The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (9 page)

Right
. They don’t eat animals or animal products, but if you force-feed and torture the animal, then rip its organs out and serve them—sure,
that
they will eat. It was such an impossibly French statement, we had to laugh. (And no, our guests did not eat
foie
gras
, but they did have a delicious meal. The French prepare vegetables really well also.) But I felt like that French restaurateur now. When it came to my little cancer-fighting beagle, I’d be scooping up the livers, bones, and body parts of various animals and serving them with a side of veggies. I couldn’t see
not
doing it.

I pureed vegetables and mixed in a little cottage cheese and coconut oil, as Marc had suggested. Seamus turned his nose up at it. I can’t say I blame him. I mixed it with the Angus beef and bok choy container, and Seamus consumed every last morsel, though I’m fairly certain he was a tad disappointed I messed with the perfection of his beef. I put the vegetable puree in the empty beef container and stored it in the refrigerator for later use.
It's good for him
, I thought,
and if it supplements the animal product, I can perhaps assuage a little guilt
.

Seamus ate his gourmet meals for another week, devouring each one and happily requesting more with his usual head-thrown-back howl at me, followed by an appalled look at his empty bowl. I wanted to take this as a sign he was doing well and this was the right diet for him. But the truth was, he was in chemotherapy. He had terminal cancer.

I returned to
Main
Street
Vegan
to read the section on whether dogs can eat a vegan diet. The author gives an enthusiastic “yes” to this question, and her daughter keeps her own dogs on a vegan diet. I could not find enough support in other books or online for switching a dog to a vegan diet—particularly not a dog in the end stage of life, battling terminal cancer. Torn, I stuck with the diet Marc had prescribed (and Seamus loved).

The annual Walk with the Animals event, benefiting the Mary S. Roberts Pet Adoption Center, occurred that same week. We debated whether to take Seamus. I’d adopted Seamus from this very place, and I’d served on their board of directors for over twenty years. I’d gone every year since the event started, missing only the 2009 event when I was in chemotherapy and too tired to go. Seamus, however, did not seem tired. And since I was again scheduled to be the co-emcee of the event, as I had been for the last several years, we decided we’d all go, but Chris would not take Seamus on the long walk. Instead he’d sit at our booth that came with my sponsorship. We’d donated the booth to Beagle Freedom Project, but Chris had a spot where he sat selling my books for me as well. Seamus helped draw folks to the booth, and during breaks from my emcee duties, I was able to talk more with Shannon, the founder of BFP, whom I hadn’t seen since our Words, Wine, and Wags fund-raiser for them two months earlier.

There were a lot of animal and animal-rights issues swarming about in my head then, but I had not forgotten about the beagles in the laboratories. I had not forgotten Bogart or Comet or the thousands of dogs subjected to painful testing for things like mascara and shampoo. There was no way I
could
forget those dogs.

“I’ve been thinking about Beagle Freedom Project a lot since I heard you talk. I feel so naive that I didn’t know they tested on beagles,” I said.

“Most people don’t know. I didn’t realize the extent of it until I looked into it. Seventy thousand beagles a year. That’s when I knew I had to do something,” Shannon said.

“It’s astounding. I’m so glad you are doing it. And I want to help. I just haven’t quite figured out how yet. Except, of course, donations.”

“You help by helping us spread the word. Like you, most people don’t know. They don’t know how many products are unnecessarily tested on animals. They don’t know they can help by simply being careful to shop cruelty-free.”

“I’m paying more attention to that now myself.”

“Good for you.”

“And I would seriously love to adopt one of the Beagle Freedom Project dogs one day.” I looked over at Seamus. He was noticeably thinner but still happily greeted the many folks who stopped by to see him. He was well-known at this event, since he was usually on stage with me every year, but since the book came out with his adorable face on the cover, he was even more popular. “We just have our hands full now with Seamus.” I could feel the tears welling up and my throat closing—not good for my emcee duties.

“I know,” she said. “I know. But when you’re ready, when the time comes, we’d be happy to have you adopt.”

“Thanks.” I picked up the material they were handing out, put on my sunglasses, and returned to the stage. Chris and I had long ago agreed—in the midst of our worst struggles with Seamus’s separation anxiety—that when we next adopted, we’d get two dogs so they had each other on the days we couldn’t take them with us to work. I determined then that one of those would be a Beagle Freedom Project dog. I just didn’t mention that to Chris.

Later at the event, I saw Dr. Davis, who, as the referring vet, had been kept up-to-date on Seamus’s prognosis and treatment by the cancer center. He’d already visited with Seamus and Chris.

“He looks good,” he said.

“Chris? Or Seamus?”

“Both. Both seemed in good spirits.”

“Yeah, I think Seamus is doing well. We took him to a holistic nutriti—”

“You did
not
put him on a vegan diet, did you?”

“Wow. Feel strongly about that? No. I didn’t. I thought about—”

“No. I will smack you.”

“Okay. Good to know. Violent, but good to know. I didn’t find enough support for a vegan diet for a dog. Especially under these circumstances.”

“That’s because there isn’t support.”

I decided not to share what support I had found. I wasn’t switching Seamus’s diet now. I’d save the discussion for another day. Another dog.

Chris, Seamus, and I returned home, where all three of us took a good, long nap.

The following day was St. Patrick’s Day. Since we didn’t know Seamus’s actual birthday or even his age for certain, we’d dubbed March 17 his birthday—fitting for a dog named Seamus with a whiskey howl and wearing a green collar. We gave him several new squeak toys—his favorite—and a fan of the book had mailed him two bully sticks. We’d never given him bully sticks before, but judging by his response, we should have. He took both and disappeared into the courtyard. Late into the evening, we saw him relaxing on the chaise lounge chair, still chewing on one of the sticks.

The following night, when Chris and Seamus arrived home from his wine shop, Chris mentioned that he thought Seamus’s breathing had changed. It was hard not to panic, but Seamus ate dinner quickly and happily, so we thought perhaps just rest was needed. When we all went to bed, though, Seamus was restless. I heard him turning and adjusting in his bed repeatedly. Eventually, he fell asleep and I did too, but as was becoming customary, I woke a few hours later. I heard Seamus breathing hard and irregularly as he turned and fidgeted in his bed. I rose from my bed and went to him. He was sitting up, panting. I sat by his bed and petted him. He leaned into my hand.

Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. I moved into the library so I could turn a light on without waking Chris. Seamus followed me, as I knew he would. During my days in chemotherapy, there were many nights I couldn’t sleep and instead quietly went to the library and sat in the recliner reading. Seamus always followed me and hopped up into my lap, keeping me company, just as he’d been doing lately as my insomnia and nightmares returned. This time I knew he wouldn’t be able to hop up onto the chair. I sat on the floor with him. His breathing was shallow and he seemed tired but unwilling to lie down. He leaned up against me and I leaned up against the chair, petting and soothing him until at last we both fell asleep. When I awoke at five in the morning, Seamus had returned to his bed. I allowed myself to think he was better, and I returned to my own bed.

I slept until eight. Chris had gotten up and fed Seamus, and Seamus had eaten and had drunk water. We took this as another good sign, and when Seamus went outside to do his business, we hoped that too boded well. But there was no mistaking that his breathing was not right. He needed to go see Dr. Davis. I called to tell them we were bringing him in. Chris drove Seamus to the appointment while I went to my first of three client appointments scheduled that day.

I called Chris as soon as my appointment ended.

“Dr. Davis said there was fluid on Seamus’s lungs. He kept him there to drain the fluid, which should provide some relief and ease his breathing.”

“Okay, that’s good. So he can do something about it?”

“Yeah, he can. I told him to go ahead. Seamus is with him now, and I’m headed back to work.”

“I can pick him up whenever he’s ready.”

In only twenty minutes, Dr. Davis called me.

“I started to drain the fluid.” I could hear the sadness in Dr. Davis’s voice. I began to cry before he even finished his sentence. “Unfortunately, it’s blood,” he said.

“What does that mean?” I knew, of course, that it wasn’t good, but I wanted hope. Again, there was that moment of pushing away the inevitable—the brain trying to hold the pain back from the heart.

“It means I can’t stop it. Most likely one of the tumors burst.”

I tried to catch my breath…to form a sentence. “How long?”

“I’m sorry, Teresa. I really am. But I think it’s time.”

No. It couldn’t be time. He was supposed to have months. It had barely been one month. I wasn’t ready. I’d never be ready. But not now. Not today
. “Today?”

“He’s suffering. He’s only okay right now because I gave him a sedative. But I hate to see the little guy like this.”

“Can we have an evening with him?”

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t suggest it. I really wouldn’t. His lungs are filling with blood.”

I don’t know how I thought it would happen, but this wasn’t it. He was going to beat the odds. I’d allowed myself to think that, but now…
Now. Oh god. Now this. It was time.
Through my tears, I choked out all I could. “I have to call Chris. We’ll be there. I’m coming.”

I closed my office door and called Chris. He immediately closed his shop and agreed to meet me at Dr. Davis’s. I left my office, telling my assistant only that my appointments for the day needed to be canceled and I wouldn’t be back. “Family emergency. I won’t be in tomorrow either.” I couldn’t imagine I’d be back in all week. Or ever. I couldn’t imagine the next moments, let alone anything past that.

• • •

Chris and I both sat on the floor where they’d spread out a blanket. Seamus was carried in and gently laid on the blanket. It was easy to see he’d worsened in only a couple of hours. He was having difficulty breathing and looked frightened, though I could tell he was relieved to see us. We both stroked his fur and kissed his face. They left us with him and told us to let them know when we were ready.

We’d never, ever be ready. How could anyone be ready for this?

“You are the best dog ever, buddy. We love you the most,” Chris said, and he kissed the dome of Seamus’s head.

I could barely breathe. I held my face against Seamus’s and breathed him in. I took short, deep breaths as the tears streamed down my face and onto Seamus. Chris rested his hand on my back. “I can’t believe this. I can’t do this. It’s too awful,” I said between sobs, sucking in air.

“I know, baby. I know. But we have to let him go. We said we wouldn’t let him suffer.”

“It’s so soon. I wanted more time.”

“I know.”

It was painful to watch Seamus struggle to breathe, and I knew it was the last gift we could give him. The last thing we could do for him was to let him go, peacefully and with us holding him. We could give him peace and dignity at the end.

That was all we could do.

We let him go. A large piece of my heart went with him.

I was immobilized by my grief, and only my anger moved me. So I went with it. I went all-in with the anger. The changes I’d made in our lives had failed us. Seamus was gone. Nothing mattered. Nothing saved him from cancer, and nothing would save me. Anger seeped out of me.

By day, I couldn’t stop thinking of myself as a coward and a hypocrite who couldn’t save her own beagle and had for years been the cause of millions of animals dying gruesome deaths following painful, horrific lives in factory farms. (Yes, I was responsible for
millions
! Grief doesn’t have to make sense.) At night, it was the farm animals that haunted my sleep.

When I thought of farms, if I ever did think of farms before, I thought Old MacDonald had a cow. Maybe two, or twenty. Or even a hundred. E-I-E-I-idiot. How did I think these romanticized versions of farms could possibly produce and care for the three hundred million cows, one billion (
billion!
) pigs, and fifty billion (
billion!
) chickens slaughtered and consumed annually in the United States alone? Every year. Old MacDonald would need an unfathomable number of cows, and he wouldn’t be letting the animals live freely and naturally and then humanely and carefully
slaughtering
them (and I could not, still cannot, get the word “slaughter” out of my mind) right there on the sunny, green farm. That was not happening. That would be impossible in these numbers.

When I was eating cows, pigs, and chickens, I can only assume my brain had done what it did when I was a child and I was being moved back and forth between public and private Catholic school. Rather than question the inconsistency between the theory of evolution and the…um…theory of Adam and Eve (both of which, after all, had been
taught
to me), I simply decided that Adam and Eve had been banished to Earth as apes and had to start all over again in the evolutionary process. This story I told myself allowed me to not question authority and dogma. Good thing there wasn’t a test at either school.

But I was a
kid
then. I’m not a kid now, and somehow I had clung to this idealized Fisher-Price farm version of food production. We all know the animals die, right? We’re just not supposed to think about that part, let alone how they live during the short period before they are slaughtered.

Admittedly, science wasn’t my strong suit in school (or did you figure that out from my evolution idea?), but I’d had enough biology to know how and why the female of a species got pregnant, and how and why she produced milk. But in the same way I created Ape Eve, I must have decided that female cows just magically produced milk to fill my glass, to make my beloved cheese, yogurt, ice cream, and sour cream, and still had plenty left to feed her baby. You know, the one or two she had every few years when she felt like it or met a cute bull.

In order to not question authority or the dogma I’d been fed (“happy cows!”), that’s what I needed to believe. There was no rape rack (a dairy industry term, not mine) to keep Bessie pregnant with injected sperm taken from a male cow in what could only be described as bestiality, no calf was ripped from her at birth, still wet and crying for its mama. Bessie was not standing in her own feces, let alone the feces of thousands of other cows on a feedlot with her. Bessie was not pumped full of genetically engineered growth hormones so she would produce the maximum amount of milk, no matter how uncomfortable or sore that made her udders as they subjected her to a mechanized milking machine three times a day, all while crying, distraught and forlorn for her stolen calf.
Not
on
my
imaginary
farm! No sirree
. And Bessie’s baby boy was not shoved in a crate, unable to move, fed a diet lacking in iron so he would be anemic and pale, and then slaughtered at three to eighteen weeks old so he could then be given his first and only name: veal.

In the farm that existed in my head, and from all I was reading and seeing in documentaries, maybe only in my head, Bessie lives to twenty or twenty-five years old and dies in her sleep on a grassy knoll in full sunshine.

Not so in my vividly real nightmares.

At four in the morning, two days after Seamus died, I woke from one of these nightmares and slipped out of bed.

“Are you okay?” Chris said.

I put my robe on and sat back down on the bed. “Sorry I woke you. I’m having nightmares.”

Chris sat up in bed and reached over to rub my back. “About Seamus?”

“No. About cows. About what I read.”

“I’m going to regret this, but what did you read?”

“I read how they’re killed: They’re shot in the head with a bolt, which doesn’t always kill them. Then they’re shackled, hung upside down…and sometimes…often…they’re not dead yet. They’re stabbed…in the throat—”

“Okay, stop. That’s awful.”

“It is awful. They’re awake. Alive. In my dream, but in real life too…when they’re skinned…alive. Hacked apart—”

“Stop it. Seriously. Stop.”

“It doesn’t stop. They’re slaughtering them in an assembly line. There are so many they can’t possibly pay attention to individual animals—to whether they’ve done their ‘work’ properly. It’s just a gruesome man-made assembly line of torture. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Chris was no longer rubbing my back. “Yeah, you’re kind of ruining steaks for me.”

I turned to look at him and he was smiling hopefully. I realized he was, if somewhat misguidedly, again trying to humor me off a ledge. The problem was, I’d already jumped.

“It
should
ruin steaks for you. It should ruin steaks for everybody. It’s not just my nightmare. It happens. It’s real.”

He exhaled heavily. “I understand you are angry. And very upset. I’m sorry.”

“I am. I’m furious. I guess this is the anger stage of grief.”

“You’re going to stay at that stage a lot longer if you keep thinking about all of this animal stuff.”

“It’s only been two days. Besides, this world is pretty majorly screwed up. There’s a lot to stay angry about. What we do to animals is…it’s…it’s unconscionable. And I can’t believe I’ve participated all these years, like some mindless idiot, and all the while calling myself an animal lover.”

“It’s not like you’re killing the animals.”

“I ate the animals. Animals were being tortured and killed for me. For my plate. It’s hard to overlook that cause and effect.”

“I think you’d feel better if you at least slept. Maybe stop reading and inflicting all that on yourself. At least for a bit.”

I could hear the concern in his voice, along with the frustration of not being able to help. I paused and took a deep breath.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Because you’re terrorizing yourself.”

“No.” I hesitated, because I knew what I was about to say would be frightening. But my habit is to discuss everything with Chris, and this too had been on my mind. “I’m up reading because of my restless brain syndrome.”

“Your what?”

“You’re not even going to laugh at that? Restless brain syndrome is not a real thing. It’s just a name I made up.” It was my turn to deflect with misguided humor.

“It doesn’t sound funny. Not at all. Made up the name for what?”

“My brain shakes in my head—not in the ‘I can’t concentrate’ way, but physically. It feels like my brain is vibrating in my head. And it usually happens in the middle of the night, so I get up and read.”

“Okay, first, that’s really, really not good. And second, maybe read something light and happy. Maybe what you’re reading is causing this.”

“No, because occasionally it’s happened at work. It’s been happening since Seamus’s diagnosis. And it happened in India. Lord Shiva knows I was not reading in India.”

“But what you are reading isn’t helping.”

“When I stop reading, I think about Seamus. And then I can’t breathe. Believe me, if I could find something more positive that I felt like doing, I’d do it.”

I left out the part where I should be calling to make my April oncology checkup appointment but couldn’t bring myself to do it. “Cancer metastasized to the brain” would just have to wait.

At times, that was the thought that crept into my mind. At other times, “metastasized to my brain” wasn’t just creeping—it was what was knocking on and shaking my brain. The dog died, and so would I. It seemed preordained.

I tried a change of tactics on Friday and spent the day in my law office, with the door closed, trying to concentrate on legal work, avoiding Facebook, personal emails, and any communication that might be expressing sympathy for our loss of Seamus. I had shared on my blog that Seamus had passed on. I knew many readers had fallen in love with Seamus from our book, and I knew his death would be painful for them too. But I couldn’t handle their expressions of sympathy. It was like hearing over and over again that he had died. That I had failed.

But my office filled with flowers sent by caring friends and strangers alike. My mailbox at work had filled with sympathy cards that I couldn’t bring myself to open any more than I could the ones that came to our home. At night I went home, drank more wine, and sobbed in the dark. Chris was at his wine shop until eight p.m. The emptiness of the house weighed on me and crushed me further.

On Saturday morning I went for a walk with Chris, mostly to show him I could, in fact, get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other (though I in no way wanted to). It was disconcerting and desolate to be out walking without Seamus, but the fresh air felt good. And that, or fate, is why that afternoon I decided to finally read the emails and look at my Facebook page for the first time since I let everyone know that Seamus had passed away. I figured I’d respond and sob and fall apart on a day I didn’t have to face anyone. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the computer, alone in the quiet. I went to Facebook first, but not to my messages or notifications. I eased myself in by just scrolling through my page.

In only a few minutes time, I saw her face. She was staring up at me (at the camera, but at me, it seemed) from behind bars where she was seated on a cement floor. The posting, from Anne, a Facebook friend who also loves beagles, mentioned that this beagle’s time was up and she was sitting in a high-kill Los Angeles shelter. She needed to get out right away, but she had a highly contagious kennel cough and needed to be in a home with no other dogs. Could anybody help? the post asked. I kept looking at the wide-eyed adorable little dog. How could she look so happy even from inside a cage sitting on a cold cement floor? I moved away from the photo—I had enough beagle sadness in my life. I had enough animal sadness. I’d been confronted with enough pain. But I continued to come back to her and that beautiful face. And soon, friends were cross-posting her picture, networking for her rescue, so I was seeing her face over and over again. Her smiling, happy, beagle face.

We
had
no
dogs
in
our
home.

I’d been watching what these ladies did—the way they networked and pulled together to rescue beagles all over Southern California. They were an informal group who came together on the Beaglefest Facebook page, and many members became friends “in real life.” They scanned shelter postings for beagles needing rescue, posted the pictures and information, raised funds for the adoption fees and any medical needs (and, it seemed, there were always medical needs due to the condition of the shelter or, just as frequently, the negligence of the dog’s prior owner), transported the dogs where needed, fostered them, and finally, if all went well, found the dogs their forever homes. It was impressive and meaningful and, at times, distressing work. My involvement had been through monetary donations or, occasionally, paving the way for the rescued dog to be given a place at my local pet adoption center—one which now regularly had a beagle available for adoption, thanks to these group efforts.

We
have no
dog
in
our
home.

It’s too soon.

I could barely get up and get myself dressed to face a day without Seamus, and I was wallowing in the horrors of what I was reading, so how was I going to take care of a sick, needy foster dog? I went back to the Facebook page showing the beagle in the prison kennel, her big soulful eyes looking right into the camera. Despite having been at this miserable municipal shelter and who knows what condition before that, she looked like she was smiling. As if she was saying, “Hey there. Come get me. Let’s be friends.”

We
had
no
dog
in
our
home.

I emailed Chris at work.

Would it be insane to foster a beagle for a few days? There’s a beagle that needs a foster home, but she has kennel cough. She needs to go to a home with no other dogs. Sadly, that’s us.

I was crying as I typed. Maybe that meant I wasn’t ready. But Chris responded quickly.

It might be a good idea. It might help you. I’m okay with it if you think you are.

I’d always thought I would foster beagles, any dog, really, when I could. I’d been involved enough to know that the foster system saves lives. When an animal needs out of a shelter and a rescue group doesn’t have room, or, in this dog’s case, there was a medical reason the dog couldn’t go to the rescue organization, a foster is crucial. I knew I wanted to foster. I just wasn’t sure about the timing.

I don’t know if I’m ready or not. I want to help her. And we can help. It’s only for a few days, maybe a week I think.

I sent Chris her photo.

She’s adorable. I think it would be good for you. I’m in if you’re in.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Chris was spectacular with Seamus, and he grew to love and care for him every bit as much as I did. And normally, other than when it came to animals, Chris was a more emotional person than I was. I took his consent as a sign I hadn’t lost my mind. This was a rational thing to do.