So yeah, I'm back in the chemo ward for another dose to treat The Blood Thingie--a blood disorder that my doctors describe as "a major bummer, but it won't kill you."
They suggested another round of chemo in an attempt to halt the progression of nerve damage that has numbed my feet and is gradually creeping up my legs. They're even hoping for possible nerve regeneration as some patients with similar conditions have recently experienced through an ongoing, low-level chemo maintenance program.
Whatever it takes, folks. Whatever it takes.
After my first infusion Friday, I returned home not feeling all that great. Rituxan isn't the hair-loss-sick-as-a-dog type of chemo, but I did have to take a few drugs to prevent a possible reaction and the cumulative affect of everything left me a little queasy, lightheaded, and exhausted. Now would be a good time to take a nap.
I had just closed my eyes when Olivia came to the side of my bed and stared at me. She never joins me on the bed despite my encouragement that it's okay, girl, really. Jump! Jump! Instead, she prefers her oh, so deliciously smelly pillow on the floor.
This time though, to my surprise, Olivia jumped on the bed, towering over me and still just staring. She methodically sniffed my body up and down, up and down, sniff sniff sniff. Then she circled two or three times and spooned my side, resting her knobby little head across my chest. With my arms wrapped around my dog, smelling of oatmeal shampoo and froggy breath, we drifted off to sleep until a ringing phone woke us up three hours later.
Olivia's nose, that canine marvel equipped with more than 220 million olfactory receptors, told her that something was off. Something was coursing through her human's veins that didn't belong there. Something had to be done to comfort her human.
And that's just what my sweet girl did.
Even now, 15 months after losing my sweet Elvis, I still hear from readers who loved a dog they only knew from my newspaper column.
This week, a reader sent me a photo of one article (see left) that he's kept posted on his refrigerator since it was published in 2007. He wrote:
"Today, I re-read your article about Elvis for the first time since 2007 and it made me smile once again, just as it did then. I decided to contact you to see how Elvis was doing and of course, upon searching for your contact information, came across the article about Elvis passing last February. Needless to say, I started crying right at my desk...."
And yesterday, on Facebook, somebody else posted: "Just got swarmed by greyhounds at the GG Meet & Greet. Love love love. Thinking of Elvis, the one who made me love them."
Everybody thinks that their dog is special. And everybody would be right because in their eyes and their hearts, their dog is indeed special. But there was something about Elvis that enabled people to see what I saw: a sweet and gentle spirit who came to represent the face of racing greyhounds.
How I miss my lovely, loving boy. And how proud I am of his legacy.
If you read my Pet Tales column in the San Francisco Chronicle on Wednesday, you know that lately I've been hearing "footsteps" behind me when I'm walking Olivia.
After being stumped and confused the first few times I heard these footsteps, I've come to believe they belong to my mom. She's with me, walking alongside me just as we used to do when we'd walk our dogs together before her sudden passing in 2009. Oh, how I miss her.
Now I know what you're thinking: maybe missing my mother has me hearing things, right? Well, let's ask the dog.
Yes, the dog. Because I walking Olivia around our quiet neighborhood last week, doing the usual woolgathering about really important stuff. You know, like what to have for dinner and if "Nashville" was a repeat tonight, when once again I heard the footsteps. As always, not thinking about it, I stepped aside to let the person behind me pass before I realized that--yet again--there was no one there. Nothing but air, just like the other half dozen occurrences.
This time, however, Olivia reacted. With her perked ears looking like two little pup tents, she put on the brakes and stared behind us. She clearly saw something that wasn't visible to my myopic eyes. I crouched down on one knee so my face was level with hers and followed her gaze. Was there a flirty squirrel somewhere? Maybe a stray dog, injured bird, or crazed stalker hiding behind a bush just waiting to slash my throat?
What was holding my dog's attention?
Nothing. At least nothing that I could see. The only movement was the leaves gently rustling in the soft spring breeze. No cars. No people. No animals. I waited a few minutes to see if something--anything--materialized, but it didn't, so I tugged at Olivia's leash. "C'mon girl," I said. "Let's go."
But our walk was interrupted because Olivia was intrigued by whatever she was seeing. For the next half mile, she kept stopping and twisting her neck to look behind us. This dog couldn't have been more preoccupied if there was a barbecued pork chop trailing us. Each time I followed her gaze and again each time--nothing.
Nothing to the naked eye, that is. If I questioned the footsteps before, Olivia confirmed that I'm not imagining things. Call it what you may, but one thing is for sure: we are not alone on these walks.
April was a busy month, what with working a couple extra weekends at my "day" job and new writing assignments with the San Francisco Chronicle. But it's all good, no complaints. I mean, too much work is better than none at all, right?
Plus, I'm really enjoying these new writing gigs. Of course, "Pet Tales" is my baby because what better project for an animal-loving writer than to write about animals, eh? Hard to believe that the column is going on 10+ years now. I still love it though and truly feel a bond with every pet that appears each Wednesday, such as the beautiful Abby spotlighted in today's column. Next week, stay tuned for my girl, Olivia (please, humor me with the occasional nepotism).
But more about these new features. They're of the human-interest variety and turning out to be a lot of fun. I've always believed that if you ask the right questions, everyone has a story to tell.
My first article was about Riley Quinn, a high school teenager who was born with one arm, yet the kid's a star athlete on his high school's basketball, football, and baseball teams. Talk about inspirational: I'll whine for weeks when I sight a gray hair.
My second piece caught up with former Golden State Warrior great, Joe Ellis. What a nice guy. Humble, gentle, modest, and a wonderful example to the children he now teaches in basketball clinics. My next article will be about The Challengers, an amazing baseball league specifically for children with special needs.
Of course, anyone that knows me will appreciate the irony that someone who eschews sports now has articles appearing on the front page of the sports section.
Life's just full of surprises, isn't it?
A few weeks ago, I thought it odd when I found a neatly folded, crisp $20 bill at the bottom of my purse. Odd because I'm not one to throw money or loose change in my purse. Ever. I immediately insert the flat (never folded) cash in my wallet, taking care to even file the bills in order of value. I also hang my house and car keys in the exact same spot every day. Yes, I might have a few OCD habits.
Still, I didn't give the rogue $20 bill another thought. It was a nice surprise, even by way of its mysterious appearance.
But the other day I was rummaging through my handbag and whoa,whoa, whoa! There it was again. Another crisp $20 bill lying neatly folded on the bottom of my purse, underneath my wallet and sunglass case.
Now this time I was perplexed.
Bear in mind, I keep an incredibly tidy purse (okay, OCD habit #3). No balled up of wads of tissues or expired coupons. No crusty powder compacts, ratty notebooks or spare readers. No rancid lipsticks, fuzzy Lifesavers, stale perfume samples, crumpled maps or faded photos. I take what I need and need what I take: wallet, iPhone, sunglasses, lip gloss, small bottle of hand sanitizer (OCD habit #4) and that's it. Period.
Plus, my purse is never left unattended (gulp: OCD habit #5). And why would someone randomly drop money in an unattended purse anyway? It's not like I hang out with benevolent rich folk who go around doling out $20 for the heck of it. Besides, my pals are more likely to spring for sushi, a nice Italian dinner, or a chocolate martini. They aren't ones to flick a bill in my direction and drawl, "Go treat yourself to something purdy."
Mind you, I'm not complaining about these mysterous cash offerings, I'm just stumped. If not a little richer.
It was a beautiful spring day, albeit an unusually muggy one, which is so not good for curly hair. The other day I went to a new hairdresser for a slight trim and ended up getting bushwhacked. And so, coupled with the humidity, I'm currently sporting a less-than-flattering Afro. Attractive on Beyonce maybe, not so much on me.
Which is why I felt the rare need to go shopping, a task that I normally eschew. I wanted to pick up a new lip gloss, maybe a new top, earrings or burqa. Anything to make me feel better about this rat's nest that I'm stuck with for the next few weeks.
But in grabbing my car keys and heading toward the garage, I did something I shouldn't have done: I made eye contact with Olivia.
Big mistake.
Immediately she jumped up from her pillow and began dancing in circles around me, bursting with joy at the prospect of a walk. When I tried ignoring her, she started doing her playful downward dog position, bony butt in air and long skinny tail spinning like a helicopter propeller. I had to admit, she looked pretty darned cute, but really, mama felt like a troll. Mama needed to feel good about herself. Mama needed a little retail therapy.
"Sweetheart," I said with just a teeny bit of guilt. "We'll go for a walk later, I promise." And I grabbed my purse and started to leave.
But then I thought about my playful dog who spends weekdays alone while I'm at the office. My adoring dog who lives and breathes for my presence. My sweet dog who asks for nothing but my company. My devoted dog who loves me unconditionally, bad haircuts and all. I looked at the light in her eyes, thrilled with the promise of a walk. With me.
I set down my purse, hung up my keys, and put on her leash. And as we began our three-mile walk it dawned on me that maybe mama didn't need retail therapy after all. Because it was a glorious sunny day and the park was bursting with spring flowers and falling cherry blossoms that floated through the air like pink snow. Olivia was at my side, prancing with joy and looking up at me every now and then with happy, loving eyes.
Soon, I forgot about trivial things like bad haircuts. Instead, I was relishing this interlude with nature, this precious time with my dog. And I was feeling pretty good.
Turned out my solution wasn't retail therapy, but "tail" therapy--something Olivia was happy to provide.
Did you know there was a dog saint? And that it was a Greyhound? Yeah, me neither! This is a rather timely revelation, considering that the new Pope has named himself after Saint Francis, the Patron Saint of Animals. Here's the scoop:
"Saint Guinefort was a 13th century dog that received local veneration as a saint after miracles were reported at his grave.
Guinefort the greyhound belonged to a knight who lived in a castle near Lyon [France]. One day, the knight went hunting, leaving his infant son in the care of Guinefort. When he returned, he found the nursery in chaos - the cot was overturned, the child was nowhere to be seen and Guinefort greeted his master with bloody jaws.
Believing Guinefort to have devoured his son, the knight slew the dog. He then heard a child crying; he turned over the cot and found his son lying there, safe and sound, along with the body of a viper. Guinefort had killed the snake and saved the child.
On realizing the mistake the family dropped the dog down a well, covered it with stones and planted trees around it, setting up a shrine for Guinefort. Guinefort became recognized by locals as a saint for the protection of infants."
According to Wikipedia, the cult of this dog saint persisted for many centuries, until the 1930s, despite the prohibitions of the Catholic Church.
Maybe the new Pope will "paws" for thought about this because hey, if ever a creature deserved sainthood, it would have to be a dog.
Can I have an "amen?"
