Fisher & Company's Blog

We have this amazing tiny little poodle with the heart of a lion who looks more like a Bichon.  Her hair is straight and fluffy, and her snow white coat is set off by two button black eyes and a tiny black nose.  At ten, she is as frisky as a new pup and loves to run and chase across our expansive yard, claiming her territory and letting us know that she has all five corners under her control.

"Cheyenne" ended up with us quite by accident.  Born on St. Paddy's day in 1998, Cheyenne was from a puppy mill, and beneath the tangles and mats of a twelve week old pup I knew that there was something special about her.  We didn't need another family pet. We already had two cats, fifteen fish, a pomeranian and two poodles, so the last thing we needed was a fourth d-o-g.  Still, she ended up going home with us, so smelly and dirty that I had to put my foot down for her to be allowed to ride home in the cab of our truck.

From the onset, she picked out the younger of our two poodles, Taylor, as her favorite.  This was a good thing since Taylor was a third wheel to pomeranian Bradley and poodle Whitney.  Cheyenne immediately set about making certain that Taylor had all the puppy love she could handle, and the bond was set.  A few years later, Taylor had to have surgery, and Cheyenne dutifully protected her and stayed by her side during the long recovery process.  When our pom passed away, Cheyenne stepped in to help fill the hole he left in our lives.  She now joins me in the kitchen when I am cooking, a "little chef" assisting and reminding me that I have something in the oven or on the stove.  When her "Nana" was staying at our home recovering from surgery, Cheyenne sat beside her patiently each day, allowing "Nana" to pet her and talk to her during her convalescence, keeping a watchful eye out as the home therapists and nurses paraded in and out of our home daily.

"Chey" has never had to be on a lead.  She has never "pottied" in the house.  There was quite a bit of separation anxiety in the beginning, but we worked through it and we replaced the comforter more than once or twice, but she finally understood that I was coming back to her.  Clearly she had some issues from her days in the puppy mill, which we suspected were beatings around feeding time, but we have pretty much resolved those issues and she knows that there is plenty of food to go around, and more if needed.  Over the years, she has become a most dutiful companion, a small warm lump at my feet during the night who seems to know the precise moment I leave my office to head home even though my schedule is varied and unpredictable.  

About a month ago, Chey suddenly started coughing and she quickly grew listless.  We dropped everything and took her to our favorite and most trusted vet 75 miles away although there are numerous other vets much, much closer.  Even if he is a "Gator", we know our family vet is exceptionally bright, exceptionally caring, and we trust him to make the right call for us as he cares for our pets, so we drive from Jacksonville to Ormond Beach because we know he and his staff loves our pets and, quite frankly, our pets love them back.  

Mark did what he could in his office: xrays, blood tests, etcetera, and he diagnosed Chey as having pneumonia but there were other complications.  We had no idea how a "pup" that lives inside and is so cared for could get pneumonia, and we set about combing our house and yard for anything that could have poisoned her.  For several days she was hospitalized there as Mark fought the illness with antibiotics, but Chey was not making any progress. Finally, Mark suggested that we go to a specialty practice of internists and oncologists in Jacksonville, but warned us that it would be pricey.  It was her only chance.  

The initial office visit to the Internist was a staggering fee just to walk in the door.  By chance, we ran into a couple we knew who had their two Burmese Mountain dogs there. One of the d-o-g-s had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer and the 'family' was spending a few more moments together before a sad goodbye.  We were speechless at the news since another friend of ours had brought these two pups back from Quebec with him for this couple just a few years earlier.  We had seen the pups and played with them even before the new owners had.  Seeing them as a family of four together for the last time pressed upon me even more that our own situation looked pretty bleak.

We spent the weeks leading up to Christmas taking Chey back and forth to the internist for a battery of blood work, pathology studies, x-rays, sonograms, cat scans, and more.  Finally, we sat in the consulting room and got the news: Cheyenne was not responding to any medicine, the middle lung lobe was diseased, and the only cure was to remove the lung. We questioned the oncologist on whether or not it was cancer, but no cancer could be detected in any of the tests. What caused the lungs to collapse was unknown.  The oncologist and surgeon agreed that removing the right middle lung was her only chance.  The alternative was to . . . well . . . you know . . . and since it appeared that she would have a full recovery if we did the procedure we were sent home to consider the surgery as an option.

By now I had spent way more than I had planned. Thousands more.  Good grief.  It sort of snuck up on me, a thousand here, a thousand there . . .  The surgery was going to be all that I had already spent again. 

On December 23rd., Chey had her surgery. All went well. They found a few tiny spots on her other lungs, which were visible only when they opened her up.  Had I known of this in advance, I probably would not have let them do the surgery.  The surgeon sent them off to a pathologist so we don't know the outcome. Over the Christmas holiday we visited her daily, taking turns holding her, wondering if we had done the right thing, questioning if she looked better than the last time we saw her.

We were able to bring her home three days after surgery, a remarkable testament to her determination to live and the skill of the surgeon.  Although she was always trim and lean, post-surgery she was a shivering bag of bones.  Today, a mere six days after the surgery, Cheyenne looks more like her old self. She is home and following my every move throughout the house, sleeping beside me at night, wolfing down food as though she hasn't eaten in days, which she probably hasn't, and we are observing more and more glimpses of the 'puppy' in her.  

We have no idea how all of this will play out.  It seems unfair to cry over a d-o-g when so many people are suffering with serious illnesses. Having been through a major medical crisis or two myself and losing loved ones and friends to cancer I can understand how some people would react to the commitment we have made to this little girl to give her the chance to get well.  

But what were we to do?  How do you say "Thank you and I love you back" to a warm and furry shadow that loves you even though you are really not quite as wonderful as she thinks you are?  Sometimes words are simply not enough. 

To pet lovers everywhere: May each of us be the people our pets think we are.