Sooner or later, it was bound to happen.
The last couple of days the wind has been miserable, so Bugg hasn't been worked since Monday. Today is less windy and just above freezing, so back to "work" we went.
"Work" consists of a little grooming (enough to stay in the habit, not enough to pull out her winter coat), picking out her feet, then off to the round pen for some free-lounging to build muscle, play some Parelli games, and a little riding (bareback, rope halter and double-tied lead rope) to practice balance, seat, emergency stops, forward, backing, turns, leg yields, neck reining, etc.). Then ride back to the barn area for a quick brushing, followed by turn-out in the arena or pasture. She's regaining muscle tone and condition and I'm getting my seat back; we're up to about 45 minutes now.
To ensure Bugg doesn't pattern - or predict - our routine, coming out of the round pen varies. Sometimes we back out the gate, sometimes we walk around the outside of the pen, sometimes we ride out... variety is good. I have in mind to vary our routine getting from the barn area to the round pen as well, and today seemed like as good a day as any to start. So in addition to leaning over Bugg's back when I groomed her (standing on a mounting block) and occasionally swinging a leg over, I decided to ride her to the round pen today.
Unlike watching a child fall - which happens in slow motion - falling off a horse happens at full-speed. Which I did. Because I have occasional bouts of stupidity, I thought to ride past the round pen into a corner, then come back. Connemaras are know for being sensible, and to-date we've been successful with everything we've tried. However... Bugg broke into a trot, I asked her to stop, she didn't, I adjusted my legs downward (to remove all "forward" information from my seat), and while I tried to think through the mechanics of the emergency stop, my ass, back of my shoulders, then back of my head tha-wacked on the ground. I did hold onto the reins; Bugg whirled to a stop and looked at me, agog. "How on earth did you wind up down there, human?"
My back is sore, my ego is bruised, but my brains are just fine. Thank Gib for helmets (my old friend Gib works in helmet safety testing) that protect idiots like me from gravity. And yes of course, I got right back on the horse and rode her to the round pen, where we proceeded to burn off some of her pent-up jollies with free lounging before proceeding with any more riding.
Note to self: try variety after the safety parts of the routine have been confirmed. Because my seat at the trot clearly needs some practice.
FINALLY, we have a diagnosis: Adenocarcinoma
Infiltrative mass originating at the stomach; a thin flat mass on the outerwall. Metastases to liver, lymph nodes, and mesentery. Interestingly, the pancreas was unaffected.
Overall, good news it would seem. Not known to be painful (but certainly uncomfortable) and NOT heritable. We have a 1/2 brother, Jake, so this is a relief.
Just 14 weeks ago Mac's blood work, including liver numbers, were normal... so either this spread like wildfire or he was able to cope with it well. Due to the originating mass's form and location, only an MRI or exploratory surgery would have found it (the examining vet said that maybe *somebody* could have seen it on the ultrasound, but since two Internal specialists did the sonograms that's pretty remote). The stomach was was not perforated, so endoscope wouldn't have found it either. And, even had it been diagnosed, the recommended margins are 8 cm so it was inoperable anyway.
It is impossible still to believe that a week ago yesterday (Thurs) Mac was cantering in the pasture. Our days are emptier without him.
If this is a joke, I'm not laughing. 'Cause it's not funny.
Leaving my favorite dog food store today I picked up a copy of a new magazine, High Desert Dog. Slick and glossy, interview with a local mayor, ads from area trainers and doggie day care providers... it looked OK. Until I see the headline:
Seven Reasons for Animal Birth Control
Uh oh. My anti-MSN radar started to twitch. Any chance this could be an article on actual birth control? A reasoned discussion on when it's actually appropriate to alter a potential canine athlete? Nope, none. Nada.
"2. Because there's no such thing as a responsible breeder. Even if you find homes for all your dog's puppies, you are still stealing homes from puppies who have already been born and are waiting for homes. Breeding animals is killing animals."
WTF?????????? This is so far from the truth it's difficult for me to pick a place to begin correcting the mis-information. Let's just pick apart two falsehoods in this idiotic paragraph.
Finding a responsible breeder takes effort, but can't be described as a hardship. It's simple: do some research. It's no more complicated than an internet search, a few e-mails, a few phone calls. Ethical breeders are bound to a code of conduct, spend time and cash to complete health clearances before a breeding, require a home inspection and detailed contract before letting a puppy go, and charge money for their puppies. Yes, one must have the fortitude to ask nosy questions and walk away from answers that one doesn't like. Yes, one must be willing to answer nosy questions and be prepared for rejection. Tough noogie, that's what it takes. Pick a breed that's suitable for your lifestyle, contact the parent breed club, talk to more than one breeder, trust your gut, and keep your fingers crossed. With luck, you'll get more than a great puppy, you'll get a friend for life in the person of the breeder.
And a dog from the shelter comes with... none of the above. Been there, done that; the most expensive dog I own is a shelter rescue. Health problems galore, no resources for information, and no end in sight. But hey, he's cute. We love him, but never again.
Second... killing animals. Seriously, could this be a little less inflammatory and a little more accurate? The truth about euthanasia in animal shelters and the reasons animals wind up in shelters are well researched and documented. Hysterical hyperbole is NOT helpful.
"3. Because when humans get raped, it's illegal! Whenever they come into heat, female cats and dogs have to fight off every male animal for miles around - and they never win."
If this weren't so insulting, I would find this laughable. (Any rape victim will rightly take offense at the statement.) If I could laugh I would, but only because of the pronoun error, and I'm no doubt being bitchy (The "they" at the end of the second sentence refers to the immediately preceding proper noun: "every male animal", though I suspect the intent is to refer to [supposedly helpless and hapless] "females" earlier in the sentence.). I have owned many intact bitches, and keeping them from being bred is a simple - if not always easy - management issue. Any breeder that has had a bitch refuse the chosen male, or suffered through a male with low libido, or any of a host of other problems, knows how utterly preposterous the entire statement is. Ever hear the expression "horny as a bitch in heat"? There's a reason... and the dining table isn't talking.
Finally, after #7 of this list's lunacy, in small print, came the source credit: PeTA.
Ah, I shoulda known. Consider the source, people. These whack-jobs are not funny, just flat crazy.
UrieBay MacPhearson CGC, RTD, HCT, JHD, HTD
A few weeks after we got him, age 7. A near-perfect working border collie, with a coat like a yak.
Also known as Mac-maniac, Mac the Knife, and Mac-a-roni noodle pie.
From the moment I met Mac, and the moment he met the rest of our family (he came to us at age 7) his supreme, quiet self-confidence infused everything he did. Just three months after coming to us, Mac earned his CGC with Anthony (then 11). Before long, he'd accomplished much more.
Born in Maine, Mac grew up in Boston, riding the subway and attending doggie day-care. After a brief stint in Chicago, he was a California-dog for a summer before we relocated to New Mexico. He liked everyone except toddlers; eating snow was a winter-long joy.
Mac's first true love, Amy. She came to visit when he was 10, just before moving out of the country. Amy's tears join ours and his breeder's, Whitney, today.
Rick and I were laughing through the tears on the way home from the vet: Mac jumping in the pool at our old house; exchanging cheap-shots with his nephew, Jake; being teased as a "golden retriever" in a BC suit during therapy dog testing; teaching me to trust him because he always knew more about pressure and stock that I ever will. Stock respected his power but didn't panic.
Mac's perfect "a-wee" flank; quiet, confident, effective.
The last three months have been a roller coaster, with many more good days than bad. Friday was the last hurrah; this morning we sent him over the proverbial Rainbow Bridge with our tears and our hearts. Post mortem found cancer "everywhere". Tissues have been sent our for histopathology; preliminary diagnosis is lymphoma concentrated in the digestive system's lymph glands. Bloodwork was always normal, and the cancer was too dispersed to show on x-rays or ultrasound. Only exploratory surgery would have found it (and he was too weak for surgery).
If there's a heaven for dogs, Mac is now getting all the sheep in the pen the first time and his flanks are perfect. Even better, there's an endless supply of tennis balls and he can eat all the cat food he'll ever want.
That'll do, Mac, that'll do.
We have expanded our family by one. Temporarily.
Yang, an exchange student from China, is staying with us for two weeks. On the way home from the airport we asked him to tell us a little about his home city, Dalian. He said it is a small city, only 6 million people. He couldn't stop laughing when I told him that the entire population of our state is about 1.8 million. And that there are more people in his school than within 100 square miles of our ranchero.
Of course, he's seen more dogs in the past hour than in his entire previous life, proving I suppose that population is relative.
Looking for a little drama? The stage awaits at your local dogshow.
The setting: an indoor multi-purpose sports facility with excessive overhead fluorescent lighting, six rings, nearly 900 dogs, a few hundred people, foolish expectations, and oversized egos.
Act I
The curtain rises on the Alphabet ring, judging already in progress. Outside the ring are many well dressed handlers, each holding the lead of multiple hounds. Above the din the voice of the steward can be heard, calling for a handler and hound for the winners bitch class. Inside the ring, the judge waits with a lone handler. That handler is calling for a friend and her bitch, by name, to hurry into the ring - there are points at stake! and she wants her friend's bitch to have a fair shot at them. After a long pause, the judge shrugs and hands the WB ribbon to the lone handler, who smiles apologetically, kisses her bitch, and leaves the ring. Everyone lingers for BOB judging, cheering sincerely as the judge points and handlers smile while shaking hands.
Act II
We are now across the hall in the Numbers ring, just before judging is to begin. Each hound awaits its turn; on the end of each leash is a Professional Handler. Some ignore their charges, some are in idle conversation, and some interact with their hounds in preparation for the competition. As one last handler arrives in time takes his hound's lead, another turns to him and makes threatening remarks just before entering the ring. As the minutes pass, dog and bitches enter and leave the ring in turn, the judge pointing her preferences succinctly. As they leave the ring for the last time, one handler is heard making offensive remarks to another. Moments later, a third handler rips the armband off her sleeve and hurls it into the trash.
Act III
Members of the public get up and leave their seats in bewilderment, wondering what all the animosity is about. The curtain comes down on this scene as the lights fade to black...
Perhaps drama, or even melodrama, doesn't really cover it. More like histrionics.
