Stare-oids, the Magical Treat.
I had an ex-boyfriend who used to give my dog a voice.
At first, it was funny, the way he said what he thought the dog was thinking in a goofy tone, usually something about going to the park or getting treats. But after a while, it was too much. Petey Sellers already had a voice, that unspoken language between dog and owner. But at the time, I couldn't hear it over the stress and noise of life. Once we lived on our own again, though, just the two of us, his voice came back stronger than ever – for a while, at least.
***
On January 5, 2021, we put Petey on prednisone. Prednisone is a steroid used in conjunction with the first month of chemotherapy, and the drug did its job. Petey's lymph nodes shrank almost immediately, which was great, but his personality shrank, too. I didn't realize it at the time, but this was a rarely-discussed side effect of steroids. Some dogs become incredibly food-focused; others want more love and attention, and still, others drink water like there was no tomorrow. These behaviors had a common theme: more, more, more. But my dog became less. He lost his personality, turning into a shell of the puppy I once knew. He stopped playing and doing tricks; avoided affection; and when I looked into his eyes, a big nothing looked back at me. I nicknamed the drug Stare-oids, inspired by Petey’s vacant, empty stare, a look that was directed less at me and more above me like I didn't exist. This loss of connection felt traumatic, especially since Petey Sellers was one of those dogs, the kind who communicated with their eyes. Maybe it was the thick, black eyeliner, the teardrop shape, or the breed (corgi-puggle mixed with boxer? German shepard?) but his eyes were the windows to his soul – and how he was feeling at any given moment.
After morning meditation, his eyes were steady and grounded; bright and dancing after a walk. When he laid at my feet while I wrote, he looked up at me with so much love and contentment, it melted my heart. There was also the panicked “I need to go outside” look, and the sad, painful one that accompanied physical pain. But when he looked at me at night, right before bed, his gaze said I love you, I’m here for you. So, when his eyes went dark and his voice disappeared again, I felt helpless. How could I treat him for cancer if he wasn’t there, anymore? And when would he come back?
***
Animal communicators say that all you have to do to talk with your dog is get quiet and listen. I’ve practiced this with both of my cats as they neared the end and a few times with Petey, but it wasn’t part of our routine. We communicated in other ways. But now that we were here, solo-isolating twelve months into the pandemic and fighting his lymphoma, I had to do something. So I tried reaching him the only way I knew: by talking. What I didn’t expect was how much he’d love exclamation marks. Our first conversation went like this:
Me: Hi, Petey.
Petey: Hi!
Me: Are you glad you got chemo treatment?
Petey: Yes!
Me: Are you in pain?
Petey: No!
Me: Are you tired?
Petey: Yes!
Me: Are you hungry?
Petey: Yes!
Me: Do steroids make you feel weird?
Petey: Yes! But I’m still here!
Me: I miss you. Are you okay?
Petey: Yes!
Me: Should we do another treatment tomorrow?
Petey: Yes! Yes! Yes!
Me: Would you like fewer steroids?
Petey: Yes!
Me: Okay. We’re only doing them for three more weeks.
Petey: Okay! I’m hungry!
Me: I’ll feed you more. I love you so much.
Petey: I love you! I’m still here!
Me: So, if I miss you, I can just talk to you like this?
Petey: Yes! Last week was hard!!!!!!
Me: It was hard. But you’re doing great. You’re such a good boy.
Petey: I know!
Me: How can I make things better for you?
Petey: Treats! Pets! Friends! Hugs! Don’t cry!
Me: Haha, okay, noted. Want to go to the park today?
Petey: Yes! Songs! Sing to me! Dance!
Me: You’ve got it, buddy.
And then I took a breath and asked the one thing I wanted to know.
Me: Petey, are you still in there?
Petey: Yes! I’m here! I’ll come back!!!
I opened my eyes and looked at him as he looked past me, probably searching for the food bowl, and cried with joy. He was still there. And he was as exuberant as ever, at least on the inside. Some people might say that it was my brain answering my questions, but I knew it was more than that. Petey’s voice was as clear and as strong as his eyes were before steroids. We were just connecting in a new space, one where we could feel instead of see.
A different kind of voice.
As we started titrating him off steroids, things got worse. I searched for his personality, hoping it would return, holding onto the hope that it was this drug, in conjunction with other therapies, that would buy him time and put him into remission. It was his best chance, the way to give Petey more than four-to-six weeks to live, so we had to try. But how long woul it take? And what if it didn’t work? Would we spend our last days together not really being together?
My only option was to trust.
Time would tell if the chemo was working and if his lymph nodes stayed small, which was what the prednisone was doing for us. Time would tell if his personality came back, if his eyes returned to expressing every little thing whenever he wanted to express it. Time would also take him eventually, so I had to practice these things, including making my own play.
I got all of his toys out and had them talk to him like puppets, something he usually loved. I hid them around the house, playing hide and seek with myself since he wouldn’t. I danced and did my own tricks, flailing around the living room. Maybe he couldn’t access that part of himself right now, or maybe he didn’t feel like it, so I accessed it for both of us.
Later that night we also talked, sitting on the couch together. I drew him a crown and wrote “warrior” on it, placing it on his head as he fell asleep. Petey Sellers was a fighter, and I wanted him to know I was fighting with him. All I could do, all I had to do, was nurse him back to health the best way I could and know that he was still in there, ready to talk whenever I wanted.
If I was lucky, I’d see him again in between the exclamation marks.
***
Readers! Petey Sellers made it through the Stare-oid month, but I’m reluctant to use them again. The challenging part is that when cancer comes back, prednisone is the go-to, immediate option. If you’re experiencing severe personality changes with prednisone on the cancer journey, talk about it. Tell your oncologist and your vet. You’re not alone! And then talk to your dog. I bet he/she is still in there, just waiting to chat. And stare you down in a crown, of course.
I so feel this... I was out of town when our Carter started chemo along with prednisone and my husband reported "He's back to his old self!" and when i got hone I was dismayed- Carter had this almost glassy eyed stare and was NOT himself- not at all. It was me, his person, who could see it. I was so glad when we weaned him off of it yet I know it remains a future option...