Breakfast of Champions
When I was sixteen, I thought the breakfast of champions was Diet Coke. I drank it before first period, Honors English, a subject I loved but was taught by an almost-retired teacher whose heart wasn’t in it. So, during the last half of class – assigned reading – my best friend and I hid copies of Interview with the Vampire behind our textbooks and disappeared into Anne Rice’s world, minds buzzing with caffeine.
The morning after his third chemo treatment, my dog wouldn’t eat, either.
Petey Sellers wasn’t a senior who wanted the Early Bird Special, he was more like a high school senior who wanted to skip breakfast, altogether. I wished I could have just handed him a Diet Coke, but instead I turned into an overbearing parent. You’re fighting lymphoma! I said. You have to eat! I told him all of this while handing him a lovingly prepared small portion of his favorite turkey food, but he was about as interested in that as I was in listening to the semi-retired high school teacher drone on about Chaucer without a hint of enthusiasm.
That was it! I needed enthusiasm. This wasn’t breakfast, it was tapas!
I tried canned food in a different bowl with warm bone broth; chicken and rice; yogurt with kibble and yogurt without kibble, all served in bowls or on plates, and all in different locations. None of it worked. When I got to scrambled eggs, his favorite, and he turned his entire body away from me, I went to the kitchen, sat on the floor, and sobbed. I’d been at this for an hour and he hadn’t eaten a thing, even though he looked up at me with his big, sad eyes. He was hungry, he just couldn’t eat. And it was breaking my heart.
It shouldn’t have been emotional, since we know that chemo scrambles the brain and affects taste and smell, but I didn't know that at the time. In our house, food with him was emotional – and the emotion was joy. In puppy kindergarten, Petey learned basic commands and the delights of string cheese. When he barked too much, a girl at the pet store taught him how to “tell a secret,” which was to whisper. (It’s still his most requested trick.) And when he had knee surgery at age four, we turned mealtime into a chance to perform. Since we couldn’t bond on walks, we connected with puzzle feeders, finding food under the tennis ball in the muffin tin, rolling a stuffed animal with his nose, and tons of tricks. As he gained strength, Petey performed his repertoire like a trained actor, part corgi, part show-off. Mealtime meant playtime – and this journey was no exception. So, I sang him the breakfast song; played jazz; and did a little dance when bringing him his food. Giving up wasn’t in our vocabulary. We were in fighting mode – he was fighting cancer, and I was taking care of him so he could do that, which meant he had to eat.
I got up off the floor, dried my tears, and broke out the kibble, which wasn’t ideal, but the oncologist said any food was better than no food. I grabbed a handful of it, soaked it in water, put it in a bowl, and then went and sat beside him. Hi boy, I said. You’re such a good dog. Do you want to try this? I put a piece of kibble in my hand and presented it to him. Petey Sellers leaned forward, nosed it, and then, to my surprise, ate it. I put another piece in my hand, then two, then more until he had eaten just enough so I could give him his meds. Then I gave him a huge hug, snuggled him in a blanket, and let him sleep.
***
You can’t bully a book into being, force a song, or demand a sketch. But you can show up, hold space, and try. Making art and making sure your dog gets enough nutrients isn't the same thing, but the aspect of pushing versus not pushing applies. This was important, and I was trying. But was I trying too hard?
***
The next morning when it happened again and he walked away from the bowl like I used to walk away from my mom’s oatmeal, I looked at Petey with curiosity instead of panic. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of senior who rose at 5 AM to read a paper and eat an egg. Maybe he was more like my grandmother, the type who enjoyed sleeping in and greeting the day at a more leisurely pace. So, I relaxed, tapped into his rhythm, and became the sous chef to his chemo needs. I changed foods, containers, and locations since dogs often refused to eat in the same place if they got sick there, before. I shifted from metal bowls to ceramic, since metal can taste bad after chemo. I stayed positive, adding songs and dance numbers, knowing what worked one week might not work the next, but also realizing that it wouldn’t last forever. And I moved his breakfast time to later. In the spirit of fun, I also added a nutritious starter to the menu.
Amuse-bouche? I’d say, brightly, presenting him with chicken bone broth in a special bowl we bought at the beach. It was silver on the outside but orange on the inside and said three words in white, right in the middle: Explore. Wander. Discover.
This wasn’t just something we did at the beach or on a road trip, we were doing it now, traveling into the unknowns of canine lymphoma. Amuse bouche? I offered, every time I served him, and he pranced over, lapping up the broth. Maybe he liked that I spoke French. Maybe he liked having a little pre-meal treat in his special bowl. Or maybe he just liked that I was relaxed, being curious instead of panicked with a process that was as unpredictable as I was about breakfast during high school.
The breakfast of champions turned out to be brunch.
And for him, I’d wait hours for a table, anytime. Just, you know, without the Diet Coke.
ART!
In honor of his third chemo treatment, I made Petey a sash: Champ! And on a particularly hard day, I wore it, too. Whether you’re going through chemo with your pup or just having a WEEK (and who isn’t?) make a sash for yourself or print this one out. Whether you’re a cancer warrior or just a making-it-through-the-week warrior, sometimes we all need a little reminder that we’re doing great. Go get ‘em, Champ!
IRONY!
Ironically, the day I edited this post, Petey wouldn’t eat his dinner. He eventually licked food off a spoon, but something was wrong. When he wouldn’t eat the next morning, I didn’t go with the flow, I panicked, calling the vet, the oncologist, even his dentist (he has new dental stuff.) But then I remembered - brunch! Amuse bouche! I ran to the pet store, got a different food and some toppers, and then came home, offering him small bits in different bowls, slowly and with a smile, and he ate. It took an hour of panic, but after that, I remembered to be curious, instead. And for that, I definitely get the Champ sash. Petey Sellers says you get one, too. xx
December Fundraiser!
This month I’m adding paying subscriber options to these newsletters. Petey Sellers is coming up on one year in remission! And although there have been some changes lately, I’m hoping he will continue on this track. All funds go to help pay for Petey’s chemo/testing and 10% will go to raise money for the Morris Animal Foundation. They do great work in the canine cancer research field. Currently, there’s no cure for doggie lymphoma, so we need them. Thank you for reading and sharing! If you feel called or can donate, know that we appreciate it from the bottom of our hearts. We love you! Wishing you and yours a wonderful holiday season. Look for a New Year’s post (with art and music) in the coming weeks. xoxo
This one made me cry. And smile and be happy too. This struggle... the sun rises and sets with whether Carter eats. Today... is not so good.