Here’s what happened. A few weeks ago, Chauncey went back under the knife for a little mast cell binary system on the back of her neck. Every indication was there for a successful surgical solution: early-ish detection, far from lymph nodes, nice scruffy area for the taking of wide margins. Afterwards, she was a little off her game because of the bandage wrapped around her neck to prevent her from scratching, but you know how dogs are: they cope.

Ten days later it was time to take the bandages off and the stitches out. I definitely perceived, or projected, a spring in her step when we got home. I lay there on the bed, loving her up, glad to let Jermajesty claim the pillow. When she started in to scratching the shaved part around her new scar, I put up my hand to prevent it, as I’d been doing for the past ten days. This time, though, it came back wet. Really wet. I looked down and saw that just like that, she had opened up the wound like a zipper. Holy living Kumba-fucking-ya, that was awful. Looking back, I find it remarkable that nobody yelped, gasped, or cried out in pain — not Chauncey, not me, not even Karyn when I called her in. Instead, we sprang into action. K. got a towel to wrap around her neck, and we bent all kinds of traffic laws getting her back out to the vet’s office. The most agonizing part was the wait while Dr. Darley finished up with her previous patient. Those seven minutes felt like an hour.

Naturally, she knew what to do. She even made a little joke about it. She stapled our girl back up and rewrapped her — this time, for a full fourteen days, if not more. Nor did she need to anesthetize her to do so.

Most dogs I know lean conservative. They value routines and family bonds, distrust novelty, and protect what’s theirs. As much as I hate to exploit her ignorances, I do take comfort knowing that from Chauncey’s perspective, this whole trauma was simply time in the car and on one of those strange tables that give you no purchase, no worse than a bath or a nail trim. And now it’s behind her, and what’s done is done.

Need New Body: Show Me Your Heart
“Show Me Your Heart” has always felt to me like a terrier’s theme song. The beat is the sound of trotting down the sidewalk on quick little legs. And the gory lyrics get some extra punch this week.

First to edify, an email Karyn sent out to a few friends:

Chauncey had surgery on Aug. 13 to remove a mast cell (cancerous) tumor from her back leg. The pathology results indicated it was likely there were cancerous cells still in the area.

We consulted with a veterinary oncologist at the end of August, who did a number of tests on Chauncey, all of which came back perfect. The tests included an ultrasound of her chest cavity, which showed no metastasis.

Based on the consult and recommendation from the vet, we decided to proceed with radiation therapy. Without it, there’s a 35-50 percent chance the tumor could return, or worse, spread. With radiation, that chance drops to 15 percent. Chauncey’s good health overall, and her age (7, with potentially still half her life ahead of her), were the factors that tipped the balance toward radiation.

Last night, we began the first of 14 treatments. We will take her up to Edmonds three evenings a week for five weeks; at this oncology center, they treat pets after hours when all the human patients have gone home.

We were able to talk to a couple other dog owners while we were in the waiting room, and they were very helpful in letting us know what to expect. While it was very difficult seeing Chauncey right out of sedation, it didn’t take long for her to return to normal. By the time we got home, she was barking, ready for her dinner and begging treats. She has, so far, been very resilient and we are hopeful for a good outcome.

Thank you so much for inquiring about our girl. If you would continue to send positive energies her way while she continues her treatment, we would be most grateful.

Telling people about mast-cell tumor removal and the subsequent radiation therapy allows them to share with you some pretty wacked-out ideas about cancer treatment and health care in general. And if I really want some quiet time, I simply tell people I’ve been down with the flu that’s going around (which is true).

Sometimes I feel tender towards those who describe cancer as a population-controlling inevitability, the way you admire college sophomores their earnest innocence. Same goes for those who tape a napkin to their face in my germy presence. Such elaborate, doomed structures! Other times the offense is just too strong, and even if Chauncey weren’t in the middle of this therapy regimen, I’d still have to correct the poor bastards. Polio, malaria, AIDS, hunger — just as inevitable, right? Or are economic imperatives the real immutable population control device?

The funny thing is, it’s not even something I feel that strongly. Of course it’s important to combat ignorance and fear, but there are so many horses to ride, each one higher than the last.

Queens of the Stone Age: Sick, Sick, Sick