Can I Keep It?

Happy Birthday

Sunday was your birthday.  You would have turned fifty.  Happy birthday, Ev.

I thought about you all day.  You know, I still have your texts on my phone.  If I use my best magical thinking, I can pretend you're still here when I read them.  The first texts I ever got.  They're at the top, so sometimes I scroll and run into them.  A warm, sweet surprise. So happy birthday, Evie.

And hey.  I miss you.

Life's a Box of Chocolates

And I just got the icky maple cream one.

It's official.  Zoe has cancer.

A couple of weeks ago, we took her to Park Avenue Animal Hospital for a bone biopsy.  Carolyn McCutcheon has been taking care of my mongrel hoard for many, many years.  I trust her and respect her.  She's a bit of a House character in that she can diagnose anything on instinct.  But without the freaky addiction and angry bedside manner.

The pathology came back Monday.  Carolyn rushed it because when she got in there, she said it wasn't pretty.  The news is not good.  Zoe has a particularly aggressive form of sarcoma.  This particular kind sets up the mother ship in the bone somewhere.  In this case, it's the extreme upper femur next to the ball joint. A bad place for breakage.  After it sets up camp, it immediately sends out ninjas to the various organs of the body.  And they wait.  Quietly.  The mother ship is a selfish sarcoma.  It likes to eat its fill of bone first.  If it is removed, a chemical it sends out to the ninjas telling them to stay put, will be removed also.  And they will know it's time to attack. 

My friend, Kathy Mitchener, is one of the best veterinary oncologists in the well, just about anywhere.  She works at Angelcare.  Kathy has a new drug with high results for prolonging life, bone strength and pain management.

So that's where Zoe and I went on Tuesday.  She was so frightened, they had to sedate her.  While my big sweet dog napped peacefully to the drip of her IV, I sat on the floor with her heavy head on my lap, reading Cesar Milan and Cat Fancy magazines for two hours.

But Zoe does feel better.  So much so, I can't keep her from running.  Although at this point it's more of a hop/skip!  We're going to keep her comfortable.  Give her all the lacrosse balls she wants to tear up.  Take her out for ice cream and give her the Carmen Cone.

When Carmen was alive, Hud and I would take her out for ice cream on a hot summer day.  When one of us got to the bottom, about a four inch cone, we'd give it to her.  Whenever we go out for ice cream at The Michoacana, we still call who gets the Carmen Cone.

Only now beautiful Zoe will get the Carmen Cone. And all of the empty peanut butter jars, too.

School Days

You want to know what's stressing me out more than nursing Aida back from the edge or taking Zoe to be biopsied on Wednesday?

Boudreaux is taking an obediance class.

Bou dream beeg dreams when he baby in box. He fink when he get owt dat he get to pee on fings, leef lights on, run wid scisors, put caht in mowf.  Have big fun.  No one tell Bou fambly come wid rules.  Rules bad. No fun.

First dey make Bou wear panch and now dis?

Wate.  Bou get howt dowg for doing what Daddee want?  

Bou maybe fink school not so bad.  'Cept new necklace hurt.  Daddee need to fix for Bou.

And gib him howt dowg for pointing it owt.

 Daddee T-shirt right.  Howt dowg is silver lining for fambly dream.

What Else I've Been Doing on My Summer Vacation

Aida.  Did not eat for five days.

I have no idea what happened.  Normally, Aida wanders the house like a ghost, drifting in and out of rooms.  Stealthy.  A ninja.

Until you get in the kitchen and then she becomes a loud, hungry impatient diner at a restaurant whose appetizer was too small and has been waiting over an hour for her entree.  You know, the one who's already had two free glasses of champagne and now wants you to comp her a dessert.  That one. Loud. Noisy.  Demanding.

For five days, she laid under her bed in her bedroom.  Face to the wall.  Didn't eat.  Didn't drink.  Nothing.

We thought it might be the end. 

Aida's fifteen.  We missed her quinceanera, so she didn't get the big ball gown or the Cinderella coach to carry her cake out the the crowd of adoring relatives.  It was May 14.  The day we had to let Carmen go.  She understood.

And then I remembered the miracle cure for all felines who have seemingly lost the will the live.

*Cue the streaming rays of light, unicorns, rainbow and glitter*

 

Meat Flavored Baby Food!

 

*Cue singing bands of faeries and cherubs with candy raining down on the planet*

I swear to the almighty that cats on the brink of the Rainbow Bridge will come flailing back to Earth like the Road Runner for that stuff.  It must be cat ambrosia.

Cut to the chase.  She's fine.

Oh, it's been a slow process, nursing her back to health.  I could only feed her the teeniest bits of it at first.  She's dropped down to a skeletal four pounds.  But for a skinny old lady, she's doing all right.

There's been some drama up in here is what I'm laying down if you're picking it up.

Whew.

The Quiet One

About a week and a half ago, our poor old Zoe came up lame in her right rear leg.  She couldn't put any weight on it at all.  She was panting heavier than ususal and closely following me around.  I should have known.

Zoe didn't feel well at all.

That's the thing about Zoe.  I've never heard her whimper, even as a puppy.  She'd stumble out of the truck as a baby, shake it off, even though she landed on her head.She's never cried out loud, even though she has a booming basso profundo bark.  She never made a sound when she ran behind the studio and cut herself on some tomato cages, even though she had gutted herself.

She was about six or seven.  I let her out.  She came back inside.  All seemed normal.  Except Zoe was trailing me so closely, she posted me up at every turn.  I finally looked at her and asked what was up with her.  She looked up at me, embarrassed.  That's when I saw the little drops of blood punctuating her moves.  "What have you eaten now?" I sighed to the dog who can crack golf balls with her teeth and once ate the plastic knob off of my gear shift in the car.  I searched her mouth for the wound and found nothing.  A speck of blood dotted the floor to the left of her and I reached over to wipe it up.  It was then that I looked up and realized that I was looking inside of my dog.  A six inch gash slashed her side.  It had only cut the skin and had not punctured the fat layer so there was very little blood.  I called Hud.  He came right in and off we went to the emergency clinic.

Zoe, too big to lift, climbed into the car without a sound.  At the clinic, she laid on the floor, quietly waiting for the doctor.  All the while, silent. Calm. Stoic.

So, I really should have known. 

Hud's had to take her off running inthe last few months.  She's run to get the ball only once and carry it off to guard it.  He'd bring her home.  It's unlike her, but we chalked it up to her size and the fact that she recently turned eleven.  That's old for a big dog like Zoe.

When she couldn't set her foot down, I took her to our vet.  A dog that big has to be gassed so they can x-ray, so I waited.  Made small talk to people and ooohhhhed over their pet's boo boos.  Hud got off of work and came to wait with me.

Doctor Jo called us back, finally.  Zoe has a thinning of the bone near the ball joint of her femur.  It's either a vicious bone infection.  Or, yes, cancer.  We optimistically took the option that it's an infection. Two weeks of antibiotics and we'll go back.  See if she's progressed and if not, biopsy.  Maybe amputate.

But the good news is that Zoe seems better.  She's putting weight on the foot and has climbed the stairs three times!  I baby her, still.  But I'm hopeful that my fall-down-and-rub-some-dirt-on-it dog is getting better.

Next time, speak up Zoe!  How else is momma supposed to know?

Cooking Lesson

I know.  I know.  Where have you been Furry? Let's just say I've been busy taking care of pets, painting, gardening, and having a summer break...

One of the fun things I did get to do was take a cooking lesson from one of my favorite chefs, Gary Williams, at Dejavu Creole and Vegetarian Restaurant located downtown.  Well, sort of downtown.  Well, actually, it's a little hole in the wall on the edge of one of the most questionable neighborhoods in Memphis. But the food is so good, it's worth the trouble to find it.

My friend, Donna, who is from Louisiana, was challenged to a cooking contest at work.  She was telling Chef about it while we were having lunch there and Gary kindly invited us to come back later in the week and he'd teach us how to cook a quick gumbo.  But when the sign up sheet went up at work, all of the smack talkers didn't sign up and Donna was the onely name on it!  Cowards.  We thought about lying to Gary and calling him for our lesson. But we didn't want to push our luck. 

Earlier in July, we were having a Saturday lunch with Keith and Donna at Dejavu and Gary asked why we hadn't called him about the tutorial.  We told him what had happened and he said to come on anyway!  Hud had the week off and Keith rearranged his schedule.  I invited our friend, Jamie and we all went down to the restaurant on a sultry Thursday afternoon to cram into his tiny kitchen to soak up the recipe of the talented chef.  The video is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOMpabl4s5k&feature=relmfu

It was 9,893,475,000 degrees out that day and I wish I were being hyperbolic, so you can imagine how cool and breezy it was back there with all the additional bodies and an open flame with all the burners going.  Frosty, is what it was.

Chef was his usual charming self.  He was generous with his knowledge as well as the booze in the Banana's Foster.  They should have to check ID to serve those desserts!

Yes, I jotted down the ingredients for the Banana's Foster, too.  No calories there.  Or here.  But they are worth every trip around the track.

Thanks, Chef Gary!  I got the crabmeat, and tomorrow I'll try it for myself!