Feeding him by hand, piece by piece until on Thursday morning when he refuses chicken and steak. He's lethargic and refuses to get off the couch.
Is this his time? I can't stand to see any creature linger. I'm the one who can be counted on to trip over Grandpa's life support machine cord.
For almost a year, I've been preparing for this day. I have his burial spot landscaped and ready.
I have a checklist of accounts to cancel: insurance, microchip...
Being prepared is not the same as being ready.
Calls are placed to his vets. Then I start plotting what last fun things Cole might want to do today. And that's when my life implodes. So much for battle readiness.
The plan is to go for a leisurely walk in the woods.
My plan, not Cole's. He opted to take off after deer and make the rest of us chase him.
My fear was that his pale gums and tongue were signs that a liver tumor had ruptured and he was bleeding internally ... and now he was finishing himself off by hunting deer. I'm closer to the golf cart in the Boonies than to home, so the cart is stolen and used as a pursuit vehicle.
When I find him, he refuses to board, he's having too much fun. Serendipity intervenes and one of his vets responds that he may be afflicted with gastric ulcers from the chemo. That would help explain how he was zooming down the trails and not keeled over yet.
Getting photo bombed by Garrett.
Another suggestion was to try cooking liver for him. I'd been out of milk for days, ditto on coffee, bread, PB, but if Cole needs something-- even if I was crossing over into my second Zen week of not going to town, this recluse makes a beeline for the grocery store.
Pete is my backup.
In case zombies attack me at Winn Dixie-- it can happen. (Reason #1588 why I dread leaving the farm).
Success: offered up a banquet of liver, steak, salmon and rotisserie chicken, he eats all the chicken.
Friday, we drop Pete off at physiotherapy and Cole has a full day of cancer staging at Auburn University.
Fancy Pants has friends in high places. He gets to stay in his best friend's office in between procedures. No kenneling for the King.
Meanwhile, Garrett and I run errands.
It's very tiring being Mum's bodyguard, BBQ chicken from Earth Fare and ice cream from Bruster's are required to sustain Garrett.
We hover around the vet school, passing the time.
Cole is sent home with a hangover...
...I'm left holding the $967 bill.
A barrel racing friend of mine always says: Go big, or go home. Pedal to the metal is the only way I know how to go through life. When it pays off, it pays off big.
Ultrasound showed that Cole's liver is still enlarged, but biopsies on liver and spleen found no sign of metastasis. The chemo he is on that is now being blamed for his inappetence, is doing its job. Considering this was the prognosis back in January:
He is one of the fortunate 30% who respond well to Palladia. He is not in remission, but we gain more time. To me that's akin to winning the lottery.
Once home, he's too tired to get out of the car.
He's cold from being anesthetized, so I jacket him... still cold...blanket him...not warming up yet. I run an extension cord out to power a heating pad.
Now, we're in business. I hang out with him for an hour reading through all the newspaper clipping Helene has sent me.
When he comes to, I try to feed him supper:
Success!
This morning, Cole is bebopping through the house hankering to chase squirrels. Doesn't appear he's ready to go. Good. Because I'm not ready either.
