Wet and windy

... so the dogs are curled up in front of the fire. I've just used a "Chimney Cleaning Log" on my cast-iron stove - I stupidly used some damp wood on the fire a couple of days running, and ended up with sticky black creosote inside the stove. I'm hoping this log thing will be a miracle cure.

One of the things I like at the arboretum are the old tree-stumps that have been carved to look like toadstools. Someone has added little doors and windows to a few, and for some reason it amuses me.

I'm already bored of winter evening walks, juggling two leads, torch, poo-bags and gloves. This evening the wind stole the poo-bags from my hand, and trying to find black poo-bags in the dark is impossible. It's not often I miss street-lights, but tonight... Only another three months until it starts being a little lighter. Something to look forward to, eh?

A Sunny Day

... at the arboretum, Kew at Castle Howard.

As usual, I have plenty of photos of Herbie's bottom disappearing off into the distance, and far fewer of him actually looking at the camera.

One of my favourite trees here is the Arizona cypress. There are several, and they seem to do well in the cold damp North Yorkshire climate.

Herbie seems to be a little better this week.

Thank You

... for all the kind thoughts. Herbie has rallied a little, though he's still drinking too much. Cowprint is right about needing to find new foods. Last weekend things were looking pretty bleak, but he's wanted to go for walks again, and he is finding things he can eat.

I'm not sure how long he can keep going, but he's just been hunting round the kitchen in case I've dropped any food in there. And he was happy to say hello to the three young witches who stopped by on Saturday night. The green face paint didn't upset him this year.

Kidneys failing

It's been a bad weekend. Herbie's drinking double or triple his normal amounts, and not wanted to eat much. On Sunday I managed to persuade him to eat a yoghurt for breakfast (normally a rare treat) but he wouldn't touch his evening meal. We went over to my father's, and after Herbie had done his "I'm a poor old dog" routine, he ate the cat's food, and was rewarded with more cat food. Later I heard an odd scraping noise in the kitchen, and realised that Dad had left a chicken carcase near the edge of the table, and Herbie was helping himself.

Being allowed to steal food is currently working, but we've reached the stage the oncologist warned me about in January 08. There's nothing can be done about failing kidneys, though there is some good advice from Greyhoundgang about low phosphorus diets (rather than low protein) that I'll follow. He's lost a lot of weight in the last three or four days, and my policy of "keep 'em fat" (again, advice from someone with a cancer hound - normal rules of dog-keeping go out the window) is no longer working.

Nine and a half

The new red dog bed has been quite successful, and the old brown and gold stripey one has been scraped off the top to use as a pillow. These pictures show the odd kink at the end of Herbie's tail, where I think he's broken it at some point in the past. The second bone up is much thicker than the ones above and below.

I've just done some Quantum Touch training - more powerful than reiki, and I need practice now. It's weird how a short course can completely change your point of view. I've never particularly wanted to practise on humans, but for this, I can see the point. Without the feedback from someone who can speak, you don't know if you're making a difference. Many of the other people on the course were already professional therapists of one kind or another, and it showed in their professional manner, putting the "client" at ease, and so on. I'm so used to dealing with dogs that my idea of calming signals is to make little burbling noises, and say "Who's a poor old dog then?" rather than ask people to relax, take a deep breath, etc. etc. Lucky for humans that I don't intend to practise on them professionally.

Must Take More Photos

I had a day working from home today, which was great because it meant we could go to the arboretum at lunchtime. Herbie was so happy sniffing round all the trees, and as he hates to get his feet wet, I don't have to worry about him jumping into the lake. (We occasionally see spaniel owners trying to push a bedraggled muddy heap back into their car at arms length - no matter what colour the dog was when they left home, he/she's black now!)

Holly has a new red dog bed which she's happy with, after an initial day of uncertainty. What with the new bed, and the new stove, she is toasty-warm - and so is Mr. Herb. Winter is allowed to happen now, we have heat.

Slowing Down

... or not? I've spent the last couple of days worrying because Herbie's been lagging behind on walks, not showing much interest, and I've been thinking "uh oh, bad sign".

Tonight he saw Guinness, the black lab, a few hundred yards away, and sprinted off to see her. I think he's just bored. The trouble is, he's also a very conservative dog who doesn't take well to change, and if I take him somewhere new, he spends a lot of time trying to herd me back to the car. Greyhounds may have no interest in herding sheep, but they can definitely herd humans - put a pair of greyhounds on the lead on a rainy morning and see what happens!

More Ramblings

Herbie seems to be tiring more easily now. He's asleep nearly all the time now - more than usual for a greyhound. He had a nosebleed last night.

There's someone out there trying to raise the profile of canine cancer - take a look at "2 Dogs 2000 Miles" and the walk to Boston. I'm with them in spirit, even though we're 3,000 miles away.

And for light relief, I've been reading about a tragic Saluki hostage, forced into servitude with (shock horror!) a completely ordinary family...

Zebra!

At weekends, I take the dogs to an arboretum nearby, 100 acres of trees and paths that they can wander round. It's a favourite place for dog-walkers to go, but also for people to take children to, so they can let off steam.

As we arrived, a toddler was being carried back to the car. She saw Holly and did that backwards lean that always alarms parents, and shouted "Zebra!"

Her mother said, "No, dog."

"Zebra!"

"Greyhound", I said.

"Zebra!"

"Just because it's black and white doesn't mean it's a zebra", her mother said.

"Zebra!"

We all gave up. Holly's a zebra.

You Know How Sometimes

... you're just idly wandering round the web, and then you find something so random, you have to come back and tell people about it? I was following a link that said "cancer survivor" and I found this:
http://www.utne.com/2008-03-01/Arts/Pretty-Knitty-Titties.aspx

The ingenuity of people never ceases to amaze me.

Sire, sire...

... the pheasants are revolting... so now I have 18 pounds of minced pheasant in the freezer that the dogs won't touch. My local Freecycle doesn't allow adverts for food...so how am I going to offload this stuff?

Holly has decided she won't eat raw food at all now, it offends her principles or something. Herbie is happy to tuck into raw tripe, and the diced heart was a huge success - though it seems to leak a huge amount of blood all over the kitchen, but he wants a cooked evening meal. If I give him raw food in the evening, he ignores it and tries to barge Holly off her food if I turn my back on them. They are fed in separate rooms, so in theory this shouldn't happen, but if I walk away, or answer the phone, an element of "What's in the other bowl?" creeps in.

I thought I was being so clever, doing a bulk buy of raw food. Erm, apparently not.

Two Years Ago

...today, Herbie got his diagnosis of lymphoma from Cambridge Veterinary School. It was a nightmare drive, six and a half hours due to something on the motorway, and I was jammed between junctions and couldn't get off, so I was late for my appointment, and I phoned them in complete hysteria and they told me to calm down and just get there as soon as I could.

I had to leave Herbie with them for tests, and as soon as I reached home (four and a half hours this time) they rang, to say "It's lymphoma". It hadn't shown up on an earlier biopsy, despite removing the entire swollen node. This time it was obvious from drawing fluid off one of his nodes, but they kept him in for x-rays, to see how far it had spread.

The next day I drove back to pick him up, and he was so happy to see me again - I hope he didn't think he had been abandoned for good. I was then handed a piece of paper that told me his chemo protocol, 26 weeks, mean survival time 6-8 months. I thought, you do 6 months of chemo and then the moment you stop your dog dies? This does not sound good.

And now Mr. Lumpy is still here, and had just refused to eat his yummilicious raw pheasant, so I'm going to have to cook the stuff to see if that makes any difference. It had better, I've just bought a freezer-full because it's nearly organic. I didn't think Herbie and I would be arguing over diet this far down the line.

Not Yet Autumn

... even though it feels like it. To add to the autumnal feel, I have been reading animal ghost stories at Project Gutenberg.

Not that I'm particularly haunted. The only things in this house that go bump in the night are greyhounds. (The Cornishman's prayer goes: "From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties, and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us.")

Herbie's already playing with Christmas Teddy. (Mainly because Easter Chickie is still in the car.)

Another Monthiversary

... on the 16th, and Herbie is now 9 and a third. Still plodding along and looking under his bowl in case I may have hidden more food there.

I've just finished another one of my birthday books, "Wesley", about a barn owl of that name, whose human now blogs here. I know what everyone's getting for Christmas! It's like Marley and me, except with a badly-behaved owl instead of a lab. I laughed out loud when Stacey O'Brien described running down the hallway shouting "Not for owls!" whenever Wesley was poking his beak in where he shouldn't - it's pretty much what I say to Holly and Herbie: "Not for nogs!"

And funnily enough, they know what I mean.

What Would Buffy Do?

I asked Holly that very question, and she said "Kick the fridge door open with one mighty blow, and devour the entire contents". Hmm, what about the slaying? "Oh, yeah, right, the slaying... there's some fish pie in that fridge, you know."

Herbie's more of a Xander - if there's trouble, it's best to head the other way. As you may be able to tell, I was given a copy of "What Would Buffy Do?" last week for my birthday, froma dear friend who knows I'm a big fan. It was also the week of Herbie's fifth "Gotcha" day - dog birthdays aren't always a known date, particularly with rescue dogs, but you can always celebrate the date you got your dog. It's odd, Herbie's been sick for two years and four months, almost as long as the time he's not been sick. Two years and eight months of healthy life with me - even if the first few months were spent putting weight on him, and hoping his fur would grow back (it did!)

And while on a film/TV related title, I received a surprise comment from the Real Lumpy Addams - now indeed all grown up!

Hard to Know

... if Herbie's in any pain or not. He seems older and stiffer than he was last summer, and he doesn't particularly like having his lumps pressed. He doesn't flinch, he just gives you a look that says "Do you have to?" I've talked to the vet about this, because she says pain is inevitable at some point, but if he doesn't seem too subdued, and isn't flinching when you touch him, he might be OK. It's the "might" part of the sentence that worries me.

Equally, long-term use of painkillers can have side-effects, so giving drugs unnecessarily ain't good either. He's on glucosamine for the stiffness. He ran a few races in his day, and he's just come back from pinging up and down on the lead trying to get at Billy Blue, the opposite neighbour's cat. It's like a Wii Fit for greyhounds - show them a fleeting image of a cat, and they're jumping up and down. My arms are growing longer by the day. I'm sure if you took measurements of people's arms BG and AG (Before Greyhounds and After Greyhounds) there'd be an inch or two difference.

Another week

... another peculiar photo, and no real news. Herbie is lumpy, Holly and I need more exercise, and this morning a large brown hare came running towards us at full pelt. It took the hare a few seconds to realise I was walking two greyhounds, and then it stopped with an expression that clearly said "oh carp" (to quote Dilbert) and turned. Herbie set off in pursuit, but he's not up to a lengthy run these days. Holly stood on her back legs and yelped with excitement, and frustration at not being off-lead.

The one piece of quite old news I have is that Raven, who had a full bone marrow transplant in Australia, has had a recurrence of lymphoma. It's sad, because I thought it would fix lymphoma for good, but obviously not. It's not available in the UK, and rare in the US, so Raven is a pioneer in many ways - as well as being an agility champion. My good thoughts go with Raven and her people.

OK I was wrong

It was swine flu after all. The woman who infected a load of people at work was lying when she said she'd been tested and it wasn't swine flu. Someone else at work who passed it on to their asthmatic kid had the test done, and the child tested positive for H1 N1. Great.

As soon as I realised I wasn't well, I stayed home, but I spent a day or so in the office feeling strangely tired, and one of my workmates is on immunosuppressant drugs for a longstanding illness, while another is asthmatic. They've all been exposed to my boss, and are still fine - the incubation period is quite short, so I don't think I've infected them.

All I can say is, it's not as bad as ordinary flu - if you're a healthy adult. The dogs behaved beautifully, they understood I wasn't well. My sister posted groceries through the letter box, I quarantined myself for five days, and now I'm fine. It's odd having flu in summer. Glad that's over.

Chipmunk

Poor lad.

He's been refusing his CV247, so he's now on a lower dose, which isn't really keeping the lymphoma at bay. He's also been spitting out his homeopathic medicine, and once you've touched it apparently the potency is gone. I found a cache of little white pills when I hoovered under his bed. Richard Allport has said to crush the pills and add to his water - all the "goodness", or whatever the right word is, is in the outer coating, so if he absorbs a bit in his drinking water, it will have some effect. I learn something new every time I speak to him.

Not too brilliant myself. There's a summer flu doing the rounds at work that ISN'T SWINE FLU - so we're calling it Piglet Fever, and I seem to have come down with it. A couple of days of feeling like I've just had 15 pints, without any of the fun. I've slept lots, and hope it's shifting.

It'll Be Lovely...

... When It's Finished. That's what I keep telling myself. The spare bedroom has been a no-go area ever since I moved in. I knew it would be a horrendous job,pulling off several layers of peeling and torn wall-paper, and this week I'm proving myself right. Two of the layers are vinyl, that just melts onto the wall if the steam-stripper gets too hot. And the walls are full of nails and staples - where a strip of wallpaper was coming loose, the previous occupants just stapled it back.

The dogs are happy because I'm home - I've allocated a week of precious holiday to redecorating and being At Home With Herbie - but work is beginning to look like an easy option. This project could take months. It's more like archaeology than decorating.

Just Chilling

... on our very cold tiled floor in the hall. It's warm outside, but the hallway is cool, so we've each got a mat on the floor.

The dogs are happy first thing in the morning, and roll over for tummy inspection time - a morning ritual. As soon as it's obvious I am actually going to get out of bed, rather than lie there groaning, they like to roll over and wave their legs in the air. Then of course I have to get up to tell them what marvellous tummies they have. By evening, they're both giving their celebrated impressions of a dead dog by the roadside, lying with their necks at impossible, fractured angles, and with their breathing scarcely visible. If I go over and check on them, they huff at me.

I had a great trip to Woolfest at the weekend. It's a long drive from here, 3 and half hours each way, but worth it. I've come away with a year's worth of inspiration and addresses. I now also want some North Ronaldsay sheep, that don't need shearing, their wool just falls off, and they're little and cute, and... I have nowhere to put a sheep. And Angora rabbits are out of the question, given Holly's hunting abilities.

Bad IT Day

Just as some people have bad hair days, I've had a bad IT day at work, with no connection - problems with my log-on apparently. When I had the nerve to say, after lunch, that I couldn't do anything until they fixed it, the IT helpdesk guy said it was all the fault of our department's service level agreement. Huh? We signed something saying we agreed it would take all day for the helpdesk to fix anything?

Very glad now to be at home with Herbie. Home is where the PC works first time, and there is food in the fridge - oh, and a giant ironing heap left over from yesterday. Went to the annual Jerry Green dog show - could have happily acquired a 3-legged Staffie and a brindle boxer with half his jaw missing. I always take family with me to these things, so they can talk sense into me. The boxer was very bouncy, and Herbie's in no fit state to be bounced on.

Confined to Quarters

A quiet weekend in, but not by design. Driving home after work on Friday, the gearstick came off in my hand as I was changing gear. Panicking, I managed to jam it into third, and succeeded in limping home the last four miles. There's a steep hill just before home, and you really need to be in first or second... just made it.

It's moments like this when you realise how English villages have had their services cut in recent years. Our village shop closed down three years ago, there's no pub, bus twice a day to Malton, er... that's it. Oh, and the lady with bantams down the road occasionally sells eggs on a cardboard box outside her house. If you want proper-sized eggs, it's a three-mile walk to the next village with a shop, and three miles back.

Still, it's left me with plenty of time for Herbie-observation. Miraculously, the nodes at the back of his knee have shrunk again. The CV247 is doing something. If only it could do more.

A Little Better

I've had some world-class reassurance from Richard Allport's team at the Natural Medicine Centre and they think that even reducing the dose of CV247 down to 1ml twice a day would help. I've tried that this evening, and Herbie ate his yummy organic mince and red cabbage without noticing that I'd sneaked the drug in. We'll see how it goes.

Someone else who could do with a good thought or two is Laurie Kaplan, author of "Help Your Dog Fight Cancer", a book I found massively reassuring, and that I've recommended to a number of people on Greytalk and elsewhere. Laurie has recently had spinal surgery and is in recovery - read about her journey here. The pictures show just what a big deal this is - I hope she recovers well, and continues her good work helping dogs with cancer.

Totally Given Up

I'm veering between apathy, despair and a teenage sort of a sulk. Herbie has been refusing his CV247 the last couple of weeks, so I've been resorting to trying to squirt it down his throat, which doesn't work and he spits it all up and... I've given up trying. Disguising it with a little curry powder in his favourite scrambled eggs doesn't work, he can detect it in sardines, he's doing everything he can to tell me he doesn't want any more. This weekend I finally listened. And cracked, and gave him biscuits, after he's spent 18 months on a carb-free diet.

Two years ago, I would have wrestled demons at the gates of hell to save him. Now, I can't even stop myself giving him a dog-biscuit. What is wrong with me? I think I may have finally accepted that I can't change the outcome, and I've given up. Last year, I echoed Edna St.Vincent Millay: "I know. But I do not accept. And I am not resigned." Now, I've reached: "Whatever..."

So tired. CV247 was supposed to save him, but I promised him after the last chemo I wouldn't do anything invasive. Holding him by his sore neck to syringe bitter liquid down his throat is invasive. I had to admit that to myself. So, really no more treatment. Painkillers when he needs them, that's all. And strangely enough, he's been bouncing about like a wallaby ever since.

No news

... from me, but sad news over at Jenna's Tail - Jenna didn't make it. Sometimes blog silence means there's nothing much to say, but sadly it sometimes means there's plenty say, just not enough strength to put the words together. Run free, Jenna.

A sunny and quiet week here, but my attempts to put some weight on Herbie have led to dire rear. He's not losing weight any more, but I've had to mop the floor a few times. Still trying to get his stomach settled. Sigh. He's been baking himself silly in the back garden, lying out in the sun until he's too hot, then coming in and panting like a steam train. There's plenty of shade, but he likes to sprawl in full sunlight, and I haven't the heart to stop him.

Garden Envy

This weekend has been the local village's "Open Gardens" weekend, raising money for the village hall. For payment of a small fee, you can nosy about in the gardens of those brave and industrious souls who are prepared to show their gardens to the public. I have admired golden hens and blue Lutyens benches, and rows of currant bushes and giant compost heaps, but I know deep in my heart, if I had an acre of garden, it wouldn't look like the ones I'm wandering round.

Any garden I have would be "Designed by Dog", and there would be no delicate little alpines in the borders (that die when wee'd on), nor would my lawn look like a bowling green. There would be long patches of couch grass (Herbie's favourite snack) and a long smooth bit for Holly to sprint on, as opposed to the cunningly curved vistas with artfully posed statues. One garden today had a lifesized fibreglass cow. I wouldn't have one of those, either.

On that subject, I went to the hairdressers, and Sharon gleefully told me of the tourist who had come in for a cut earlier in the week, and then asked the salon manager for colour as well. "But not like yours, it looks common. I want something more subtle." Of all the people I'd want to insult, it wouldn't be the woman with scissors (and peroxide) in her hands...

Losing Weight

Not me, unfortunately, but Herbie. It looks like the CV247 was only able to stave off the inevitable for so long, and now he's going a little further downhill. His appetite is still excellent, so I'm giving him extra cottage cheese after breakfast. Maybe he'll eat tripe again. It was a tip I gleaned from Lurcherlink a long time ago, as a way of getting weight onto a scrawny sighthound, but Herbie was fed a lot of tripe when he first developed swollen glands, and was losing a pound a week despite eating till he was barrel-shaped. He ate tripe through the early weeks of chemo, and then started refusing it. I don't know if he'll associate it now with chemo, but it might be time to try again.

Tripe, even uncooked, is vile stuff. The Scary Parking Attendant in Helmsley has adopted a new Great Dane, a young male (of course he'd intended to get a middle-aged bitch!) whose owners were emigrating to New Zealand and couldn't afford to fly the dog out with them. The Dane was used to cooked tripe, but after cooking it once, the SPA's wife said "Either the tripe goes or I do." An intelligent woman, who had realised that the dog certainly wasn't going.

Fortunate for me, then, that I need to lose weight, I'm excused the tripe diet myself - but if that was all I had in the house, I would definitely rather starve!

Back Again

Bit of a long haul, almost as if we'd had to invent fire from scratch. But finally, we have Stove (yet to be named - apparently named objects work better) in place, and although there's a fair bit of decorating to be done, I have a major sense of achievement. Also an empty bank account, but I know that as soon as winter comes, I will be very happy I've spent my money on heating.

Herbie let it all wash over him - he wanted to go investigate the builders and the heating engineers for ten minutes, then he'd had enough, and went back to bed. Holly, on the other hand, spent days waiting for her chance to escape, and finally took it, the one day I'd gone back to work and left the engineers to it. They managed to catch her (in fact she got bored, and trotted up the garden path and waited by the front door for them to let her back in) and were quite embarrassed when I got home. After all my careful warnings. She can't open the front door, but she can open all the internal ones, so Keep The Front Door Shut.

Slowly the house is returning to normal, or what passes for it in this part of the world. I wouldn't want to have to install new heating again in a hurry.

More From My Collection

... of terrible photos.

Someone told that humans get red-eye in photos because the light from the flash reflects off the blood vessels in the back of the human retina. So what do dogs have in the back of their eyes, to get this green glow?

The dogs have been enjoying the warm weather; it's the first time this year that I've been able to leave the back door open all day, and they can potter in and out. Unfortunately Holly has discovered a bird's nest in the golden privet, and barks every time she can hear rustling. I've told her a hundred times "It's a bird, not a c-a-t." However she keeps on barking, up the wrong tree, and I have to go and haul her in and shut the door before the neighbours complain. If she spends the entire summer barking at this tree... I'm going to be keeping her in.

Herbie is plodding along. His nodes were shrinking the tiniest bit, but then I gave him some Metacam because I was wondering if he didn't look rather stiff - now they're back where they were. He seems a little stiff in the mornings now, but it wears off once he's walked a hundred yards, so it may be arthritis rather than cancer-related. He's been on so many other supplements I'd given up on the glucosamine. Back to the drawing board.

We may be offline for a little while, with the builder coming next week, and my only phone point is right next to where he'll be demolishing the old fireplace. I'm moving everything I can upstairs, including the computer, but we'll be back as soon as we can.

Happy Birthday to Meee!

Herbie was nine on Thursday. If I'd known he'd reach this age, there'd have been fewer tears along the way - when he was seven, I thought it was his last year ever. Here he is, peeing on a branch brought down by the snow in January. I didn't saw it off then, and now I don't have the heart, it's his very most-favourite pee spot.

The trouble is, I only have a cheap digital camera and there's a long delay (1.6 seconds according to the manual) between my clicking the shutter, and the camera actually registering the picture. Greyhounds move fast when they want to, so however carefully I set up that perfect image of the hounds, most of my photos end up looking like this:

That's why I don't post pictures all that often. I have so many pictures either of their rear ends, or sleeping, that I'm bored. I don't have the patience to wait for days for that one perfect shot. I don't have Angela's talent for photography, that's for sure.

A Grey Easter

Cloud, then rain, then cloud. I have been trying to spring clean, but Holly thinks this is very boring, and will only let me do boring things for half an hour at a time. Then she barks and runs around, until I take her out in the garden to play.

Herbie no longer wants to walk as far, so Holly isn't getting as much exercise as a young girl needs. If I take her without Herbie, she tries to herd me back towards the house, and lets me know plainly that I've forgotten something very important, i.e. Herbie. Mad moments running round and round the clothes airer are about all we can do without taking/tiring the old lad. He stands on the back doorstep, shaking his head, before plodding back upstairs to bed. He has to have morning and evening walkies, but no more than half an hour these days.

He's still swallowing his CV247, but he seems static. It's better than some of the alternatives. In a couple of weeks' time, a builder's coming to open up the fireplace to install a wood-burning stove, and I'm worried it'll affect him. It's been hard even keeping him stable, but I've waited four months for this stove to arrive. We may have to spend a few days in the car, parked somewhere with rabbits to watch, while the builder builds, or unbuilds. Some weeks, I think I've done nothing, but keeping things on an even keel is not nothing. I keep telling myself.

Almost Famous

I was pleased and surprised to find Herbie inside this month's copy of Dogs Today. I'd emailed the editor to ask about CV 247, and subsequently sent an update on his progress, which appeared on the blog for pets trying CV247, but I wasn't expecting to see Herbie in print. I showed it to him, but he didn't seem too impressed. I think he wanted a photo of himself in his younger days, before his face went white.

There are still no miracle cures, but given that I wasn't sure he'd last long enough for the postman to deliver the first bottle, he's doing OK. He's stopped going downhill at least.

He's currently nursing a sore ear, after trying to sniff a cat's bottom. The neighbour's ginger tom didn't want his bottom sniffing, and swiped across the top of Herbie's head. Blood everywhere, and I think it's a vet trip for antibiotics tomorrow. At the time, I was mostly pleased that Holly hadn't despatched the cat, and hadn't realised Herbie was hurt, but later I found the trail of blood up the stairs, and realised Herbie had taken a direct hit. That cat has zero nerves. I do a cat-scan every time I open the back door, to make sure the garden is cat-free. This one decided to jump over the garden wall and stroll across a lawn with two greyhounds on it. I am trying to make sure the neighbourhood cats survive, but they're not making life easy for me.

A Fraction of a Shade...

... of an improvement - the nodes at the back of Herbie's knees, his popliteal nodes, are softer and smaller. No longer like liquorice torpedoes, but not quite as small as the jelly beans they're supposed to resemble. It's not a big thing, and from the front he still looks like a bull-frog, but it's the first time since we stopped chemo that a node actually got smaller. It might not be much, for 3 and a half weeks of CV247, but it's something.

Holly, on the other hand, is trying to head for extinction as fast as she knows how. I don't know what an electric fence would do to a greyhound, but I don't want to find out. There's a footpath runs across a field near the house, and the owner of the field has fenced the path off with an electric wire (and it's live, I can hear it clicking) to keep a shaggy Shetland pony enclosed. I spent an exhausting walk trying to keep Holly away from the wire, but some kind of deathwish meant she couldn't stay away from it. I was pretty cross with her by the time I came home.

I was tempted, briefly, by the thought of fostering - Greyhound Gap is crammed to the gills again - but given I'm struggling to keep the two I've got alive, I'm probably not ready to foster just yet.

Week 2 and a half

..of CV247. It's been a bad week, Herbie's been reacting badly to something, breathing too rapidly. I stopped all his medications, his breathing went back to normal, and then I tried again. The CV247 is OK, so are the zinc pills, but the mushroom capsules aren't going down well, he went all saggy and limp within 12 hours of re-introducing them.

It's difficult with Herbie, he's sensitive to so many things. I always thought I had a cast-iron dog, he could eat anything without ill-effects (OK, except the entire dish of cauliflower cheese meant to feed four adults - a pint of cheese sauce was probably a bit much), but he was younger then, and now he seems to react to every change.

So, he's no better, but then again his nodes aren't any worse. Given that they'd been growing noticeably, perhaps this is progress. I've bought some wheatgrass and some compost. The first batch is soaking. I don't know if he'll drink wheatgrass juice, but it's something we haven't tried yet. Other people are writing happy optimistic posts about miracle drugs, but we're just standing still here. I suppose there are worse places to be standing. Sigh.

Vodka glasses

... are very useful when it comes to mixing up dog medicines. 10ml of medicine is an inch or so in the bottom of a shot glass, easy to add a tiny scoop of Vitamin C powder, then syringe up and squirt into dog. Don't remember when I last used them for actual real alcohol.

Herbie's stabilised again - he wasn't brilliant last week, but he found the car sponge again on Friday and shredded it, so it can't be all bad here.

The place where it is all bad is over at Ari's - Alfie has gone to the bridge. Run free, Alfie. I'm not sure what happened, but it sounds like every dog-owner's worst nightmare.

Downhill

Herbie's not great. I think I've discovered CV247 too late. I think "just too late" are the saddest words in the English language (a novelist friend, asked the same question, said "posthumous acclaim". It's the same thing). He's become more plodding, and reluctant to walk downhill, because that means on the way back, he'll have to go uphill. He's still eating, and yesterday evening he was happy that I'd come upstairs to bed, and was rolling on his back, waving his legs in the air (aka roaching). Even so, he's somehow fading.

We'll carry on with the CV247, since it's not supposed to have any side-effects (I tasted it though, it tastes oddly metallic). It's the first time I've tested one of his medicines, but it has been used on humans, and is meant to be safe.

The only spot of light relief has been my father, who kindly offered to fetch a variety of tins of catfood from the supermarket, for my sister's already fussy Maine Coon cat. He announced that he'd got one of everything, even the supermarket's own "Guts in Gravy".

My sister, who is very protective of her cat, rushed off to inspect the tin, while I thought, "That's remarkably honest of them". She came back and said "Were you wearing your glasses?" "No".
"It says 'Cuts in Gravy'. " But it's too late, the damage has been done. Tinned pet food is now known in our family as guts in gravy.

Waiting for the Post

We've had a postal consult with Richard Allport (my own vet had just done a blood test, checked Herbie's weight and manky teeth) and now I'm waiting for Herbie's meds to arrive. His nodes seem to be another notch bigger.

He's currently in disgrace for standing in some poo in the dark, then running upstairs. I've had to sponge poo-ey footprints off the stairs, the rug, his bed... fortunately by the time he reached my bed, his feet were dry. Small mercies.

Once More Unto the Breach

... dear friends, once more. I've asked my vet for a referral to Richard Allport in Potters Bar, to see if he thinks it's worth Herbie trying the drug developed by the late John Carter. There's a blog up and running for people who are using this drug, CV247.

Herbie ran miles this morning. He saw a rabbit and that was it, off over the horizon. I spent ages staring into the distance, at the spot where he had disappeared, and suddenly he popped up behind me. To do that, he had to have done a huge loop round. There's life in the old dog yet.

Tonight, the dogs had pink and purple mince - beef mince boiled up with red cabbage. The meat goes purple on the outside, but when you mash it up with a fork, it has a pretty pink and purple look to it. The cabbage doesn't look great though.

Eight and Five-Sixths

I'm back to counting. It's mostly been degrees centigrade (supposed to reach the heady heights of 8 degrees C, I am so happy it's above freezing!) but today it's Herbie part-birthdays. His nodes seem to have taken another leap forward in terms of growth. We're seeing the vet tomorrow for a check-up. She's agreed to refer us to a vet who will prescribe CV247 but wants to see Herbie first. She's understandably wary of a drug she has no personal experience of, but the Editor of Dogs Today, bless her and her house for always, has given me a list of vets who will prescribe.

It's pretty late in the day to be trying experimental (in the eyes of the licensing authorities, anyway, I know the drug has been around for a while) things on Herbie, but there are meant to be no side effects. Either it works or it doesn't, and it's worked on some mice with lymphoma in trials. I swing between wanting to leave Herbie be, and refusing to give up without a fight.

The more it snows...

... tiddly pom, the colder my toes, tiddly pom (as Winnie the Pooh once said). And the blacker the bruises. At the moment I have one black elbow, a matching shoulder, and a green and purple knee. I have spent the weekend resting up, because my right arm has been out of commission after falling on the ice at the Park and Ride at Monk's Cross. The concept is, you get out of your nice warm car into an ungritted skating rink, and if you're still alive by the time you reach the bus, it then takes half an hour to get to where you really want to be. Funnily enough, numbers of passengers are decreasing.

Herbie and Holly are both being little asterisks (as in ****s) and refusing to leave the house with the new dog walker. I've told her they're both adult dogs, they can make their own minds up, they just can't use a door key, so as long as she opens the door to the garden, it's up to them if they want to go out and wee. Maybe a walk is a bit ambitious at this stage. I'm worried though. She said Herbie bared his lips at her this morning and growled. Is he becoming possessive over the house? It's so unlike him, he'd normally run and hide at the first sign of trouble. I need to be at home.

There's a programme on telly tonight about how the over-40s have little chance of finding jobs anyway. What with that and the chance of developing Alzheimers before I even retire (TV programme on Terry Pratchett's illness) and... there must be some chocolate in the house somewhere. I'm off to look for it.

Snow-delay-ee-hoo

Yes, more snow. Sigh. I was supposed to be running a workshop today, but can't get there, and nor could half the participants. It was a lot of work to arrange, and now I've got to do that work again. I like snow when I don't have to go anywhere. This isn't one of those days.

I read some interesting news on Beverley Cuddy's blog about CV247, a potential cancer cure. I need to find out more, and see if my new vet's open to trying to contact a vet in Hungary. One can but hope. Herbie's as OK as he's ever likely to be at the moment, but his nodes are so big, and his crusty nose seems to be getting worse.

Oh, and my dogwalker has winter vomiting virus, so in a way it's just as well I can't get to work. The dogs and I can all stand on the doorstep together, shake our heads, and go back upstairs.

Wherever you are, stay warm.

We're IN

... but so much work still to do. It's taken me a while to sort out the PC (I left the main power cable behind!) and we have no central heating, and the roof leaks in the tiny back bedroom I was going to use as a study, so my PC is balanced on a small folding table. I have very little furniture, because the last place I owned was too tiny to fit any in - 18th century weavers' cottage, mine was the only single one not extended - 18th century people must have been weentsy, and equally they would have had no furniture. Older people in the village remembered when the beaten earth floor in my house was concreted over (1930s), and when the well in the path that ran past the cottages was paved over (1950s).

This one is much newer, 1950s, and obviously had a bit of a makeover in the 70s, but nothing's been done since. Now I've put down dog-proof flooring downstairs, carpeted upstairs and I'm about to have the place rewired. Everything's been work, from the leaking and corroded connection to the washing machine... I could go on.

Herbie's accepted that this is his new home, and likes the little lane that leads downhill to a succession of wet fields. However his teeth have become noticeably worse, and I have a dilemma. It may be too dangerous to give him anaesthetic, and certainly my old vet was reluctant to risk it, but equally Herbie's teeth are getting browner and browner, and he has very limited tolerance for toothbrushing. I'm going to have to get to know our new vets down the road.

Going, Going...

...almost moved. Beyond stressed out, I have no idea how I'm going to get everything packed tomorrow. I spent today painting while the carpet men put in stair carpet - I can't risk little greyhound feet slipping on the stairs. The carpet men disassembled the bed I had just painstakingly assembled. Tomorrow I will put the bed back together. And go in search of more boxes.

I have an insane amount of books. If only I'd been brave, like Ari was last year, but I just don't seem to be able to get rid of them. Now I'm paying the price, in terms of packing anxiety. I never ever want to move again.

Merry Christmas

Holly in her holly-collar, thanks to Helen on Greyhound Gap's forum.

And Herbie, who rarely wears a collar these days on account of his poor lymph glands.

A very happy holidays to everyone!

On the move

The stress levels are cranking up - I'm moving house on the 7th January, and the new house is still a mess, and I have no cooker, and and and... So I may not be blogging much for a while, even though I want to get a picture of Holly in her Christmas collar on here. So while you're stretched out in front of the TV, think of me, stripping wallpaper and trying to get years of grease off kitchen tiles...

I keep telling myself I could just move in and live out of cardboard boxes for months, but I'd still have to decorate, this time with dogs. Decorating With Dogs -someone should write a book. It's hard to keep greyhounds and paint apart, so I have to get as much done as I can.

If I don't get as far as a Christmas message, Merry Christmas!

Next!

Last week was difficult. I'd like an easy one this time, please. This morning was the last straw, my sister blowing a gasket - it's been rattling for a while, and I know she's anxious about her chances of staying employed, but.... nnngghhh (sound of teeth being gritted). I am just staggering through till Christmas, and I'd like to get there in one piece. If that's not too much to ask for.

On the plus side, the big scarey parking attendant in our local market town came over to greet the dogs, and ruffle their ears. He lost his own Great Dane a couple of weeks back, dilated cardiomyopathy - one week his dog developed a cough, and by the end of the week, despite drugs, her heart gave out. He can't face having another just yet, but likes to borrow other dogs for 10 seconds. I didn't give him the "You need a greyhound" speech, the grief was obviously still raw in his voice, but... he needs another dog.

Cabin Fever

There's so much ice around, that trips to the outside world have been few. I had a snow day on Thursday, since all the local schools were closed and Radio York gave their "Is your journey really necessary?" pitch. Work? Nah.

The dogs are not happy, though, and have both skidded onto their not-so-well-padded behinds. (I've gone over on mine a few times, but I've got the cushioning to survive!) The sharper pieces of ice hurt their feet, and at one point we found a load of blood on the ice - I think someone else's dog may have cut a pad. Either that, or there's been a murder at the roadside, and when the snow melts, there'll be a body under a pile of snow. Or maybe the snowman in the garden on the corner wasn't made by kids, but by the murderer concealing the evidence... I've been trapped indoors too long with only a pile of old Agatha Christies for company.

A friend once said she couldn't live in the country in case she turned into Miss Marple, and I though, Too late, I've already turned. But even if the neighbours have all murdered each other, I'm not going out to investigate until some of this ice has melted.

Snow Again

Brrr

OK, this is an old snow picture now, with Herbie trying to melt it as fast as he can. This week has been more about mud and scraping ice off the car every time I want to go anywhere.

I have seen the inside of more DIY shops than I care to mention, and the marvellous Mr Hood, who does gates and fencing, has talked me into having laminate flooring, so... yet another trip to the builders' merchants. This house will become inhabitable. Soon. Really. I am totally convinced.

I am about to go back to work for a rest. I'll miss the dogs though - Holly has been much more cheerful with her human at home. If I had the money to stay home all day, I would.

Cool Runnings

Two inches of soft powdery snow = the perfect racing surface for greyhounds! They tiptoed out of the door, with that "eek it's cold, don't make me go out there" expression they sometimes have, then realised it was snow. They both took off for the gate, then ran back, ran round me in circles, back to the gate, then towed me down the road. At eight o'clock on a Sunday morning, we were the first ones out, and had a pristine world to walk in. And run in. Herbie was full of the joys of snow, pelting down the track just because he could.

Now they're both sleeping it off. If the snow lasts till this afternoon, I'll take some pictures. In the meantime, it's preventing me from going to Homebase for paint, so we're having a quiet day in. I got the keys to the new house yesterday, and I've taken this coming week off work to do some decorating, consult with builders, and all the routine tasks that you can't do from the office. It's unfortunate that the new house is well off even a secondary gritter route, but this snow isn't scheduled to last.

Another Scare

A bad morning yesterday. Herbie's been coughing the last couple of nights, and yesterday he wouldn't eat his breakfast. He wanted to come out for a walk, but after a couple of hundred yards, he turned for home. He'd had enough. Once home, he was gasping for breath, lying with his neck stretched out and back, like a swan about to fly.

I called the vets, crying, and they said to bring him right in. I've always known that secondary tumours would develop, and lung tumours are high on the list of probabilities. The new junior vet (they're the ones who have to work weekends) listened to Herbie's chest, took his temperature, then said "There are a lot of respiratory infections around at the moment. Let's try antibiotics first, rather than go for a chest x-ray."

Twenty-four hours later, Herbie's breathing is fine, he is bright and lively, and wants all his meals and everyone else's meals too. Yesterday I was so convinced that I was taking him on his last trip ever, that now I feel silly. We have to go back to the vets tomorrow for a check-up, nd I'm going to have to apologise for crying all over their nice clean surgery.

PS A big hello to Jenna and her blog - hope the treatment goes well!

Please to Remember...

... the entire first half of November? When will the fireworks end? Herbie had a really bad night on Friday - I didn't get home from work till after six, and he was already delirious with fright, panting and shaking so much he could hardly stand. Last night, he was dosed with everything veterinary science can throw at him, but not a whole lot better. I need to keep buying lottery tickets, so I can have my own private island where I go every 5th November. (Given the number of dog and horse owners I know, I won't be on my own there, it'll need to be quite a big island!)

Anyway, I'm hoping this is the end of the explosions, now we've had the 5th and the weekends either side. On the plus side, I've exchanged contracts on the new hovel, so only another couple of weeks, and I can start decorating. The ghastly green in the kitchen will be the first to go, then the green stripes in the hall. Then there's the navy blue wallpaper in the bedroom to strip, and... endless hours of joy.

Enough of my news, there are more important events in the world. Yes, THOSE elections, but equally greyhound racing has been banned in Massachusetts. Wish our legislators would follow suit.

Another Hallowe'en Gone

So pleased we made it through. Again, it may not seem like a big deal, but my mother died on Hallowe'en five years ago, and I don't think I could bear it if Herbie were to go the same night. My mother was in a hospice thirty miles away, and I would drive over every night after work. She wasn't really conscious much, her last few days, but I told her on the 30th that I wouldn't come over the following night, too many idiots on the roads- my father would come in the morning. She died the night of Hallowe'en, when the veil between the worlds is supposed to be at its thinnest. (So really not sure why it's the one night we throw small children out onto the streets after dark?)

There were a few fireworks last night, but I think the credit crunch has cut down on the number of huge exploding rockets. Everything seemed more restrained this year. Good job, as Holly refused to touch the drinking water with Rescue Remedy in. Herbie panted a bit, but he survived. There'll be a few more on the 5th, but the main public displays are over. Sighs of relief.

However, Hallowe'en claimed one greyhound, Magic alias Meg from Greyhound Gap. She ran away in the New Forest last Friday, and people from all over the country went to look for her. I'd hoped she was living rough, and would find her way home, but it wasn't to be. On Friday her body was found. Rest in peace, Meg. Not forgotten.

Motheaten and Moulting

... that well-known firm of London solicitors (senior partner: Cuthbert Moulting). Herbie's pale beige undercoat is coming out in handfuls. He didn't shed much at all this spring, and I do wonder if the chemotherapy had something to do with that. Either that, or the cold wet summer it's been.

Anyway, I may yet be able to felt a whole new little greyhound out of clouds of fluff I'm gathering.

Herbie seems to be slowing down and sleeping more. He still wants to go for walks (we saw a double rainbow this afternoon) but I get the impression he's trying to conserve energy.

Eight and a half

Herbie had a half-birthday on Thursday. Eight and a half might not sound like much to anyone else, but it means the world to me.

He is moulting, patchily, about two months later than Holly. I don't know if cancer has thrown out his internal clock, but he is looking a bit motheaten round the rear.

Nothing to Relate

... nothing that isn't anxious-sounding, anyway. Weirdnesses at work, house purchase slowed to a crawl, a family member trying to pick a fight no one else wants... the reiki principles are coming in handy this week ("Just for today, do not anger, do not worry). I am trying to remain calm and serene, but spend much of my time sounding like Muttley just after he's been hit on the head by Dick Dastardly (if anyone remembers the Wacky Races cartoons!) Or do I mean just before he gets hit on the head?

Herbie and Holly came in the car to visit my sister, and were baffled to see a cat on her windowsill. Herbie kept looking from the cat to me to her, as if to say "Does she know there's a cat in her house? How did that get in there?" Yes, Herbie, she knows all about Solly, she put him there on purpose. It's a bit tricky, because Holly isn't cat-safe, and never will be.

Glorious sunshine today, crunchy autumn leaves and T-shirt weather. The world economy may have gone south, but at least it's a nice day...

Autumn...

... and the greyhounds are nesting.

Overheard in the local Co-op:

"Bit back-endish this morning."

"Too back-endish for me."

They mean the back end of summer, i.e. it's definitely time to switch the central heating on. I've had to search for gloves, and the woolly scarf is on stand-by. It's cold and dark now on our pre-work rambles. At this time of year, I'm chasing the light at each end of the day. By November, winter is winning, and the dogs only have a brief lunchtime outing in daylight. The guilt of being a working "mother".

The lumps in Herbie's armpits are growing bigger.

Cats This Week

This is Solly, my sister's Maine Coon kitten, supervising gardening operations.

It's been a difficult week for dogs. Herbie threw up several times on Monday night, then wouldn't eat for a couple of days. I thought this might be the beginning of the end, but he's eating again. He seems more frail, though. He doesn't have the reserves any more to fight off stomach bugs. I was beside myself with worry, but he pulled through this time. I'm not sure we can get through another bout.

The house thing plods on, as these things do. The HIPs pack isn't acceptable to the bank, so searches have to be done over again. I genuinely don't see the point of the buyer and seller each having to do the same work, but someone somewhere will be making money out of it. I'm hoping we can sort everything out for the end of October.

Basking

...in some unexpected sunshine, after one of the wettest summers on record. Never mind the sea levels rising, the rain alone made last weekend miserable on the edges of the moors. This weekend we're drying out.

Herbie's nodes are somehow even bigger, and Holly seems to be going bald. She always sheds a lot in autumn, but this year her legs are looking bare. More sardines all round.

I've had the survey back on the house. It needs a lot doing, but it's mostly structurally sound. I say "mostly", but that really means "fixable at a price". Hmmm. But it's on top of a hill, so it won't flood.

Things That Make Me Smile

Every now and then, you find something online that just makes you grin. Stephen Huneck, who created the Dog Chapel on Dog Mountain is selling the Healing House there. If you scroll down the page until you find the dog faucet... well, it made me smile. I never knew I wanted a bathroom with a labrador, until now.

Then there's cats that look like Hitler...

Yup, I'm distracting myself. I think I've found a new house, but worries are creeping in. Anyone know of any other displacement activities I could take up? (Ive already washed, vacuumed and ironed, I'm houseworked out now.)

An Ear-y Tale

This has been a tricky week. Herbie got an ear infection (and a lump I was worried about, but vet's dealt with that one) and so I have had to chase him round the house twice a day in order to clean his ears and put drops in. He's normally so stoical and brave, but ear-cleaner? Noooooo!

Once I've pinned him down, I then have to squirt CleanAural into his ears (or "Nettoyant Auriculaire pour Chien" in case I ever have to ask for it in France) and duck as he shakes his head, and coats me with whatever's in his ears. Then I add some oozing yellow antibiotic drops, and have to massage them in. I think the vet was quite impressed with how much he fought the pair of us at the surgery. "He's still quite strong, isn't he?" Yup.

And smart. There's no bribing him, no distracting with pieces of cheese, no hiding little plastic bottles of ear-drops in my pocket and sneaking up on him from behind. I've had to resort to brute force, and I'm not proud of myself. His ears are much better, though, and I'm counting the days till Tuesday, when I can stop putting us both through this.

Nothing Much

It has been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, as Garrison Keillor always used to say. I have sniffles again, possibly as a post-Reiki training clear-out - they warn you to expect this kind of thing. Holly is shedding so much I may have to get her fur turned into something useful.


On the plus side, I have a permanent job with effect from tomorrow. Salary not great, but a step in the right direction after a year and a bit living off the proceeds of selling my house. This means I might be able to buy another house, instead of living/camping out in a family member's renovation project. I am immensely lucky to have such a generous family, but there are times when I'd like not to owe anyone anything, you know? So I've been looking at tiny houses online this week, and thinking: hmm. Deep breath. It's going to be OK.


Herbie is slowing up. He still dragged out Henry Kitten's (RIP) toy chicken from under the furniture at my father's, for a good shake, but I can see him pondering whether to race Holly to the far corner of the lawn, and deciding not to. One day at a time.

Meducation

It's been a week of medical education for me. On Tuesday, I watched Dr. Alice Roberts explain how a normal lymph node was no bigger than a baked bean. She had some bean-sized pig nodes to demonstrate, as well as a pig thymus gland (where T-cells come from). I still don't really know what a thymus gland does, but it was an interesting programme on the immune system.

I also received my copy of Dog Anatomy, by Peter Goody, that I'd ordered from Amazon, and can now be quite sure that Herbie's bulging bottom rib on his left side is due to his spleen. The ultrasound (way back in the mists of time) picked up that he had an enlarged spleen - and he still has. (For anyone squeamish, who doesn't want to see pictures of an enlarged spleen, don't look here.)

Herbie could show veterinary students where the lymph nodes are - every major node is lumpy. I wish he wasn't quite so educational.

Never Quite As Planned

I was going to take a photo to prove how well-furred Herbie's hind end is. When I try and take a front-end photo of him, all I ever get is a rear view, as he runs away, so this should have been easy. But no, Holly runs in front. Then he follows me round with the camera, blinking sleepily into the lens.

Then I remind him he was 8 and a third yesterday! He remembers, and runs upstairs.

Happy 4th Gotcha Day

It's been just over four years now since I went to see a tiger-striped greyhound standing in a paddock at his foster-parents' house. He was skinny, and nervous, but when they let him loose, he went flying round the field, then rolled onto the ground in front of me and waved his legs in the air. "Oh," said his foster parents, "he's never done that before." He was meant to come to me, and he knew it long before I realised.

Herbie was in poor shape - he'd been found on the roof of some sheds on an industrial estate, 12 feet up, unable to jump down. He'd been left on a sheet-metal roof, so he had third degree burns on all four feet, he was dehydrated, and close to death. He wasn't supposed to have survived, but somehow he did. I realise now he had an incredible will to live, and I'm seeing it for myself every day. He was skinny when found, six kilos under his racing weight (which is already light) and minus a lot of his fur. His foster parents warned me he might always have a bald bum.

Now old Fuzzybum is on my bed, after a large meal and a gentle potter in the sunshine. The bad days left their legacy and it seems particularly cruel that he won't live to be the oldest greyhound in the world. But I'm glad we had these four years.

The Day After Reiki

SO tired. I did Reiki 1 in York yesterday, a day of concentrating, and driving, and being with strangers, and today I can hardly move. The moral of the story is, book a day or two off work after a course. It was an amazing day - such an odd sensation, to feel your palms prickling as you run your hands over a stranger's aura. An interesting group of people, all there for different reasons - and all of us trying not to drop each other's heads back onto the therapy table...

I hate being away from Herbie for a day, when I'm already at work during the week, but my sister came and dog-sat, and fed them her left-over moussaka and gave long ear scritches. I hope I learned something that can help Herbie.

Pant Pant Pant

Too hot. Heat seems to make Herbie's lumps grow, so he looks worse this week. I think the extra energy he uses to stay cool drains him - either that or heat makes cancer cells grow faster. Tomorrow I'm going to buy him a fan. He's been resisting ice packs, and won't drink water if it's got ice cubes in.

I used to love hot weather, but having dogs changed that. It changes so many things, and that's only a minor one. We've all been sitting on the concrete driveway, in the shade of the house, where the concrete is cool. The neighbours must think I'm mad, but there's no breeze in the back garden, surrounded by high fences and bushes.

Work is going to be grim tomorrow - no air-con, very little ventilation - I'm dreading it. I can't be the only one contemplating a rain-dance.

Don't Like Beans

... at least, I assume that's what Herbie's trying to tell me. There I am, doing my bit for the global food crisis, growing a few bean plants, and can I get them to stay in the ground? Can I heck.

But Herbie is unrepentant.

Holly has checked out the situation, but doesn't see what the fuss is about.

Herbie is quite amused by it all.

I am tired. I went to London yesterday, for a friend's wedding, and three separate tube lines were closed for maintenance. King's Cross resembled a scene from a disaster movie. I think I've done cities for this year.

Lumpy and Snotty

... a couple of the dwarves that didn't make it into Snow White's top seven. I've not been giving Herbie garlic capsules all week, on the basis that if garlic can make dogs anaemic, I should give him time off now and again. As a result his nose is all crusty and patchy.

I was going to be on a reiki course all day today, but it was cancelled at the last minute. Instead, I've done nothing all day, and I'm about to go and watch junk TV all evening. (I'm sorry, but Midsummer Murders is comfort TV - I know it's untrue to life and rots your brain, and is probably about to cause the collapse of western civilisation as we know it, but I'm going to watch it anyway. If Holly will let me.)

Working 9 to 5

... what a way to make a living. I can't believe it's been three months since I started work again, terrified that the moment I put on that dark suit again, and headed out the door, Herbie would give up the ghost. He's still here, and I'm the one that's fading fast. I'm only on a six-month contract, and it's coming up to the time when you start wondering if it's time to look around again. There is a mega-reshuffle going on at work, so do I stay in the hope that I get a good job in the new structure, or... I like the people here, but there's a new boss due...hmm... decision postponed for a week or two.

I started this blog when I hated my old job, and realised that all I really wanted in life was to be At Home With Herbie. Economically, however, if that home is to be something with walls and a roof, and not a caravan, I can't stay home for ever. ( Though I've been looking at ruins in Portugal, thinking, I could learn Portuguese, and roof-tiling, and plumbing, and...)

Still, if it comes to people putting their brave pants on, I could learn a lesson or two from the latest fund-raising effort at Greyhound Gap - spending a night in the horribly haunted Derby Gaol. If they can face their worst fears, maybe it's time to face mine (not having indoor plumbing or heating for any length of time). There are worse things in life than a composting toilet. (The ones at Aysgarth Falls in the Yorkshire Dales have a warning on one door: Extra Wide Seat - Children May Need Supervision. I guess someone found that out the hard way.)

Is He Mobile?

A moment of misunderstanding with a friend. I was explaining to her that my father visited at lunchtimes, and would take the dogs for a walk if they wanted to go. "Oh," she said, "is he mobile?" "Yes," I said, "he's only 72, he can still get about fine." Laughter at the other end. "Herbie, I meant." Yes, he's still mobile. It may not seem that way from photos, since they almost all show him lying down (normal position for greyhounds) but Herbie does actually manage a couple of 45-minute walks a day.

He's a bit saggy from the prednisone - seen from above, he's wasp-waisted - and he's got the equivalent of a squashed tennis ball under his jaw. Which is why I asked the Harry Edwards sanctuary to send him healing. It's not as if anything else is working now.

Dem Bones, Dem Bones

...dem half-chewed messy leg bones - or how to keep a pair of dogs very happy. There's only one butcher, about 20 miles away, that will give you huge lumps of sawn-off cow leg to take away, everyone else mutters about EC regulations, so yesterday I had to make the trek past all the obstacles that clog our roads in summer. The things we do for love.

One person who must be celebrating at the moment is Raven and Cypher's person. Raven has come through her bone marrow transplant and is now lymphoma-free! The Australians are way ahead of us on this - it wasn't ever mentioned as an option here, and Herbie went to Cambridge Vet School for first diagnosis, one of the top places for cancer treatment. I probably couldn't have afforded it, even with insurance, but maybe one day it will become more available. Or maybe we'll find out why lymphoma is so common in dogs, and be able to avoid it.

I think Holly's jaw has become permanently stretched from yesterday's bones.

An Afternoon at Jerry Green

There's a Jerry Green sanctuary at Thirsk, not far from us, and we went along this afternoon for their annual dog show. I always take family, so they can talk me out of coming home with a wonky dog or three. Today's favourite "wonky dog" was Grace, a black and white lurcher bitch, minus most of her tail, and with a sore nose from pushing her face through the wire. Unfortunately the card on her run says she doesn't get on well with other dogs, and needs to be homed as an only dog. Oh well.

I won some dog treats and a dog frisbee in their tombola, and we managed (just) not to be rained on, so it was a good afternoon. The thing that always makes me sad about lurchers and greyhounds in rescues is that they have such thin, pipe-cleaner-y tails. Once they've been in a home for a while, their tails build up muscles from wagging. You can see immediately if a sighthound has had much of a life.

Herbie picked up remarkably on Monday, with the cooler weather, and ran away when I tried to take him to the vets. He's done this before, and I need to learn to distinguish between "I'm hot, leave me alone" and "I'm dying here". In Terry Pratchett's novels, one of the three witches was found lying with a sign pinned to her chest saying "I ATEN'T DEAD" (for when she'd gone on her mental travels, borrowing animals' minds), and if Herbie could write I'm sure he'd have something similar. Though possibly better spelled - he's a fastidious dog.

Churchill's Motto

During the Second World War, Churchill's motto was, apparently, "KBO - Keep Buggering On." That pretty much sums up where I'm at, just now. Herbie seems more subdued, so I'm taking him to the vets tomorrow for painkillers. He's not really interested in being patted, now that the nodes in his shoulders are so big, and I'm beginning to wonder if he's more uncomfortable than he's letting on.

He's still wanting food (and how), still wanting walks, and will stand on your head to get at a fresh bone, but even so, I have a faint sense that he is slowly, imperceptibly slipping away.

Holly is trying to roast herself to a crisp in the front garden, because I'm using the strimmer in the back garden. What with one thing and another, the wild patch at the back has grown a whole lot wilder, and I know I've got some redcurrant bushes in there somewhere...

Angel Dog Maggie

Sad news from Emily: Maggie has gone. So brave, and strong for so long. No more words, but my thoughts are with the humans and dogs who knew her.

Wow, Garlic Works

The nose situtation is better, after only a week. Not perfect, but better, and no garlic smells. I'm not sure he should have 1,000mg a day for long periods, but I'll keep going for now. It's also supposed to help keep fleas away. He's become very pill-shy, he's had to have so many during his months of chemo, but soft capsules wrapped in ham can still get past his pill-detector. All I'm giving him at the moment is garlic and a daily selenium pill (50mcg), plus a 500mg arginine capsule opened up and sprinkled on his food. I've tested the arginine, and it doesn't taste of anything, so it hasn't put him off his food. It's one of the key ingredients in Hills' canine cancer tinned food, and is supposed to have some effect. The oncologist said cancer fed on amino acids from the dog's muscles, so supplements shouldn't harm the dog or feed the cancer... not sure how that works....

Huge scare from Holly on Friday night, when she chased a rabbit and overheated. She staggered back to me, then keeled over. It was a muggy, humid evening, warm even at half past seven, and we were a mile from the road. She just lay in a patch of ground elder, her tongue hanging onto the ground, her breath rasping. I carried her back to the road (with some difficulty, and many stops for breath) at which point she decided she could plod the last 200 yards home. It's taught me not to let her off lead in hot weather. She has no internal "hmm, best not, eh?" mechanism to tell her to slow down.

So, still here, but I'm worried about Emily over at Life with the Dogs...