The Shit No One Tells You About Poodles

(a long read you may want to get a cup of tea)

Our Little Hero

I was walking Hugo, my black standard poodle out in the meadow at the back of our rural property two and a half years ago, May. I was half daydreaming, marveling at the clouds, the clear sky. Hugo was sniffing the edges of our route, unraveling the story of what had happened in the meadow over the past twenty-four hours. I saw evidence of coyote, deer and rabbit poop but I’m sure he smelled much more.

There are moments in life that are so intense, the feeling and image seem to imprint permanently onto our consciousness. This became one in a series of those moments. Out of our wandering routine, Hugo stumbled and collapsed, ending in brief and intense writhing and yelps. I remember seeing all of his teeth bared in pain and his wide stricken eyes.

I instinctively fell to my knees, repeating his name, as if to protect him from whatever had just attacked him. My senses on alert. My eyes scanning the underbrush. I pulled him close, assuring him, and hoping to keep him conscious all at the same time. These were knee jerk reactions. Things I hadn’t thought through. He settled quickly in my arms and I told him over and over that he was okay, neither of us having any idea what had just happened.

He then sat with his right paw up––classic poodle pose––but could not straighten his arm. I figured that he had dislocated his shoulder or twisted something. I gathered sixty pounds of black standard poodle and carried him about a thousand feet to the house, something we had done several times in his long life, when we found ourselves on the last half of our circular route, in deep snow or on the wrong side of a wet and muddy, freshly ploughed field, and beyond a point of no return.

As a puppy, on his first check up the doctor said these guys need a lot of exercise, which I figured. In fact, I lost ten pounds in the first few months just trying to keep up with him. And for over a decade we’ve been low-key adventurers, taking agility classes once a week mostly for the mental stimulation. Early on he proved his agility by leaping from a standing position over a stack of pop cans onto the service counter of Canadian Tire. All of us were speechless. They still talk about it. I built him a fenced in ‘poodle-yard’ where we’ve played Frisbee and monster, tag, had snowball fights, his lithe body leaping yards, or just sat and watched the sun disappear behind the trees. And, living where we do, we’ve been able to visit the beach for regular swims. We both like it most when I hold him close to me, heart to heart, as I walk chest-deep parallel to the shore. We’ve also enjoyed occasional visits to hotels in nearby cities––the exploration of empty stairwells, convention floors, ballrooms. I even sneak him into the exercise rooms. We get each other. He lets me clip him on the kitchen island and tolerates tooth brushings, wearing booties in the snow, and the adornment of various sweaters and jackets. Like the lyrics of Moon River, he is my Huckleberry friend.

I took him to the vet the next morning for x-rays. Later that morning the vet called while I was working at home––I have a small personal training studio we built during the pandemic. My partner Bernard took the call and then knocked on my studio door. He told me to sit down. I hate it when people say sit down. Knees go rubbery. “Cancer,” is all I hear. My face collapses. Tears immediately. I clutch Bernard for support. The x-rays showed webbing in the bone, in his arm, characteristic of bone cancer. It’s deafening and overwhelming. Later, picking him up at the vet, the vet told us they would do tests to see if it had spread to his lungs, there was talk of amputation and just that vast unknown as to whether we had days, weeks or months left. There would be more tests. I researched everything from prosthetics to cancer in black dogs. That night Hugo and I slept on the main floor, since he couldn’t handle the stairs. I lay on the floor, with Hugo on the day bed above me, his paws hanging over the edge where I could reach up and touch his rough toes. I recall thinking: last night you had a dislocated shoulder, and tonight you have cancer––last night was so much easier.

There are three of us, out in the country, moving to each other’s rhythms. And Hugo from the time he scoped out the house as a puppy, has been the hub of this family. He is our sun and our son. He anchors us to kindness, to nature, to rhythms, to a language we weren’t aware of. He is our entertainment. He draws us out of ourselves. He is all that makes sense in this world. Hugo is the focal point. Our lives and our joy have revolved around him. To see him smiling as I tug at the Frisbee, or chase after him when he cleverly removes the hood from my parka, the whites of his eyes looking back, reminds me of what is most important in my life. Simplicity. Play.

Soon he was on painkillers that required lots of coaxing, with various kinds of cheese, treats, pill pockets and even pate for humans, none of which worked long term. I finally discovered a doggie food paté that has worked ever since.

I immediately contacted dog owner friends for help. A friend in Ottawa told me there was a good oncology vet hospital there and another in Toronto told me about a place there. I had no idea that vet oncology was a field. But to make any of this happen I needed a referral and it was the weekend. The days were a blur of panic. I felt like I was trying to outpace this spreading cancer. There was a veterinary college even further afield in Guelph Ontario––but again only accessible with a referral. Every time I tried to leave a message at these various prospects I would start to cry. It was like trying to run or scream in a nightmare. I couldn’t say the words my dog has cancer. Soon calls were returned, but dates of assessments in Ottawa were way too far into the future.

And who would amputate his arm? My vet? Did people have funerals for amputated limbs? I researched prosthetics for dogs, carts, buggies––and my bank account. (Fortunately I had been paying pet insurance since Hugo was a pup.) Would he be with us a week? A few months? Should I call my friend the pastor? Meanwhile Hugo was napping and seemingly depressed, though the warmer weather was approaching, which always slows him down and the painkillers were likely making him drowsy. Though all his behavior became a suspected symptom.

On days we would have normally taken Hugo for a swim to cool off, my partner and I sat in the cool shade with Hugo, doing nothing much but feeling terribly, terribly sad while he rested. Our life had just taken an unexpected turn. It had been the three of us since he arrived as a puppy. Reality and a distant future had slammed us head on. I was no different then, than that kid I’d been who learned he would outlive his childhood dog, and who learned his childhood dog was ill.

I had been so blessed over the years, fetch in any season at the beach or in the poodle yard, long afternoons of gardening while he snoozed in the shade of the porch, beer o’clock in the late afternoon, the fact that he welcomed each client who came through the door, whether they wanted a welcoming or not. His wiggling wagging happiness every morning, as if he had some great news to relate to us over our coffee and shared toast. Our weekend walks down the escarpment. Him waiting for me at the front door or galloping towards the car when I arrived home. I imagine the love in his heart and his joy at seeing me, matches my own. All overwhelming. It all seemed so good. As my partner said, he and I had been joined at the hip––for almost a fifth of my life, and all of his.

Within days––though it seemed like eternity––our vet called and had referred us to Animal Health Partners in Toronto where they have an oncology section. I was so incredibly relieved. Hugo had tests, x-rays, a CT-scan, a biopsy, emerging victorious, limping less, tugging the vet-tech behind him. On our early consultations in Toronto we were told that amputation might be the course of treatment. Then he would spend several days at the clinic and slowly learn to get his bearings and in about a month he would be used to it. The doctor told us certain breeds deal with this better than others, and he was a good candidate, being so active. It was only days before that second trip, and our resolution to go through with the amputation, that the good news came there would be no need, just chemo and a zolendronate infusion (common for people with osteoporosis) to strengthen the bone. We asked about radiation therapy for him but there is only one facility in Ontario and there was a waiting list.

He had most, though not all of the signs of multiple myeloma, a treatable but not curable disease. Treatable, another relief. But his liver ‘numbers’ skyrocketed after the first chemo session so it was decided I would administer a different chemo in the form of a pill, from home, along with painkillers, and something to normalize his liver. My phone alarm kept me on track with pills, strategically timed at bedtime and eight hours later, and throughout the day. But he was losing weight, and finally we had to start a round of prednisone.

In the meantime, I splurged on a very groovy stroller. Soon we were retracing our favorite paths, but on wheels, Hugo with his fuzzy black head sticking out the top of the jogger, like he owned the road, or simply lying with his nose out the front, taking in all the familiar smells. The odd dog would come up to check it out, sneeze their approval. I would lift him out at our favourite places for a sniff. Life was getting a little more normal. For all the activity though, I couldn’t shake the heaviness that everything had changed.

To add to the mix, he had evidence of a herniated disc on his neck, seen on the x-rays. I recalled a time at the beach when he was plowed into by a much larger dog (I keep him away from strange dogs and this was unexpected), which likely caused the injury. Anyway through either trying to get one of the pills down his throat or through climbing into the stroller the injury was aggravated and he resisted any touching, walked with his head low, and couldn’t turn or back up. He was now limping and with his head down. I was worried the cancer had spread to his spine. I emailed the doctor and he told me to wait until the weekend to see if any of the new painkillers might help. And, on the weekend we turned a corner, he could move his head and lift it, and his hobble was gradually lessening.

We made bi-weekly visits to Toronto for the infusion, and soon he had gone from a hobble to a limp. One day he took it upon himself to march down the driveway and lead me all the way to the lookout––our regular walk over a kilometre away. When we returned he was panting but seeming to smile. We took short walks on the property and he enjoyed just lying in the grass, supported by his arms. I even did some gardening under his watchful eye and for a moment it was like old times. I was so grateful.

Late in the summer a space opened up for radiation at the Ontario Veterinary College in Guelph, a thriving university town on the other side of Toronto, and by late summer we were informed that we would get an appointment along with tests to see if he was eligible. Another CT-scan, more blood tests and it was discovered that no, he didn’t have multiple myeloma, although having treated him for it was a positive; but he had a rarer form of cancer––singular osseus plasmacytoma––and likely localized to the lesion in his arm. This meant he could receive radiation therapy weekly for five sessions.

Five weeks in a row I drove to Guelph, skirting heavy Toronto traffic with his heavy head pressing onto my forearm from the backseat––he is my navigator. I found an air bnb with llamas, alpacas, and chickens on the outskirts of town. We followed scents back and forth in the chilly autumn darkness under a full moon, had our dinners together––me a falafel, him something yummy that wasn’t my home cooking––listened to distant trains, and I watched his poetic silhouette as he slept on a blanket on the cool floor––our adventure.

I left him at the college at 8am the following mornings for about six hours. After dropping him I would sit in the car with my head on the steering wheel blinking back tears. I was moved by his bravery, his vulnerability, and his wagging confidence in our doctor who would come to meet us in the waiting room. As they walked down the corridor together he appeared so small, but so trusting. When I picked him up six hours later, my tears were out of thanks, out of relief. At the end of our five weeks of treatment, we got to ring the end-of-treatment  bell while the whole staff clapped and he got a very impressive certificate of completion of his treatment.

It’s not unlike the feeling of victory that accompanied us several years ago when we finally gathered the courage to enter a sanctioned agility competition. Hugo shocked me and came away with three ribbons. (We would have had four but were disqualified for one of the events, our best, ‘jumpers’. Hugo is a natural jumper, but the dog ahead of us peed on the starting gate and I still think it distracted the judges more than Hugo.) It was a long day, and our agility teacher was in shock as I texted her pictures of Hugo with ribbon after ribbon. It was our day; all those drives through the winter snow, fall colours and spring nights with the wind blowing through the car, to our classes, had paid off.

The process hasn’t been without its doubters, more than one media article criticizing people who keep their dogs alive regardless of the pain of treatment. I found these articles one-sided and sensationalist and completely detached from the process. They were glorified hearsay for the most part, nothing documented. The kind of article that was unsubstantiated, never actually feet-on-the-ground facts. Yes, words like chemo and radiation do sound harsh out of context. They made good content and filler. Others, in my more immediate orbit throughout my day reminded me that it all boils down to the quality of life––raised eyebrows––as if I weren’t aware of this. No he has not had painful side effects, harsh as those words chemo and radiation sound. Though during the neck incident accompanied by his hobble I admit I questioned what I was doing.

But I never posted his condition online. I didn’t want the pity, the condolences, or the reminder that I was currently living a nightmare. This was sacred territory for me. No, I didn’t journal the experience––to do so would be too painful. Too real. And people wonder why I won’t take a vacation now that everyone is travelling, or attend a high school reunion. My days with my best friend are numbered. He is my vacation. My company. He connects me here, to nature, to the good life, to growth, stillness, seasons and decay. And I have used these extra days to read great books about animal communication and healing, and being more mindful of our intuitive connection. I meditate over him in the early morning. I try to listen harder. Keep my sadness at bay, but it’s there, I can touch it. It is the lump in my throat. The ache in my heart. I acknowledge impermanence. I see his comical black profile on our highest dune with the blazing blue sky as the backdrop. I ask the universe to fill this little being with light and keep him free from suffering.

The day my mother died she asked for pictures of him, and when my father died Hugo sat with Bernard through my eulogy in the aisle at the back of a crowded chapel, his poodle profile backlit, not a peep. These are some of the layers of this friendship.

Soo we were off painkillers enjoying our walks again––focussed more on endurance––we stopped Frisbee since there was the possibility of breaking the bone if there was too much force, and no crazy runs at the beach, but he seemed quite happy to have me on the other end of the leash, so I wouldn’t wander off––not likely. He seemed to understand the new tempo. We have our check-ups and even visit a chiropractor occasionally. He has a small sprinkling of alopecia on his elbow where the radiation took place, and a patch of smooth-as-velvet black skin in the same area where fine hair is just starting to grow back. It is our badge of honor, by no means our wound.