One More One More Time, Yet Again
By Don Adams © Don Adams 2003

(Part I)

Welcome back! The first few paragraphs are relatively graphic and partially very personal so skip ahead if you blush easily. You prurients plunge on in! And this part of the column is actually about a dog. Not me, despite the stories some of my exes tell. A real dog. Mexican street dog. Dump dog. But first…

Okay, the doc ran his tests, gave me an option of two surgeries, and sent me to Charleston to get a second opinion from a young, nervous big city surgeon. I decided not to use the youngster for several reasons although I'm pretty sure he was extremely well qualified. Who knows when it comes to doctors.

The main reasons I didn't choose him was that the operation he performed was pretty final as far as shutting off some of the functions we guys are fond of performing ourselves. Stuff like going to the bathroom without having to either unsnap a diaper, or never leaving the house because since you can't always feel your body functioning between your lower spine and the middle of your thighs you can't always feel the difference between wet and dry. Or gas and solids.

And of course the reason the young doc was so uncomfortable. SEX! Some of you fondly remember it, some are still happily engaging in it, some of you watch it regularly on a few of those 42 kazillion satellite channels you receive down here, and a small number of you (and this is based on local gringa whines both publicly printed and privately sobbed) just don't care anymore. Prostate cancer treatments do usually have quite a profound effect in this area. Physically, psychologically, and emotionally.

Fortunately, I had the pleasure of working as a volunteer in an "Us Too" support group under the sponsorship of Dr. Ken Goldberg in Dallas while I was undergoing a therapy regime and believe me, I've not only heard all the questions and concerns, I've heard all the answers. It just ain't as grim as some of the lazy and unimaginative might lead you to believe. But that's another sermon for another time; let's get me across the border.

Short version---I went back to grad school, got certified to teach in Texas, did it for a few years, endured and occasionally enjoyed an interesting and short third marriage, spent several years of Wednesday evenings with a counselor at the Vet Center in Houston, got divorced, made a lot of three to six month visits to old haunts in Mexico, got thrown away by my temporary love of the time, took all my money out of the bank and the Teacher Retirement System, loaded up and headed South for good. This was all after the surgeon and the majority of the rest of the docs told me I had less than a year to live. About seven years after.

And now that I've been diagnosed and am undergoing treatment for small cell lung cancer they're all telling me I might have as much as three years to go. Based on the math from the date of diagnosis of the last miscalculations they made that actually means about thirty-six years the way I figure it. Twelve years of survival currently, times the three they semi-predict means that I will probably eventually need those diapers.

Mexican diapers, 'cause I'm here to stay. I'm doing occasional NoB forays for the free treatment at the VA, but this is my home. And my inspiration. And part of the survival process. And to appreciate the lessons offered by a little dog.

" Oh, that poor little dog!" Spoken softly, I still understood it as a request, almost a command, to turn around and investigate. We'd played the same scene just a few weeks before, Miz T and me, when we'd stopped to pick up a small black dog near the balnearios in San Juan. The vet worked with her for several days but her problems were too varied and too extensive and advanced to allow her to continue. She lived a painful, diseased, and lonely life but thanks to Dr. Pepe and Siegrid she had some dignity in death. She was washed, given a clean bed, treated, and offered safety, attention and affection. The treatment was too late. The attention and affection never are.

So as soon as I could turn the truck we headed back up the libramiento to the entrance to the municipal dump. As I turned onto the muddy road Miz T cautioned me to slow down. "There!". She motioned for me to stop at the same time she pointed to the middle of the road. There, in a puddle, lay another small black dog. I stopped and we both stepped out into a light drizzle and slowly walked to the puddle and the dog.

"She was sitting up when we drove by." Now she was lying on her side with the muddy water covering most of her lower body with only her head and shoulders lying on the raised edge of a rut. Her front legs were rigidly stretched straight out from her body and she looked at us through shocked resigned eyes.

Again, having been recently been diagnosed with a fast growing cancer and planning my first trip back to Texas for treatment I was in no shape to watch another soul pass. I stood there, emotions competing with one another, waiting to see which would finally prevail and allow me to move. Miz T did it. With a careful step into the edge of the puddle she leaned down to grasp those rigid legs to pull the little dog from the puddle. I immediately began to look for something in which to wrap her for transport to the doctor. There was a bag of discarded clothing a few steps away and I found an old suit coat near the top. Damp though it was, it served as a perfect sling in which to carry the wet, cold little dog. We wrapped her and loaded her into the truck as she settled deeper into shock and the realization that little of her body was of use to her at that time. Her back legs hung limp and useless. Her front legs were locked straight out and useless. She uttered not a sound.

There was no question about where we were headed. There are a number of exceptional veterinarians at Lakeside and I've taken my guys to a few of them, accompanied friends to others, and heard glowing recommendations of some, but we headed straight to Riveras del Pilar (Riberas) to the clinic of M.V.Z. Jose Magana de la Pena. Pepe. And Siegrid. I knew that despite the outcome this little dog would be well-treated medically and given the respect she deserved. And I knew that Doctor Pepe would not give up; that decision, if made, would be made by his small black and brown patient-to-be.

As it turned out, that was a decision she had to make several times over the next few days and nights. With Pepe's help. And with Siegrid's.

I know we drove them to distraction with our everyday visits, but it seemed as though the little dog endured and survived at least one major crisis a day for the first few in the hospital.

Initially she was in shock, of course; and her core temperature was dangerously low after lying in that muddy water under gloomy, drizzly skies. Then there was some internal bleeding. A head injury. And a heart attack. And some damage to the liver. And the paralysis. The back legs remained limp and useless, the front, stiff and straight. And Doctor Pepe worked his gentle magic on the battered little body as Siegrid shared her love and offered support during the long nights of the little dog's anxiety driven internal torment.

Encased in a partial body brace, wrapped in meters of gauze, often mercifully medicated into a pain-free haze, attended to by a number of strangers, punctured by life-giving intravenous needles, and trapped inside an up-to-then strong and active but now almost immobile body must have been a terribly frightening burden. But at least she was breathing. She was being. And from somewhere deep inside that magnificent mind, that unbeatable spirit that some possess and control, she made the decision to live. Pepe and his staff were doing all they could for the body and Siegrid held and petted and softly encouraged the little dog; soothing her anxieties and helping her to understand that now that she had decided to stay that help would always be offered.

And it was, and it is, and so it will always be.

After a short while the front legs began to relax. The IVs were pulled. A light appeared in those brown eyes, and I was allowed to take the little dog home with me.

Many of those who know me well often wonder how I manage to care for myself, much less Pirata and Max and Mona. I'm not really too involved, or even that well acquainted with responsibility and schedules and such, and I definitely didn't have the energy or the reserves to care for that little crippled dog but I felt a personal need. I suppose it was selfish on my part; I wanted to observe, close up, her healing, her spirit, her drive. I wanted and needed a reminder that just because you go down doesn't mean you can't get back up. Selfish maybe. Necessary, definitely.

Mexico has become such a part of me; or perhaps I've begun the real process of becoming a real part of her, that I often fail to appreciate the healing soul, the soothing intimacy, the gentle acceptance contrasted to the fiery defiant spirit of the people, the breathtakingly beautiful terrains of various parts of the country, and the gift of somewhat understanding the Mexican attitudes toward both life and death. This little dog; we think probably a Rat Terrier about three years old, must have been pre-destined, sent to all of us, to remind us again just how important is life, and how fortunate we are to be enjoying it in such a wonderful place.

And so she came home with me to San Juan. She was immediately accepted by Mona, ignored by Max, and barely tolerated by the very jealous Pirata. And she was more than a handful to care for. Luckily Miz T pitched in cheerfully and willingly. And with great insight and many practical tips.

Sophie, as she came to be named (inspired during a late night contemplation as I lay in bed watching her by moonlight) began from the very first day to display her independence and willfulness; her decision to live life as though she could still command that broken little body to perform as it had before. For instance, somehow she managed to persuade me to place her beside me as I napped. She had seen Pirata leap onto the bed and wanted the same privilege of position. Not by begging; not her style, but by force of life energy.

She pulled herself from place to place throughout the house, sliding the damaged back legs over the smooth floor tiles as she pulled forward on her slightly bowed front legs. And as she moved, she left behind a narrow track somewhat similar to snail slime. She was incontinent and subject to the same problems I mentioned earlier when talking about men and surgery. The solution was the same--diapers. At the time I really wasn't thinking well and it wasn't until Miz T saw that my good intentions weren't really achieving the best result for either man or dog that things changed for the better.

I thought I had achieved engineering excellence when I bought a small inflatable wading pool and plopped Sophie into it. She would climb out as far as she could, which was just enough to allow the functioning muscles and tendons of her forward body to clear the sidewall while leaving the limp rear legs inside the pool. In this way she could motor around without making a mess. A towel beneath the back legs caught and contained the problem until I thought of the diapers. Disposable baby dipes with a slit cut to thread her tail through simplified my task and offered some degree of self-respect for Sophie.

But there was still the problem of the dressings. Sophie had some cuts and scrapes on various parts of her body, particularly the back legs, as a result of the accident. And, I'm ashamed to have to admit, because one day when I put her on the terrace to sun she dragged herself across an area of rough bricks and suffered fresh abrasions due to my negligence and her inability to feel pain. All of these dictated that she receive at least one bath a day, soothing and healing balms, and fresh dressings. Things got a lot simpler after Miz T analyzed the situation and suggested that to avoid the dressings being tugged loose during her dragging travels that I use the expandable net tubes that doctors use to hold dressings on fingers and arms. A quick trip to the farmacia and one more problem was solved. Two actually; now Sophie could completely escape the wading pool as long as she stayed inside on the slick tiles because her dressings were securely held by the nets and her voids were neatly contained by the diaper. But she was still inside. Limited in her movements. There had to be a better solution. There was. There is.

I usually work while listening to the TV. One of my favorites is the Animal Channel. And one of my favorites there is the Animal Psychic. I know, I know… But then I have more serious problems so it's not as bad as it sounds. Anyway, one day Sylvia was talking to a lady who brought into the studio two dogs in…doggy wheelchairs. Bingo! I immediately went to the Internet and began my search.

My selection, made after looking at several sites and remembering the style of "chair" used by the TV guests, was a company named Doggon' Wheels. Now that many people have seen Sophie dashing about with the aid of her individually built wheelchair they want to know more. You can find out more for yourself at their website; www.doggon.com. The e-dress is doggon@doggon.com and the phone number is 1-888-736-4466 or 406-222-5574. Fax them at 1-888-236-4329 or 406-222-5790. The mailing address is POB 1503, Livingston, Montana 59047.

I'm happy, as is Sophie, with their product, their efficiency, and their obvious compassion toward our canine friends. The website is very informative and makes ordering smooth and simple. My experience with them has been most positive. Ya'll know how grouchy I can get, so this should be taken as high praise. I unconditionally recommend them.

Unfortunately I had to set sail for Texas for medical treatment just a few days after the chair arrived in Mexico and didn't have time to do much more than get the harnesses correctly adjusted and take Sophie for a few trial runs over a period of a few days. Miz T and I enjoyed our brief time of watching Sophie's first few tentative steps and her somewhat reluctant use of her new mode of transportation but reality intruded into what we had hoped would be a bit longer adventure together before Sophie found a new home and a new human companion. Miz T was definitely open to adoption but due to a number of factors she wasn't at a place where that was possible. And due to my impending medical treatments in Texas I wasn't able to assure the type of long-term care and attention Sophie deserved. Then...

Siegrid and Pepe. I loaded Sophie and her chair into the truck and drove back to Riberas. At the time I was under a bit of stress and desperate to find acceptable care for Sophie and luckily they agreed to care for her until someone offered a permanent home. It appears that the permanent home is at Hidalgo #77, the veterinary clinic of Pepe, and the pet grooming salon of Siegrid. It also appears that this is so because they've both opened their hearts to a determined little dog. It's obvious that Sophie adores Siegrid and remembers the loving care and comfort offered during those first terrifying days and nights after she was struck by that hit and run driver.

It's equally obvious that Siegrid adores that little bundle of life and inspiration. And Pepe is not immune to her many charms and her indominatable spirit. His justifiable pride in his medical skills as well as his affection for Sophie are obvious when you see his smile and the light in his eyes as he watches her scamper about the clinic. And scamper she does.

When I returned to Lakeside I stopped by to see how things were going. A friend had already e-mailed to ask if the little black and brown dog at the clinic was Sophie. Yes, indeed! Only now she's much more; what Siegrid describes as "the soul of the clinic." That wheelchair has allowed her to participate fully in most of life's activities, and what Siegrid describes as her "magnificent spirit" has helped her realize that she is now in the care of very caring and loving people, but that she has debts to pay. One of her contributions to the smooth operation of the businesses in that she whizzes busily about, barking and reassuring the patients and clients. And their humans.

She maintains her independence though, keeping to a self-constructed schedule. She barks to alert the humans when it's time to eat, to lie down for siesta, and to retire for the evening. Her internal clock beats Big Ben. She's as whole as anyone could hope for. And much loved. And inspirational. And alive.

Which is not the case for one of her kennel mates. At the same time Sophie was working with the humans to survive her misfortune a larger dog was in the hospital recovering from severe injuries after also being struck by a vehicle. Each time we visited Sophie Miz T and I offered a bit of attention to that optimistic boy. He lay on one side or the other on his bed, splints and pins and braces holding each of his four limbs held securely so that the broken bones could mend themselves. And always he displayed a happy face and asked for just a moment of attention. And he was healing, becoming stronger by the day. Until…

One day his humans took him back NoB. This is not a judgment upon them but they were unable for some reason to adequately care for that young dog so he was put down. Perhaps if they'd known about doggy wheelchairs---they make them for both para and quadraplegic dogs of all sizes. Or perhaps they were too tired or unable to care for him and unable to find someone up North like Doctor Pepe and Siegrid. But maybe knowing how to find a chair might have made a difference. Maybe…