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.