Thinking of my Biscuit Pal. He left this earth four years ago today but he has never left my heart.

It’s hard to believe that both of my guys are gone. I hope they’re chasing rattly mice and eating mush in a cat utopia somewhere.

It was heaven having them here.

When Lanty was diagnosed with that darned Lymphona last summer, I felt, momentarily anyway, the solidity of life drop right out from under me. There was very little that could make it seem right again.  Lanty was the third leg of our little three-legged family.  For last, oh, ten years or so, whenever would get that pesky inquiry, “when are you going to start a family?” we’d always say, at least to each other, “we ARE a family. You, me, and Lant.” Our family, defined.  Now, our family was going to change. And the ground on which I stood turned to mud, mushy and slippery. Would I fall in it? Would my shoes get ruined?

One of the first things we did to cope with the terrible news, the exact same news we’d received in April 2006 but that time it was Biscuit’s x-rays that betrayed it, was slap a big, blank page on the wall and start writing the things we knew we’d need to remember.  One of the first things we wrote: we are not cursed. Melodramatic? Maybe.  But we felt deeply unlucky.  Deeply betrayed by misfortune. First, Biscuit. Then Wyn. Then my ovaries gave up. Then this. Family peeling away until…what?

Those terribly unhelpful thoughts were piling up, threatening to consume us with a murky depression until we had no perspective and no ability to see where the future would lead us. In short order, we had little more to look forward to than the next feeding, the next administration of compounded meds into the e-tube, the next chemo appointment, the next glut of bad news. It was a dim time. We could have succumbed. We wanted to, once in a while.  But not really.  We pledged in our wedding promises that we weren’t getting married because it is an easy path, but precisely because it’s hard.

We slapped up another huge piece of paper and started listing what we were grateful for each day. Sunshine. Lanty’s purr. FrankenBerry. Getting to work on time. Snowflakes. A morning in bed together. Feeling pretty. New shoes. Lanty. Lanty. Lanty.

Little by little, the dimness lightened. We could begin to see the sky.  A feeding with Lanty could be a pleasure, even as his appetite began to leave him. A mouthful was a miracle. A night out at the movies was pure joy. A tasty meal was a gift.

And when the time came for Lanty to go, we were so much more prepared than we expected. My heart was ripped out, yes. It still hurts in there, and I’ll miss him, oh I’ll miss him like meat misses salt. But acceptance came to us so gracefully when the wanting was so acute. Gratitude helped us embrace all that he gave us while he was here, and reminded us to draw strength from all that we did for him.  We did everything we could to keep him with us, and the last thing we can do for him now is to keep on living joyfully, even in the face of losing our family as we knew it.

We’ve decided to become more adventurous. To jump.

Exhibit one: Lula Buttercup. She’s a handful of thwarted expectations and completely satisfying silliness. She’s a lot of work to groom and keep clean and she has submissive issues and she’s scared of every man she sees. She’s too barky and wants to eat every thing in sight. She’s a lot of the things I would have disdained in a client’s dog when I was a walker. But she’s got biscuit-colored ears and a face that radiates happiness. She pulls us out of ourselves when we’re just too darn mopey. She reminds me of a mix of beloved Biscuit and darling Doodle, a client’s dog I couldn’t keep and wanted to save. She’s perfect and perfectly difficult sometimes. She’s what the doctor (Dr. Lanty) ordered.

D sent me a text recently, that I’ve saved:

There’s so much in the world we could be afraid of.  And yet we keep choosing to try not to be. Not to be action heroes, but to just LIVE!

Life keeps on.

Our story.
A eulogy.

We’re exhausted and so very sad. But. We have the peace of knowing we did everything we could. We have Lanty’s love, forever.

Bad news today. Feeling sort of horrible and exhausted and uncomprehending. The last being ridiculous because it’s not like we didn’t know this was coming. Especially after the recurrence of the cancer in January.

But, oh, that does not make it one bit easier. Not one bit.

Life is sort of like that.

We are dealing with the recurrence of Lanty’s lymphoma, just when we’d settled into a new “normal” of remission and every-other week chemo.  He’s okay for today.  We’re all okay for the moment.  But life can change in a blink, so for now, we’re just trying to keep the nachos down.

But look at how precious Lanty is:

We keep holding on to that.

Lanty came home today. Check out my post at Lanty’s Log.

So, if you haven’t already heard, our Lanty has cancer. A cute little post-script to last week’s ranting.

He had exploratory surgery today. It was complicated. He’s still with us, and we saw him post-op – he was really bright and happy which was so great.

The tumor is a mess and we opted to halt resection (removal) today because there was a 50/50 chance he wouldn’t make it. We couldn’t take that chance until we get the biopsies back and know if it is carcinoma (in which case resection is the only option) or lymphoma, which might respond to chemo. The biopsies will take 3-5 days.

Chances that the ugly tumor is lymphoma are slim. Very slim.

I’d love to sum this all up with some wise words about the circle of life or savoring the time you have or something but, here I am. He’s just such a cool cat.

Such a cool cat.

ps. you can follow our progress at Twitter: twitter.com/lantycat

I’m so tired, it’s hard to think.

But I saw this at PostSecret this morning, and was just so comforted.

I’m not a religious person, and since 2006, I’m not even sure you can call me a spiritual person. But who knows? Perhaps even a cynical doubter like me is in line for a “reward.”

Doodle, I will see you there.

I’ve been walking dogs for almost three years now, and I’ve had around twenty-five regular clients; dogs that I see every day. If you have any sort of human feeling at all, you can’t help but develop a relationship with someone you see five days a week, especially someone who is just as thrilled to see you Monday as he was Friday. How often does that happen in an office? Even the really difficult (i.e. utterly untrained) ones *coughbeaglescough* have grown on me, and I find these days that I have a genuine fondness for every single dog I walk.

And that can make saying goodbye a hard thing, indeed.

Since starting this adventure, I have had many partings with my dog pals. I’ve asked to have dogs removed from my roster due to behavior (dog’s or owners’) or driving distance. It’s part of the job, and a necessary adjustment. Some simply stop needing walks. and some have moved away. I’ve scratched their ears one more time, bought them one last chew toy, and said my goodbyes. There’s always a new pup who needs me, and I move on to a new day and a new leash. Some, I get to see again periodically, like Shorty* and Doodle, who both grew out of a puppyish need for daily walks but still need occasional supplemental or vacation care. Doodle is a particular favorite of mine, and I’m always so happy to see him again.

But in the last four months, I’ve experienced the loss of a pup through death for the first time. First was Petal, a beautiful four year-old greyhound who died quite suddenly one evening. Her loss was shocking for her owner, and I tried to offer support and a comfort where I could. It was a difficult experience and a sad time.

I lost another pup yesterday, and I’m having a bit more trouble with this one. Luke has been ill for a time, and I’ve watched him grow thinner and weaker. His owners had one test after another run until a diagnosis was reached just two weeks ago. I think we all knew it would not be long before he would leave.

Friday he had a bit more pep than he had in some time, and we managed a short walk down the block. Still, I felt something in the air; something was shifting in him. For the last couple of weeks, he had spent most of his time on his bed, but that day he remained standing after our walk, keeping close to my hip while I got him a treat, wrote my daily note and put away his leash and coat. I kept telling him he could lie down and rest, but he stuck stubbornly at my side. When I headed for the door, he followed me to it, something he had not done in weeks.

“You wanna go back out, buddy?” I offered him the open door and picked up his leash, but he simply looked at me with a level gaze I instantly recognized. It was a look I’d seen in Kokoro’s eyes. And I knew he was saying goodbye. I don’t fancy myself some sort of dog whispering pet psychic, but in that moment Luke communicated something to me as clearly as if he said it in words: This is goodbye. I’ll be okay now. Thanks a lot for everything, pal.

And that was the last time I saw him.

I will miss you a whole bunch, Lukey.

*some dog names changed

9:30am, I dressed in my requisite fifteen layers and headed out to clean a weekend worth of snow from my car. The small lane between my house and parking area, and the lot itself were thickly covered with snow, which, in turn, covered a nice solid layer of ice. Slip sliding away, baby.

I started the car, then brushed and scraped it off. Climbing in, I put it in reverse and – nothing. Just that dreaded vsssssssssssssh vsssssssssssssh sound of tires going nowhere fast.

Jump ahead three hours, and I’m on my knees with a spade, rock salt, and landscaping mulch trying in vain to dig out the tires and give them some traction. I was covered with snow, my jeans soaked through at the knees and ankles, and mentally running calculations on just how late I was for work. To wit: how many dogs had peed how many times in their houses, multiplied by the number who would have pooped as well, divided by those who would eat the poop, thus saving me the trouble of cleaning it up when I finally got there.

In the end, the car remained in its icy lock down, and flurry of phone calls solved all but the most immediate dog problems. I took a hot shower and ate a bowl of ramen. With little pig faces in it. Sometimes that’s all you can do.

*-D.W.W., four years old