The Chemo Chronicles, Part I: Doggie Make-A-Wish and Father's Day Memories

Jemez Mountains, NM—About 10 weeks ago our dog, Henry, was diagnosed with an extremely aggressive Stage IV lymphoma. As he lay dying before our very eyes late one Saturday night at the emergency vet 100 miles away from home, the veterinarian told us that chemotherapy or euthanasia were basically our only options. When your dog is only six years old and he goes from being extremely healthy and happy one day to very sick and sad three days later, there's not a lot of time to consider options, particularly when the vet says she could see the cancer cells taken from his badly enlarged lymph glands subdividing before her eyes right there in the microscope. We had no good choices.

So we chose the chemo.

 The Canine Chemo Conundrum

Many of our friends thought we were nuts. "He's only a dog, a stray rescued from the pound," some would say.

"How much did you say that cost?" others would ask suspiciously, raising their eyebrows and wondering whether we had suddenly come into some kind of windfall that they didn't know about.

But to us, there was no other choice. Yes, Henry was a stray who ended up at the pound—a damaged  and otherwise unremarkable animal who had managed by sheer luck to escape from awful circumstances—and yes, when we decided to adopt him, he pretty much hit the jackpot: Already in his short time on Earth, Henry has had a life that some dogs might only dream of. He has been bathed in love; he has received the greatest care, with good long walks each day, a fine doggie playmate to romp with, a soft bed to sleep in, never-ending supplies of rubber bones and antlers to chew on, and two pairs of eager hands that are always willing to provide a good scratching around the ears or under the chin to remind him what a good boy he is.

Some people have told us that in itself is more than enough—that we should call it good, save some money, avoid some long-term pain, and administer an inexpensive and trauma-free dose of heavy barbiturate to dispatch our little friend off to wait beside the Rainbow Bridge. And maybe they're right. We will face that eventuality soon enough. It is pretty much a mathematical certainty that once Henry has completed his 20 weeks of chemo, it's only a matter of time before the lymphoma takes over again. He could have two weeks or a year or perhaps more after the conclusion of chemotherapy. But the odds for longer-term survival are not in Henry's favor. Probably a very short time after the veterinarians administer their final dose of poisonous treatment to Henry, the cancer will repopulate his body with a zeal and efficiency unseen in few organisms, and the invaders will take over and steal the light from his eyes, the joy from his perfect disposition and the softness from those wonderful ears of his. Once that happens, we will have but one humane choice.

And this is exactly why we have endeavored to compress an exciting, happy life into whatever time Henry has left. We have decided to create our own version of Make-A-Wish for our dog.

 Caution: Live Animals on Board!

Last week we had finally caught up on our credit-card payments (it is true that chemo therapy for a dog is ridiculously expensive) and adventure planning, so it seemed fitting that Father's Day would be our first big adventure. We loaded dogs, pancake batter, cooking utensils, water, orange juice, bug repellent, first-aid kits, phones, towels, sleeping bags, guns, doggie beds and pretty much anything else we could think of into the car and headed off for the woods.

My father and mother used to do the same thing when I was a kid. Except they had no pets. My brother or my childhood friends and I took on that role, and we happily rode in the back of the pickup truck more times than I can count. Mom was obsessive about eating and dad was obsessive about driving and shooting at things, so once a month we'd make a pilgrimage into the woods for blueberry pancakes and exploratory journeys down long, unmarked dirt roads. Those adventures have fed my memories for decades, so we figured they'd do the same for our dogs.

In the shadow of the Bald Mountain (Cerro Pelon) in Rio Arriba County and near the northern edge of the Valles Caldera National Preserve, we prepared pancakes in a meadow that had not been burned by wildfire. I had forgotten what live trees looked like, particularly fir and spruce varieties. While we dined on bacon and eggs, and pancakes dressed in enough Mrs. Butterworth's to draw in yellow jackets from points far and near, I pictured my father's smiling face. He would have been holding out his plate for another helping of pancakes with one hand, while using the other one to tuck a pant leg into the top of a cowboy boot. The hot June sun overhead would have caused him to squint, but even then, the light in his eyes would have still outshone the brilliant, golden orb floating in a sea of robin-egg blue sky high above the trees.

I don't even have a photo of my father. The Cerro Grande fire robbed me of all of those, as well as countless other tangible reminders of bygone days. But memories are powerful and they create their own snapshots—the kind that don't yellow or fade with age. Unlike Polaroids or scrapbooks, memories become more saturated and colorful with each passing day. As I looked down at my canine companions, who were covered in a layer of dust that had been kicked up during a mad dash after some kind of forest-dwelling rodent, and fed them each a tiny scrap of bacon, I wondered whether dogs remember things, or do they simply live out each day as if it's the only one there is?

As we loaded back up for the rest of the trip, I reckoned that if none of us woke up tomorrow, we could say we'd had a pretty great last day on Earth. If we did wake up tomorrow, then we'd be able to remember one heck of a time. Either way, we had been successful.

 Swimming in Fun

 As we drove down out of the mountains, which were surprisingly uncrowded despite the fact that it was Father's Day, we stopped at Abiquiu Lake. I thought of what Henry might say if he could ask the Make-A-Wish people for something, and I swear I could hear his voice in my head, plain as day, saying, "Well, Mister, I've never been a very good swimmer, and I could stand a bit more practice before I go."

Heavy waves from high winds began to take over the lake, and representatives from the Army Corps of Engineers took up megaphones to coax boaters out of the water just as we rolled up to the lake's edge. Henry wasted no time channeling his inner Labrador and wading out into the waves. Once his feet could no longer touch bottom, we saw how painfully awkward his swimming style was. He began to yaw in the heavy surf, and for a moment I contemplated whether I would need to play lifeguard to an 80-pound dog. But he recovered nicely and was game to retrieve a stick several times from deep water.

Although the dogs had been restless and pacing in the back of the truck earlier in the day, there was nary a sign of them as we made our way home. A tired dog is a good dog, and both of them were on their best behavior somewhere in the heart of dreamland.

Back home, we enjoyed a beer while reflecting on a satisfying day. Henry enjoyed chips and salsa while our backs were turned. He seems to know he can get away with a lot more stuff these days now that he's dying of cancer. I don't fault him a bit.

See you on down the road.