Despite being a dog, Duncan knows when my husband is supposed to be home from work and will be waiting by the garage door at the correct time to greet him. Duncan understands that when he hears the shake of a medicine bottle, it’s time to take his pills (which are served wrapped inside a delicious slice of ham). And he comprehends when it’s time to eat breakfast because at 6 a.m. every day, he appears next to my desk and looks at me expectantly. Sometimes, he’ll even lick his lips.
M generally feeds Duncan in the mornings. Yet on weekends, he sleeps in and that task falls to me. Sun up or still dark, daylight saving time or the old standard one, Duncan will appear at my desk exactly at 6, ready to be fed his bowl of kibble.
This punctuality would be impressive in any 9-year-old animal. It’s even more so since Duncan has been battling brain cancer since December.
He was sleeping under our feet in the living room when he suffered his first seizure. M and I immediately rushed him to the emergency animal hospital and after a barrage of tests, the staff said it was either epilepsy or a brain tumor.
A visit to our regular vet — and even more tests — ruled out epilepsy, allergic reactions and even tick-related illnesses he might have caught. Nope, it was a tumor and the options available were not only expensive, but unlikely to help.
The seizures continued and they were awful. They would always start when Duncan was sleeping, as if he’d gone too deep into Morpheus’ realm and had encountered trouble while trying to return to wakefulness. His entire body would convulse violently and his legs would either move in galloping circles, like he was running away, or stretch straight out and lock as if he’d been struck by lightning. His eyes would roll back into his head, his mouth would foam and his bladder would release.
During each episode, we would kneel beside Duncan and speak in comforting tones. We’d keep his head from banging against the ground and count the minutes that he was under attack from the growing intruder inside his brain. Most seizures lasted a minute or two and then he’d come out of it feeling bewildered and confused. When his vision cleared, he’d look at us and not quite recognize our faces, even though we’re his “people.”
Longer seizures or clusters would leave him unable to stand or unsteady on his feet once he could return to an upright position. At that point, the pacing would start, a frantic trot through the house, that would continue until he regained his bearings in the conscious world. Nothing consoled him during this period so we would use the time to clean up the mess left behind by the attack.
Following examinations from a third vet, we began experimenting with all sorts of palliative options, such as acupuncture, massage, special “brain” food to boost his immune system and cognitive health and numerous meds, anything to keep the dreaded seizures at bay. And for the most part, these efforts have helped. But we’re not fooling ourselves. We know that cancer is a bloody bastard, one that continues to grow inside our beloved pup’s brain.
M and I don’t have a clue about how much time we have left with Duncan so we’re trying to make the most of it. I just know that when he’s gone, 6 a.m. will be a painful daily reminder that he no longer needs to be fed.
