[Dailydrool] Young Charlie's final, epic summer project

[Elizabeth]

Some try growing giant vegetables during the summer, but this year Charlie has been growing a tumor on his spleen for his final summer project. This tumor is a terminal thing that golden retrievers are predisposed to, but then again Charlie has always had a thing for long-legged dogs. 

We do not know if the tumor is a hemangiosarcoma or a lymphoma, and we decided not to put Charlie through major abdominal surgery just to find out. We are assuming it is the former, and I am forcing capsules of Yunnan Baiyo down Charlie’s throat every other day to try to keep the tumor from getting brittle too quickly and to boost his blood-clotting ability. He also gets a little boiled beef liver in his breakfast to ward off anemia.

He was diagnosed by ultrasound in May, and his vet says it is usually three months after diagnosis that the tumor detonates, causing lethal, massive internal bleeding. We do not know if the tumor is a hemangiosarcoma or a lymphoma, and we decided not to put Charlie through major abdominal surgery to find out. In May it was the size of a grapefruit. I believe it is starting to be large enough to be detectable. Charlie looks thicker in the middle and is heavier.

I feel as if I am living with a ticking time bomb. 

In a strange twist of coincidence, Charlie’s friend Lola, who lives with our longtime friend Jennifer, was diagnosed in April with the exact same thing. Some may remember Jennifer as the caregiver for bassets Owen and Macy, who had no intention of ever being a sunbeam for Jesus. Macy had a strong personality and opinions, like our late Elsinore, and the two of them provided me with much to write about in Drool posts years ago. 

Macy died in 2007, less than a year after Charlie became ours. Owen died in April 2015, with Elsinore following him like the surviving partner of a long marriage on July 16 of that year. Macy’s successor, Chloe, who was long and low like a basset but something entirely different, died last May. Lola, who was not a basset but looked as if she might be part hound, died two days ago, three months after her diagnosis. Charlie is the last surviving member of that pack, the matching bookend to Macy, the first. 

Jennifer told me that Lola had asked for a treat in the late afternoon and taken it outside. When Jennifer went out to the yard to check on her, Lola did not look right and her gums were white. Jennifer carried her into the house, where Lola had a seizure. They went to the ER, and Lola died after being given the pre euthanasia sedative. I feel as if I have been given a glimpse of the not too far off future for Charlie, and it looks grim. But it also looks as if this kind of tumor, when it eventually kills, kills quickly.

Since his diagnosis, I have been constantly observing and evaluating Charlie, not leaving the house for any longer than necessary, and putting off some routine health stuff of my own so to minimize the time he’s left by himself in the house. I am grateful to have a veterinary ER about 10 minutes from the house. I am also grateful in a way to the current pandemic because it relieves me of having to excuse myself from group activities. Not everyone understands wanting to stay home in case the dog dies.

To complement his summer project, Charlie has also been working on losing his eyesight to thick cataracts and his hearing. I must speak in my outdoor voice now for him to hear me. He has begun to startle at sudden, loud sounds, like me sneezing or dropping something hard on a wood floor. Losing his hearing has also caused him to become clingy and prone to separation anxiety. 

For years I have called him young Charlie because he has had such a youthful approach to life, a joy for being naughty with a merry twinkle in his eye. But I cannot remember the last time he has been naughty, the last time he snatched something of Ken’s to run through the house with or taken the forbidden pink purse off the low shelf I leave it on for him to be naughty with. It has been ages since he has asked me to play or dance with him. He no longer sings when I play the piano, and does not play with his toys anymore. Mostly he sleeps, I guess because growing a big, splendid splenic tumor takes a lot of energy, or wanders the house in search of me if I have been away from a room for too long.

Old Charlie. Old Friend. 

There are few good deaths, but the ones I find the hardest are those that come out of the blue, before one can resolve issues or say important things. My father died of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis when I was in my early thirties. It is a cruel disease. Death by suffocation. Much like covid19 is. Yet it is one that comes with the gift of time, usually at least a year, to finish loose business and to say what you want someone to know. 

The tumor growing in Charlie is like that. It comes with the gift of time to tell him everything I want him to know before he goes and to be mindful of the time I spend with him. I am no longer taking his presence for granted, or those brief, rare moments when he feels young again. When he leaves me soon, all in a hurry at the end, I do not think I will feel as if we left anything undone, he and I. That is a gift.

Elizabeth