due to all the times she's forgotten where she was going. She also has that sneezing habit, which is so gross I can barely discuss it. Let's just say that it's good I'm her owner. Many a night I have been awakened with a sneeze shower from that cat and have to get up and wipe my face off three or four times to get it all. When I paint my house, getting a washable paint is crucial not because of Marin but because I have to be able to wipe cat goobers off of my walls. Further proof of her disgusting nature is that she has not had a bath since Jonah died. He used to try to snuggle up with her, but would sniff her, grimace, and start cleansing her with furious vigor. After an hour or so, he could relax, curl up with her, and fall asleep. With his death, her clean days are long gone. Am I like Sammy? Well, I do sneeze, but I keep kleenex on hand. I bathe daily, not once every two years.

And Jonah was just rotten. He was smart, wicked, vengeful, pesky, had kitty insomnia, a passion for grooming everyone around him, a distaste for bad smells, and a deep distrust for everyone except me. Were he a person, he would have been a finicky, meticulous housekeeper, keeping all things in their rightful place. That cat also loved to mess with people. My whole family witnessed him pull off an E.T. with the stuffed animals thing successfully. However, for his nice qualities - when no one was looking, he was so loving and affectionate it was almost embarrassing, he competed with Belle in the loyalty category, and had a keen radar for danger, bad weather, and creepy people.

I asked Jon how he meant that I am like all of my pets, and he just smiled and said "Roll them all up into one, and there you are." A compliment or should I too don the cone of shame for resembling my furry friends? I am choosing to take it as a good thing because as I'm watching Belle round out the end of her life, the good of sharing life with these hairballs most definitely outweighs the bad.