by Fay Jacobs.
Years ago my father told me that the little infuriating things in life and even some of the really big bad things arent half so bad if you wind up with a good story to tell.
Its been his best advice to me especially since the rest from that era tended toward "It wouldnt kill you to wear a dress to your sisters wedding" and "Youll never find a husband if you buy a house with another girl."
Weve come a long way since then. For the record, wearing a dress to the wedding didnt kill me, but the shoes almost did. And buying the house with Bonnie pretty much covered that finding-a-husband thing. And go figureDad even sent us an anniversary card this year.
But the advice about turning lemons into stories about lemonade really stuck. I try to find something worth smiling about in just about every stupid, annoying or awful thing that befalls me. Its gotten me through some tough stuff.
But I thought Id met my Waterloo last fall when Bonnie and I found out our dog Max was sick. There was nothing to smile about - not his three surgeries to remove the cancerous cells, not the uncertain prognosis and surely not the staggering vet bills.
But now that its spring and womans best friend is doing better than expected, I realize that despite our fragile feelings on the subject there are some tales to wag.
First there was the ritzy New York Animal Medical Center our vet referred us to after she removed a cancerous tumor from Maxs leg.
Virtually indistinguishable from a people hospital, the Center had signs directing visitors to Admitting, Cardiac Care, Dialysis, Surgery and, of course, the Cashier. "Dr. McKnight to Oncology" crackled the loud speaker as scrub-coated aides and concerned "parents" accompanied spaniels, retrievers and Siamese from place to place.
I dont know what this says about the state of our own hospitals, but one thing I didnt see was a hallway full of moaning, abandoned patients.
In Admitting, Bonnie, Max and I sat amid other patients and their companions. Nearby, a woman clutched a squiggling tube sock to her chest. This worried me, as I refused to see ANY movie at Midway until Anaconda departed, lest I see even a poster.
So I was greatly relieved when a bald rodent popped out of the sock. Somebody get the Rogaine. The womans beloved ferret was being treated for hair loss.
To our right sat an Armani-clad cover girl type with a white poodle shaved into topiary; on our left was an unshaven, rumpled bag man clutching a cat carrier. He got the same VIP service as everyone else.
When our turn came, Max went to Oncology, where his new specialist ordered tests to see if Maxs aggressive form of cancer would respond to radiation. He would stay for six weeks of treatment at a cost roughly equivalent to our spending the same six weeks at the Plaza but there would be a 95 percent chance of remission.
Unfortunately, tests revealed a cancerous lymph node and poor Max underwent the knife again eliminating the radiation option and sending us home to a course of Schnauzer chemotherapy.
Its true. Not funny. Especially not the sobering visit to the hospital cashier or the added insult of having to drive back to the beach on Thanksgiving Eve the worst travel day of the year. We had 10 hours to creep and weep our way down the Jersey Turnpike with a groggy post-op dog.
But from there things got so weird we had to laugh.
First it was the pills. Doggie chemo is taken orally. Not, however, willingly.
For the first week, we spent ten minutes, three times a day prying open Maxs jaws, depositing five dollars worth of pills, and having him spit them back at us until - worn to a frazzle by Bonnies refusal to give up - hed gulp.
By week two he pretended to swallow and ran, making us race to find whatever chair, sofa or shoe he used for a spittoon.
So we started embedding the fistful of pills in people food smoked salmon cream cheese, Kohr Brothers custard, and pate. Maxs palette was getting so sophisticated he should have been doing the restaurant reviews.
Along with the chemo he took Tagament. Great. With my gall bladder gone I no longer subsist on Tums but Im paying $9 a week for antacids anyway. Is this fair?
Another medication had Max constantly gulping water. Every night from November to March, Bonnie or I had to drag our butts out of bed in the middle of the night so Max could visit a fire hydrant and impersonate it. We had one, two and sometimes three dog nights.
Would he use newspaper? No way. Wed say "Please, Max, its just the Beachcomber, go ahead....wait, heres an old issue of Letters from Camp. I swear, Steve wont mind...." But no. Lucky for her, June Allyson missed Max modeling Depends.
Totally sleep deprived, we barely survived the holidays, our workweeks, and the inevitable exhaustion-caused snippiness.
Meanwhile, between pees, Max slept like the Gerber Baby since his regimen also included drowse-inducing Benedryl.
After spending our nights jumping up and down to let him out, we got some measure of revenge every morning when we wouldnt let sleeping dog lie. "Wake up! Max, Rise and Shine" wed holler, shaking him awake. One morning I thought he said "Ten more minutes...."
Meanwhile, as his thirst subsided, ravenous hunger took over.
Once a picky eater, Max started swallowing everything but his bowl. And who could deny a poor ailing creature?
Before, when friendly Rehoboth shopkeepers gave him treats, hed just push them around. "He doesnt like to eat out," Id sheepishly explain. Now, Max shoves his furry face through the door at Critter Beach, rushes for the dog cookies and runs up a tab.
On one beach commute, our formerly polite pooch waited until Bonnie was busy paying the Bay Bridge toll, lunged up like Jaws and just when you thought it was safe to go through the toll booth separated Bonnie from her Big Mac.
Naturally, Max started porking up and bursting out of his tiny Canine Kline t-shirts. Short of sending him to Jenny Craig, we tried lo-cal Rawhide chews. Now hes addicted to them and needs Rawhidette gum.
Lest you think the dog is suffering, let me tell you hes having the time of his life. He goes with us everywhere, like a pampered European pet - including being invited into certain Rehoboth coffee bars which should, in the name of propriety, remain nameless. He can, however, tell you where to find terrific Biscotti.
And hes far more socially plugged in than we are. Max and I crossed Rehoboth Avenue last week to hear somebody call "Hi ya Max!" What am I, chopped liver?
We were in front of Gabbys one day when a friend of P-Flags Meredith Hunter (also a Schnauzer companion) ran out and asked if Max would wait a minute Meredith would be right out to see him. I feel like his personal assistant "Have your people bark at my people and well do lunch".
The dog turned 13 last month ("Max will be barking the Torah at 11:30 with luncheon to follow") and celebrated his Bar Mitzvah. Okay, okay, I realize we may be in denial, but Bonnie and I have been sublimating our fear of losing him and enjoying whatever time we have.
But now that the chemo treatment is over, its a little harder. When he was swallowing 14-k gold pills, we felt we were being pro-active. Now we just wait to see what happens.
Were hoping for the best, but know that things can go downhill fast. But in the meantime, we feel like weve done everything possible for Max even if weve been overly permissive parents. In fact, I think weve turned him into a spoiled SCHNAP (Schnauzer American Prince).
Last week during my Ellen-Comes-Out Party he begged hummus and pita, accepted an offer of boursin cheese and crackers, snagged several slurps of Merlot, and, in a brazen move, made off with a slice of pizza while my back was turned.
If he lives, were gonna kill him.
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5/16/97 Issue. Copyright 1997 by CAMP Rehoboth, Inc. All rights reserved.