These words are among the most sickening any pet owner will hear. And they seem to be spoken more and more frequently. In a future blog, I will try to explore whether and why cancer is becoming more prevalent in pets. For today, I will share my own story.
My vet called the day Scooty was in for her dental. While under anesthesia they did their standard full-body grope and found a tumor inside her upper front leg. “We found a lump that feels suspicious and we should probably do a needle biopsy,” the vet said. My heart sank. I do a weekly snout-to-tail scan; how had I missed it?
The tumor was a spindle cell carcinoma. The kind that sends tendrils out to intertwine with surrounding tendons and muscle. Because of that and the location on her leg, they couldn’t take wide enough margins to remove it completely and still have enough skin to close the incision. If left undisturbed, it can be a relatively slow-growing cancer, not so prone to metasticising. Still, it is cancer and the prospect of just leaving it untreated to slowly kill her was unthinkable.
I began to research my options. Cutting into a spindle cell tumor apparently sends it into a frenzy of growth if any malignant cells are missed. Chemo wasn’t a good option. I learned of an alternative treatment that had shown some promise in a study at Case Western Reserve, called Neoplasene. I joined a canine cancer Yahoo forum to learn more about it. I contacted a highly respected naturopathic vet to find out more about this treatment. She had heard of it but not used it yet. Scooty became her proving ground.
Neoplasene is a caustic goo that is spread onto the tumor to eat away the cancerous tissue but leave healthy tissue intact. It can also be given orally to tackle any internal cells floating around. This treatment seemed like our best shot, so we began a four-month odyssee. I’ve always called Scooty my “angel in fur” for her sweet nature. She earned her nickname throughout this arduous treatment. Two applications of the ointment began to eat away at the tumor, leaving a rather gruesome looking wound to manage. Typically the process goes fairly quickly, but Scooty’s was a long, trying affair, with several months in a soft elizabethan collar to keep her from licking the wound. It oozed, it scabbed, it bled, it got infected twice, it oozed more, it stunk, it seeped onto the rug, the bedding, her fur. But it was slowly eating away at the tumor.
Twice a day she patiently followed a trail of liver treats up the ramp onto my bed where I cleaned and re-dressed the wound. Never complaining or snapping, she tolerated what must have been a painful process of washing an open wound. After four months the wound had finally healed and Scooty joyfully emerged from the e-collar. But sadly, the tumor had only been slightly reduced. Within a month it had doubled in size, now reaching the size of a baseball tucked under her front arm.
One small blessing is that the tumor is not painful, her appetite is as healthy as ever, and she is happy and unaware she is slowly dying.
This is my third pet to be diagnosed with cancer. The first had bone cancer, the second had pancreatic cancer. It never gets any easier to hear those words or face the ultimate decision. If you have been through cancer with your pet, please share your story in the comments section below. There is something comforting in knowing others have been down the same road.
Technorati Tags: canine cancer, feline cancer, spindle cell carcinoma, osteosarcoma, pancreatic cancer, Neoplasene, alternative cancer treatment for pets
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Two years ago, my then 8 year old Belgian Malinois, Fancy, my heart dog, had a mammary tumor which we had removed with very clean margins and a benign rating from the lab.
On July 3rd of this year, Fancy had 3 seizures – 2 at home and 1 at the vet clinic where I had rushed her after the first two.
All the tests came back clear but we kept her on phenobarbital as a just in case measure.
On July 15th Fancy turned ten and seemed mostly okay at her annual ice cream party but she began to seriously deteriorate soon afterward.
We did a CT and they found a 2.5 cm tumor in the right frontal lobe of her brain.
We immediately started on chemo and I remember at that initial appointment the internal medicine vet thought we would have at least two months before the quality of her life was such that I would feel it necessary to euthanize her.
Within two days Fancy’s condition deteriorated to the point where she could barely walk despite very high doses of prednisone and exactly a week after that first chemo dosage and exactly a month after the original seizures, I had Fancy put to sleep.
The night prior to that she had spent 3 hours clawing herself around in a circle on the floor.
August 13, 2007 – a day I will never forget. Our vet called to say, “We have the blood results on Buddy. I’m sorry to tell you that it’s either an auto-immune disease or cancer.” I was floored. He continued, “I recommend you take him to Dr. Day for an ultrasound as soon as possible.” That was a Monday morning. I couldn’t get an appointment until Thursday, and those three days seemed like an eternity.
An auto-immune disease I could handle because I have MS myself. It’s treatable – one can live with it. But cancer? The word consumed me. My brain couldn’t turn it off. My stomach churned. I wanted to vomit, but couldn’t. 18 years before, I’d lost one beloved cat to a massive brain tumor that I didn’t even know existed – until the day he fell over and couldn’t get up. He was gone three days later. We’d lost one “final refuge” dog to cancer (although no one knew it was cancer) just 8 months before. But Buddy? He’d shown no signs of anything being wrong until he’d suddenly stopped eating and drinking and become very lethargic just four days before.
Dr. Day was wonderful. He patiently explained all the pictures of various parts of his body. He kept the worst to last. “As you can see, he has a large tumor on his liver and a smaller one on his kidney.” I was shocked! “I don’t understand. How long has he had that tumor?” referring to the larger one. “Oh, I would say about 4-5 months.” “But how could we have missed that?! He didn’t show any signs of anything being wrong until he suddenly stopped eating and drinking a week ago and became very lethargic.” Dr. Day explained that with big dogs it’s quite common to not see any outward signs of anything being wrong. “Big dogs tend to be very stoic. They don’t want you to know there’s anything wrong until their bodies just can’t hide it any longer.” Dr. Day told me he’d have the biopsy results the following day and my vet would call to tell me what the recommended course of action would be.
Of course I couldn’t sleep that night. I tried focusing on other things – reading, working on my computer – but it was impossible. I walked restlessly around the house, doing things I don’t remember, just to keep myself occupied until that fateful call from my vet. “I’m sorry, Julie, but the cancer has already metastasized, so there’s nothing we can do but to keep him as pain-free as possible for the amount of time he has left.” “How long do you think that will be,” I asked. “It’s hard to say … maybe weeks, possibly a few months. You will know when the time comes.”
Our vet put him on medications that would reduce, if not eliminate, the pain. Two days later, Buddy was like his old self – eating, drinking, running around, jumping to greet us when one of us was gone, doing all the tricks we’d taught him, tail wagging furiously all the time – the happy boy he’d always been. “Great,” I thought, “maybe the doctors were wrong.” But just in case they weren’t, Buddy got more kisses and lovings than ever before. I hoped for months rather than weeks, but it was not to be. Early morning exactly two weeks later, Buddy began pacing in circles, lying down and licking himself to try and stop the urine leaking like a stream, panting, circling some more, licking … repeat, repeat, repeat. At the stroke of 8:00, I called the vet to make that appointment. By 12:30, I couldn’t take it anymore. He’d been panting non-stop for an hour. It was clear he was in great pain. “Bring him in right away,” our vet said.
It’s a 30-minute drive from our house to our vet’s. I’ve traveled a lot in my lifetime and some flights have felt like an eternity, but that was one of the longest and most excruciating trips I’ve ever taken. By the time we got to the vet’s, Buddy could no longer get up. The techs brought a stretcher and carried him in. They laid him on the floor and I cradled his head in my lap. My husband, a big man who is usually very even-keeled, sat on the bench as if frozen in place, with tears streaming down his face. He looked like a very small boy unable to deal with this reality. Mercifully, it was over within minutes and our vet left us to say our final goodbyes. My husband and I held each other tightly, our bodies racking with sobs, until finally the tears subsided. We looked down at our boy, peacefully sleeping, and kissed him for the last time. He’d just turned 10 years old two months before.
Although there are times when some happening suddenly reminds me of Buddy and the tears flow, I can look back at our 9 years together and smile. My husband called him his chick magnet because wherever they went, “chicks” from 6 to 96 would come up and ask if they could pet him. They’d take one look into those big, soft, deep brown eyes, and go “awww…” And we can look out to one of the trees in our back yard, where Buddy’s ashes and two of our “final refuge” adoptees’ are co-mingled, and call out to them, “Hey, boys and girl, bet you’re having a blast in doggie heaven today!” And smile. Ahhh…