The Continuing Adventures of Sasha's Gang--Chapter Nine

No sooner said than done, that Lucky migrated from shivering to convulsions, gagging as if he might throw up, whining as if in pain. Both wife and I searched the other’s face for answers as Lucky’s legs erratically buckled…attempting to stand but unable.

“It’s okay boy.” Spouse gently rubbed his belly to help ease his distress as I wrestled with his flailing limbs, keeping his paws from her face. “We’re right here, Lucky.” She said soothingly, words of codeine. Trying to relax him or distract him as unfamiliar surroundings seeped into his partially open eyes like hallucinations. The untimely convulsions and gagging first slowed, and then ceased, as Lucky calmed--entering the eye of a storm, his breathing steady and balanced, storm clouds evaporating.

“Hang in there, buddy,” I urged, seeking him a measure of peace in an otherwise woeful situation. He futilely attempted to lick at spouse’s hand which had migrated to the happy spot between his chin and neck as he luxuriated in her feminine touch. We must be doing something right though he still looked wobbly and untethered, eyes wandering unhurriedly as he tried to orient to the room. But much better than he was ten minutes ago. “Well that looks better,” I exclaimed, as my breathing returning to earth.

“Kinda odd,” spouse scrunched her face. “That he was nearly comatose and now he’s coming around.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

“Again, I’m not a vet,” she explained. “But I’ve seen human patients make similar recoveries…perhaps not quite this dramatic…but after a mild stroke.”

“So that’s our diagnosis.”

“No,” she snapped. “That’s our wild guess at the moment.”

“So you think he’ll be okay?”

“Dan, I haven’t the foggiest. He needs to see a vet…if any are open.” Any, if open, were likely without power and operating with skeleton crews. Even the 24/7 ER vets were operating well beyond capacity as the customers of the closed shops found their way to their overloaded practices.

Within half an hour, Lucky was sipping water and nibbling on freeze-dried liver treats, his tail slowly parading like the wave of a beauty queen. A portable radio ushered the silence out of the room as schools and most businesses closed for the day while the continuing aftershocks were still available. Nigh a holiday in many respects, except for four people losing their existence as an ancient Pioneer Square building succumbed to gravity’s decades-old patience and fatally spit up bricks. 

Mama Cass nonchalantly joined us in the puppy room where Lucky was swathed in warming blankets and hugs. Looking upon him maternally, pre-verbal tension tightened her usually placid jowls. I hadn’t noticed but Turquoise had also stealthily infiltrated the room, her humid muzzle warming my feet. Connecting with her in just a single day had nearly become second nature, a knee-jerk reaction. I hadn’t realized that my hand had without notice, landed on the top of her head, the canine network reopened.“I overheard,” Mama murmured quietly. “I don’t believe it’s a stroke.”

“Then what it is?” I volleyed, taking a plentiful breath and repeating Mama’s words to my wife. “She says she doesn’t agree it’s a stroke.”

Spouse rolled her brown eyes. “With all due respect, a stroke was a guesstimate. Not a diagnosis. So what does our learned rottweiler suspect is behind Lucky’s poor health?” A hint of professional derision.

Before a syllable of translation, Mama responded with single ice pick of a retort as she sniffed the air surrounding Lucky.: “Cancer.”

“She says cancer,” I reiterated, uncertain if there’d be a further surge in spouse’s sarcasm.

“And how on God’s green earth did she arrive at that diagnosis?” Spouse was both cynical and longing. Longing for a miracle advance in diagnostics, part and parcel to the recent medical advances associated with artificial intelligence. “So can wonder-dog here also tell us the type of cancer?”

Not a moment of hesitation. “Spleen,” Mama answered.

“Spleen,” I parroted as wife returned with our first instant coffees made with the propane hot water heater installed at the grooming stand. Even without electricity, we still enjoyed the necessities of life. Instant oatmeal was next on the menu and maybe mac n’ cheese later tonight. The radio reported that Redmond might still be two or three days away from the return of power.

“Spleen?” spouse responded with skepticism. “How could she even possibly know that?” Though she adored Mama Cass dearly, this diagnosis was challenging all credibility, even that overshadowed by surrealism.

“Smell” Mama continued with her sequence of one-word retorts. “Smell” I shared.

“Say what?” was the at-the-end-of-my-wits RN response.

And then Mama let loose with a barrage of verbal data that sounded entirely college-educated. “Yes. Smell. It’s no contest. You folks have five-million olfactory nerves packed into your noses. Those are responsible for your sense of smell.”

I relayed to spouse as Mama continued.

“You ever notice the size of a dog’s snout? Thick and elongated. You know why?” Mama hesitated not. “Because that’s where you’ll find the cranial schematic for 200-million olfactory nerves. Yes, us dogs can smell a buried cadaver a football field away. Or a cancerous tumor beneath 50 pounds of flesh…even those that remain undetected by advanced medical imaging.”

More of my Cliff Notes translations to which wife simply nods, having no further words of counsel for this multi-species debate. The darn dog seems to have an answer for everything. And hell…maybe she knows something that the nursing schools didn’t teach.

“So I know nothing about spleen cancer in dogs,” Spouse explains. “Is it terminal?”

I didn’t need to translate her words as Mama was on this like white on rice. “Most of the time…yes,” she answers. “Only because by the time they diagnose symptoms it’s usually too late. The tumor has already started bleeding out and the dog usually succumbs to the lack of blood in their system. Passing out…gums and tongue a sinister shade of blue. Oftentimes disoriented. Clumsy.”

“And is that Lucky’s condition? I asked.

“Unfortunately,” Mama answers, as the other dogs, hearing the conversation, filter slowly into the room. “Now I have read of some surgical removals of the spleen being successful since it’s not necessarily a vital organ such as the heart or liver.”

“So Lucky may still have a chance?” I speculate. With that spouse raised her eyebrows in query. I answer: “She says if caught early there may be a surgical solution.”

“Well likely we best get our hustle on,” Spouse retorted. “Imagine the sooner the better when it comes to cancer?”

“Faith is the bird that sings when the dawn is still dark,” Socrates chimed in.

“You know we lost Cherokee to spleen cancer,” Spitz added, wistfully. Cherokee had been his pit bull romance for nearly three years until she was unexpectantly taken away one morning, unable to stand and barely able to breath. All the ER vet could do was perform CPR until it proved fruitless. Heartbroken, Spitz refused to swim for nearly two years.

“Beyond our issue of extending life expectancy, a cure for canine cancer is also one of our priority projects,” Bambi added. “Sasha’s Gang is going to make a dent in this world of medicine. You just watch.”

I translated for spouse whose mobile phone was investigating spleen cancer. “There are options,” she said, “If not too late, there’s something called a splenectomy. Surgical removal of the spleen. Often life-saving since dogs can live comfortably without it.”

“So do we know if Lucky is a candidate?”

“We still don’t even know if he actually has spleen cancer,” spouse replied. “But either way, we still need to talk to a vet to determine if he does…and explore our options.”

“A vet that’s open would be beneficial as well,” I baited.

“My phone still has two bars. I’ll do some dialing for open vets,” wife declared.

“In China, they treat with acupuncture,” Ming said, having ventured out from the comfort of his warming blankets. “But that’s many oceans away.”

“It’s called hemangiosarcoma,” spouse added. “Even with surgery, odds aren’t very favorable. But I’ll start calling around.”

“On Whidbey Island, we treat as an inconvenience,”Madden says, true to his roots, the rough and tumble world of island living in the Puget Sound. He grew up on table scraps and old wives’ potions for disease control.

“Meanwhile, I’ll conjure up some human breakfast,” I said, as wife retreated to the registration desk to call. “Looks like instant oatmeal wins the hot water lottery.”

“I hurt,” Lucky muttered under his breath as he silently absorbed the pangs of pain.

“Lucky is hurting,” I shared with spouse.

“Think I found someone that’s open” she shared. “The VEG in Snohomish. Vet Emergency Group. Not only are they open. Their chief vet…Dr. Sherry Coleman. She’s actually an oncology vet. It may be our blessed day.”

“You two head out…” I suggested. “See what she has to say. And we’ll just hunker down here?”

With that, I carried Lucky, all 40 pounds of him, out to my wife’s ride. Radio assured us that most major roads were open and pretty much traffic-free. “You be a good boy,” I whispered in his ear, as I laid him gently on a comforter in the rear of her SUV. His eyes searched mine for even an inch of relief. I had little hope to offer other than for my words, though I was detached from my canine network, Turquoise still inside. “Drive careful,” I advised my wife with a quick kiss.

“Actually I was going to race on up there recklessly,” she teased, VEG located in a rural farming community with produce stands every other block about an hour north.

With her departure I tended to some housekeeping chores, taking out garbage, filling water bowls and reviewing reservations for the week, as the dogs moseyed about with heartfelt concern for Lucky.

Though limited to a single hour of familiarity, this band of brothers (and sisters) stuck together like birds of a feather. They were worried, though I wouldn’t have known to what extent if I hadn’t eaves dropped on their discussions. In less than 24 hours, my life had dramatically changed. I was now a super-dog savant, making life and death decisions for a canine I had just met.

At half past three, wife called. “I’m here,” she said in RN matter-of-fact verbiage. The doctor had performed an abdominal ultrasound. Spleen is inflamed and bleeding out. Says she can remove Lucky’s spleen…but there’s no guarantee that will buy him more time. White blood cell count is low. It’s a real crapshoot.”

“That’s all any of us really get,” I replied. “Let’s roll the dice!”… (to be continued)