I said goodbye to Pepper last Saturday, after she lost her short fight with cancer.
This post started out as a memorial for Pepper ("BEFORE"), but then turned into disclosure of her decline and our medical journey ("DURING"), and then into grief and guilt therapy for myself ("AFTER").
Each of those things felt important to share.
BEFORE
Pepper was born "CTW Solita" on May 18th, 2009
She had another life before the one she had with me, running 152 races at Birmingham Race Course in Alabama, winning 15, and taking 2nd in 21. Her first race was May 7th, 2011 and last race was November 13, 2012. From what I've observed, that's a long career for a racing greyhound, so she was a little more than 3 1/2 years old when I first met her on January 12th, 2013.
Walking into the GRA kennel, with the boys on the left and girls on the right, most dogs erupted in excited barking when the doors opened, but not Pepper. She was laying in her crate looking as calm as could be. That relaxed demeanor made me choose her. That was her on the first day we met. and every day until her last.
Taking her home, I was told a crate would help ease the transition from kennel to home, but she promptly showed me she didn't need the crate (by shredding its padded mat one day while I was out). Pepper was right. The cage was put into storage and she never shredded anything again, except her toys.
The name "Pepper" comes from the fictional character Pepper Potts, because I like comic books, but the choice was solidified when I discovered Pepper Potts' superhero name is Rescue.
She liked belly rubs, and playing the "fake bites" game, which she would respond to with fake bites of her own. I loved the way she smelled each time I fake bit her neck.
She didn't like the wind, or more precisely, the erratic things that blew around in it. Unless it was snowing. She liked running in freshly fallen snow.
Her tongue hung out through her muzzle at group greyhound runs, and it made her appear content and satisfied with her effort.
She was a great copilot on many long car rides, the majority of which took place with her curled up tightly on the front passenger seat of my less than practical car.
She sat beside me while I played video games, and I loved to reach out between matches and feel one specific indentation on her shoulder (just a smooth little notch that felt good to pet).
Pepper was gentle and reserved; her best canine friend was less than 8lbs, and she lived peacefully with 3 birds. Most who met Pepper would describe her as sweet.
She followed me on two moves, and while she never protested, I know she liked the places which didn't require the use of stairs to reach the bedroom. She had been a condo dog with me since her retirement started, but our latest move fixed that. Neither of us like cities or crowds, so we found a suitable place, in a small town. My vision was to create a live-work space for us. Pepper was supposed to keep me company behind the counter of our pet shop during the day, and have access to runs in her very own backyard whenever she wanted.
The routine rhythm of taking Pepper on walks punctuated my days, and she leapt onto the bed to sleep with me most nights. When that stopped, I noticed.
DURING
In early February, I sent a note to a neighbour asking if they had a board of sufficient size that I could use for a bedside ramp, "Pepper's hind end is bothering her, and she continues to jump onto the bed so that isn't helping it heal.", I wrote.
I also ordered a new supplement to see if her aging joints would benefit from a little boost.
At first, I simply gave her time, thinking she strained something and was taking longer to mend due to her age. It wasn't until she started to display discomfort in the transition from standing to lying down that I began to worry. It progressed to her showing signs of favoring her right hind leg, which started knuckling quickly after.
I booked an appointment with my vet.
March 30th - x-rays and initial osteosarcoma diagnosis (bone cancer). The head of her right femur, where it meets the hip socket, had a tumor. Not only was the bone showing signs of decay and irregular growth, it was also affecting the nerve running through that joint and impacting the use of her leg.
The standard approach to dealing with osteosarcoma in a limb is amputation to eliminate the tumor and pain, and chemotherapy to reduce the likelihood of secondary spread. I was optimistic about pursuing this approach, as I've seen it work successfully with other "tripawd" greyhounds.
She was prescribed Gabapentin and Meloxicam for the pain and that definitely helped, even though their sedation effects scared me during the first day, until she adjusted to them.
April 8th - another trip to the vet for more tests and x-rays. Only 9 days from the first images, and the tumor was noticeably bigger. My vet remained the cautious optimist and used the observation to get traction on Pepper's oncology referral.
April 14th - the oncology referral, and another road trip for us. Pepper fell over on the lawn while we waited. After handing her off at the door, she spent 60 minutes in the clinic, and I received a call from the oncologist. The vet provided a thorough and lengthy explanation of what she was observing, and there were a few key points. Given the size and location of the tumor, it wouldn't be "just" Pepper's leg being removed, it would require part of her pelvis, and the surrounding soft tissue, "an aggressive surgery", according to the oncologist. Pepper's chest x-ray also showed a couple nodules in her lungs, and the oncologist was concerned about Pepper's general weight loss, muscle wasting and weakness. Overall, she thought pursuing amputation and chemotherapy would be risky, and didn't think Pepper was a good candidate. We ended our call, and I went to the clinic's front door to retrieve Pepper from a nameless masked vet tech. "Thanks for coming, have a nice day", she said. Pepper and I drove home.
I re-read the oncologist's report when it was emailed to me the next day, and I decided not to pursue treatment.
While the pain meds were still effective, I saw glimpses of what was coming. Her good hind leg occasionally gave out, and I began worrying about fracture of the weakened bone. Reading about what to expect as the disease progresses, I came across the line, "analgesic medications are no match for the pain involved in what amounts to a slowly exploding bone".
With no light at the end of the tunnel, I wasn't about to subject Pepper to that inevitability for the sake of spending a few extra weeks together.
April 17th - we took one last road trip together to say goodbye, and I was thankful to be allowed to remain with her when she passed. It was handled compassionately and professionally, but I'm certain Pepper was still scared in those final moments. She went from standing by my side in the examination room, to flinching when the sedative was administered, to leaning against me for support while she got increasingly drowsy, to finally giving in and laying on the blanket-covered floor. How could she not have been confused about what was going on? How could she not have been scared by that unknown? This really was the most horrible thing I've ever had to do.
During this final visit, my vet said that Pepper's was an aggressive decline, and confided that she wasn't surprised by the oncologist's report.
From start to finish, Pepper went from leaping onto my bed, to not being able to use her leg in less than 2 months, and I lost her within 3. From the initial cancer diagnosis to saying goodbye took only 18 days. She was extra spoiled and pampered during those 18 days, but her decline made them difficult for her.
AFTER
Writing this now, I find it difficult to believe that I allowed almost 2 months to pass before getting her to the vet. It sounds like a rationalization, but she had always recovered from lameness before. At the time, each day came and went and she was doing ok, until she really wasn't.
I have feelings of guilt about that delay, but those feelings go even deeper. Part of me was actually relieved that she wasn't a good candidate for treatment. Not only because she wouldn't have the stress of going through, "an aggressive surgery", but because it partially took the decision about what path to take, out of my hands. I wasn't looking forward to the rational side of me doing battle with my emotional side. "She's almost 12 years old, and the treatment only has a median life extension of a year, and it costs...", my rational side would say. To which, my emotional side would simply reply, "but it's Pepper, you bum".
I don't know if the outcome would have been different if I took her for x-rays sooner. I'm trying not to dwell on what could have been, or beating myself up for my choices (much). I'm simply offering this openly, with the clarity of hindsight, to those of you who may see something similar in your beautiful hounds in the future. Don't wait to get them properly checked.
A few days after she passed, I washed her food and water bowls and put them safely away. I kept walking into the room where they sat, reflexively glancing at them to see if they needed a refill, and was saddened each time they obviously didn't. I still glance at that spot, and now that it's empty, I'm not sure that makes it any better.
I can already observe the time spent each day, that was previously occupied with Pepper, being consumed by other things. This makes it feel like she's continuing to be erased from my life, so I'm preserving our morning walk time, at least, by taking a walk on my own. Her mats also remain on the floor, and I suspect they will, as long as they continue to smell like her.
Pepper is deeply missed, but I'm happy she is no longer suffering; happier still, to have had her fill my life with love for 8 years.
Nite nite good girl.
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