Vicious. Unadoptable. More heart than a cardiac unit.

This week made one month since Kitsune came home after his cancer surgery. The doctors at Southpaws removed his left front leg, including the shoulder, so he looks just a bit different from the passenger’s side than he did before. A read of the the surgery notes indicate no sign of metastasis at the time, which is encouraging news.

Bringing Kit home was wonderful but tough — just a day, two days after surgery, he was in tons of pain and the painkillers they’d given him only seemed to disorient, rather than alleviate. With help from two of the vet techs, I got him into my car, and drove home.

Getting him into the house, however, was another story.

Kit knew where he was, and I’m sure on some level he was glad to be home. Yet, from the moment I opened the car door, I knew this wouldn’t be easy. He wouldn’t maneuver well at all in the back seat, and the soreness and swelling from the surgery made him to tender to lift — I could loop a towel under his front leg (the only front leg now) and try to support, but every single step was a struggle. He was fighting to move ahead, but his strength wasn’t there. Kit wasn’t going to get anywhere on physical ability alone, but he pushed for all he was worth – he made it the fifteen feet or so from the car to just inside the front door, and collapsed flat on the linoleum.

Kit looked at me with some confusion in his eyes, as though he didn’t quite understand why he was so lame, and looked sad as if he was letting me down. Dogs always want to please their masters, and the best ones practically shame themselves sick when they feel they’ve let you down. Kit has always been one of the best. I got some towels underneath and around him, brought some water for him to drink, and sat with him.

All afternoon. All night.

I made a nest out of Kim’s beanbag chairs, brought my laptop over to watch some Top Gear Australia, and tried to get some rest. With Kit unable to get up and move, I knew he’d have no choice but to evacuate on the floor – that didn’t matter, as I was ready to clean up whatever happened. Ever the dog to mind his manners, Kit moaned, groaned, and tried with all his might to hold back, until he peed a river on the floor.  Cleanup was quick and complete, to prevent him from soaking the bandage that wrapped round his chest.

I held him, comforted him, and told him “you’re gonna’ make it – just hang in there.” Kit has always seemed to understand more of my vocabulary than most animals, and he seemed to get it, somewhat.

That first night was rough: He constantly shifted round, moaned and whined, and was generally just the most uncomfortable I’ve ever seen him. The drugs in his system were wearing off, leaving him groggy and in plenty of pain. I was hopeful, however, that he’d feel a little better the next day. He needed to — for his sake, and my own.

On day two, after peeing on the floor probably 3 times, it was time to try whatever we could to get him out to the back yard. I had already converted the bottom-floor den from “storage” to “pretty good space for Kit to rest and enjoy some peace & quiet.”

Still in the foyer, I helped him up onto his feet. He limped — aching all the way — to the back door. One step down, and he was on the grass. He took a few steps, peed, took a few more steps, then laid down. Flat. Exhausted. He stayed planted there for 20 minutes, in fact, not wanting to even attempt to move. The look on his face told me “hey, I’m glad to be out in the yard… why can’t I just stay here?”

After spending what seemed like a month laying on the cool damp turf, and after about half a dozen attempts (no go, no go, and oh hell no go) to help him get up and return inside, Kit struggled to his feet, and staggered to the door — a few yelps, some wincing, but he made it on his own. He took a while to hop his front leg up the one step from the back door into the den, but he made it. And once he was just barely clear of the back door, he plopped down again.

He had gotten up and walked on his own, and it took all he had. Already, he was stronger than the day before.

[To be continued… soon.]

When I last wrote, I had just brought Kit home from Silver Spring. He’d had a bad day last Thursday, and mom’s still got a puncture wound in her hand to show for it.

I observed Kit here at home on Friday and Saturday, and noticed his limp getting worse, and the pain seemed to be increasing. He wasn’t up for walks unless he really needed to go — though nothing could prevent him from climbing the stairs late at night to take his place beside our bed to sleep. The pain was so bad in his leg, he wouldn’t even put his paw to the floor while standing, much less while limping along.

Saturday afternoon, after observing this long enough, I got him into the car and took him to a vet near us that has a 24/7 clinic. They’re also a first-rate vet hospital during the week. We met with a doc there who examined him, took X-rays to ascertain his condition, and it was then time to discuss what limited options were available.

The worst choice, by far, was to do nothing. He’s in terrible pain from the leg, and it’s making him suffer. Another option we didn’t consider for long was to load him up with heavy painkillers, which in his case would be akin to putting a band-aid on a bullet wound – it might take the pain from a 98 down to a 94, maybe a 90. It wouldn’t relieve it. They have a targeted radiation program which may or may not bring much pain relief, but wouldn’t address the advanced stage cancer. Strike one, strike two…  WAIT A MINUTE.

The X-rays revealed some very interesting information to contrast with the last X-rays he’d had, back in March. The condition of his leg where the cancer is localized, has worsened – the wall of bone supporting the top of the Humerus bone (where all the weight is supported) is barely millimeters thin now. He’s frighteningly close to breaking that bone, just by placing a foot wrong – and if that bone breaks, being cancerous, it will not heal.

However, we also found in the X-rays – which were taken from more views than previously – that his lungs appear to be clear, his heart looks to be in good shape, and his bloodwork (which we had done there) came back normal, normal, and more normal. His other front leg looks fantastic, too.

I looked into Kit’s eyes, and saw that he is NOT done smiling. He’s not done wagging his tail. He’s not ready to leave us, and is in no hurry to check out. When Tripper got really old in ’89, I saw in his eyes that he was getting tired. It was the same with Shayna back in ’98, and we experienced the same thing with Shadow last year – when he’s had enough, he’ll let you know. Kit is nowhere near ready for that. For Kit to climb the steps to be with us at the end of the night, when it clearly meant a fuck-all hurricane of pain for him to do so, means he wants to fight this with everything he’s got.

The only viable option, to remove the pain and give him a shot at enjoying life, is to amputate the bad leg. He’s already used to getting around on 3 legs, he’s PROVED to me that he will get around on sheer determination if he must, and if he’s minus a leg, fuck it, he’ll be the most gorgeous 3-legged dog you’ve ever seen.

Kit is remaining at the vet until we have the surgery consult tomorrow, and get things in motion to get the work done. He will remain on his herbal/holistic program, as I think it’s shown some worthwhile benefit – it certainly hasn’t hurt. It’s a little bit of work, sure. Mixing up all of the herbs and getting the veggies juiced, can be a little messy and time-consuming. Yeah, and he’s worth a thousand times the mess and fuss, too. Kim has been incredibly supportive throughout. I’d be a goddamn wreck without her.

Kit is, by our best guess, around 13, and the surgery probably will not prevent the spread of cancer to his lungs, eventually. There is no way to tell how much time this will buy him, but it’s his best shot. He will emerge from surgery without the pain that’s been driving him mad, without the cancerous lesion eating the leg from the inside out, and hopefully with a good appetite.

To everyone who’s been following this, thanks again for the help and support and concern for Kit – he appreciates it as much as I do.

Kitsune is home with me, having spent the last month or so with my mom. She’s better-equipped to care for him, living in a house with a few steps out into a big fenced-in yard, and having also cared for a previous dog with cancer. She’s handled most of his day to day stuff, with as much support as I could provide… until today, when Shit Happened.

If you’ve ever had a loved one with cancer, you know it beats the hell out of your body, mind, and soul. In the past few years, my mother, aunt, and grandfather have all been treated for cancer – and ALL of them have gone more than a little bit crazy from it. So, cancer makes you a bit insane. I accept that, and I’ve had to accommodate that. I don’t understand the how or the why, but I recognize it and realize it’s mostly a temporary bit of insanity.

Early today, Kit was apparently in a bad mood. Probably in lots of pain, but much more aggressive towards mom’s dog Della than usual. Della is a young Golden Retriever, loves to be the center of attention, and sometimes annoys the crap out of Kit – sometimes she physically aggravates him, too. Kit’s cancer is localized in his left front leg, and it causes him to limp when he walks; this was what led to the vet visit that yielded his osteosarcoma diagnosis in the first place.

So, Kit’s having a bad day, Della is driving him nuts, and Kit snaps at her. Repeatedly – “leave me the frak alone!” Cancer makes you a little crazy, sometimes. Mom, concerned for her young Della, gets in front of Kit and tells him “no, I don’t like when you do that…” all while pointing her hand a bit too close to his face.

Faced with aggravating pain that’s driving him batshit, a young retriever who won’t shut up and leave him alone, and my mother yelling at him, Kit growled – he warned her – and then bit her hand.

Cancer makes you crazy.

Of course, minutes later, my phone rings. Mom is absolutely terrorized by this geriatric 13 year old dog who’s dying from cancer, and is at wit’s end. And her hand is bleeding – a puncture wound to the base of the thumb, in the fatty tissue on the palm side. I must say, while I know he never intended to harm her, he did get a pretty good bite.

Fast-forward a few hours – during which mom goes out to lunch with some ex-girlfriend of mine who was in town for the day (right, nevermind), decides lunch beats getting her hand looked-at by a doc – which she still hasn’t done – and then gripes to me for an hour about it. Yeah, my dog bit you – after he warned you to get that hand out of his face. Remember 2 years ago when you had cancer, dear mother? I’ll take a growling snarling dog pissed off dog with huge teeth over that, any day. My crazy mutt won’t bite me, because I won’t antagonize him when he’s on his last nerve.

I drove up tonight and picked up Kit – who by now is in a much better mood. Soon as he got home, Zeus (our little Manchester Terrorizer) got him into some play in the living room, and he’s feeling pretty lively. He hates the steps – one drawback to a nice townhouse is you get a good Stairmaster workout from the front door to the main floor, and again from living room up to bedroom – but he climbed them on his own.

He’s still my fluffy mutt. He’s still a big silly sweetheart. I don’t know how much time we’ve got left – and he’s obviously not any better today than he was a week ago – but he’s still smiling. The tail still wags. He still loves my attention. He still has lots of love in his eyes.

And now, I’m finishing this so I can go spend more time with him.

Sebring, FL –

Anyone who lives and breathes motorsports knows what Sebring means. For sports car fans, it’s the start of the season – no matter what may or may happen at Daytona in February.

Every year for the past 8, Sebring’s been my destination in mid-March. Starting in 2004, I’ve loaded up my little compact car with enough stuff to get me through a week, and driven (or, this year, taken the Amtrak Auto Train) the approximate 1000 miles from my home in the DC area to sunny central Florida. It’s a great way to stick a fork in Winter and call it “done.”

This year, however, is a bit different – and not because of the racing.

In fact, with a 56-car field, the 2011 running of the 12 Hours of Sebring is shaping up to be one of the all-time greats. Turbodiesel powerhouse teams Peugeot and Audi are once again set to square off, this time not just to win Sebring, but also to kick off this year’s Intercontinental Le Mans Cup. Last year’s ALMS champs, Highcroft Racing, have returned with a new car, but minus the Patron sponsorship (Patron is continuing as Series sponsor to ALMS, as well as Scott Sharp’s Extreme Speed Motorsports Ferrari deal). Where Highcroft will be seen after Sebring is yet to be determined.

No, if there’s one reason I’m not 100% “here” at this year’s Sebring, it’s Kitsune.

Some time back in 2000, my girlfriend and I had occasion to visit the dog pound in Montgomery County. On a tip from my mother, we went to see this rather unusual dog – he was big and fluffy and red, a Chow mix. He sprinted and bounded through the air like a giant red fox – and he was on the “kill this one soon list” at MCHS. See, when you’re a stray dog and the dog catcher picks you up by the scruff of your neck and your tail, apparently it’s poor etiquette to snap and him and say “NO!”

The big fluffy red fox-like mutt was declared Vicious and Unadoptable. That’s pound-speak for “we’ve got better things to do than take a chance that this one’s aggressive.” He was aggressive, indeed. In fact, he aggressively chomped on every dog biscuit my mom or my girlfriend or I would hand him through the chain-link gate. When I entered his cell and sat beside him, and wrapped my arms around him, that was it: He was coming home with us one way or another.

While my girlfriend’s name was on the adoption paperwork, and while she gave Kit his name, it was soon clear he was my dog. I’d walk him. I’d play with him. I’d buy his food and treats. And when he needed a trip to the vet, I didn’t blink at paying the cost.

In the first few years, Kit earned himself a nickname: Mr. Naughty. Take him anywhere – to a park, to a friend’s house, to our own backyard – and he’d find some kind of trouble to get into. He has always loved herding other animals; we’re quite sure he’s part Border Collie in addition to the Chow genes. Set him loose at the dog park, and he won’t attack any other dogs. He won’t dominate them. He’ll just chase them. Round in circles, across the field, wherever his “herd” would go, he’d run them round. Not until he started to get old did he slow this down, though even as a senior dog, he still likes to try and play the Chase Game whenever he can.

In 2007, Kit had his Year of Living Dangerously. In the Spring, on a trip to the Savage River in MD, Kit stepped on something sharp and lacerated the hell out of his leg. Several of the arteries in the leg were cut clean, and he was bleeding like mad – all over the back of my mom’s car, as she drove him home in a panic. I tied off the leg and we got him over to the emergency vet clinic in Rockville, they patched him up, and he spent a couple of weeks recovering. This incident made me a believer in self-dissolving sutures.

A mere few weeks after the bloody leg incident, Kit responded to a threat at my house that could have been the end for him. As the sun began to set on a warm day in late May, Kit was let out into the backyard, where he encountered an intruder. The Chow in him, programmed by nature to protect the home and protect the pack, went to negotiate with the raccoon that had found its way into our yard.

I first became aware of this, when I heard loud barking, and then yelping from Kit as well as mom’s big dog, Bosco. Kit had advanced on the raccoon, telling him “you’d better get the hell up outta’ here,” and the raccoon said “arrr! I fights you,” and bit into Kit’s side.

Bosco, ever the best-friend to Kit, came out of the house, saw his buddy under attack, and went right after the furry trespasser attached to Kit’s mid-section. It was something of a tug of war for several seconds – which seemed like forever – before Kit was able to shake off the now-mangled coon.

The raccoon died of its injuries soon after, and we got Kit and Bosco rushed to the vet for examinations. Being still daylight during the attack, and with the raccoon’s aggression, I was worried it was likely rabid – a worry which was confirmed by the county’s Animal Control division a few days later.

Kit was thankfully up to date on his rabies vaccine, and as such was only subject to a check-up, a rabies booster, and an in-home “house arrest” for 45 days.

Later that same year, in November 2007, Kit tore up one of his hind legs. His anterior cruciate ligament was badly damaged, and required surgery with a lengthy recovery: Four months of physical therapy (usually done by me), 30 mins at a time, two to three times per day. It seemed like it took a year, but when Kit was finally able to run and play again, it made ALL of it worthwhile – not just the money spent on the operation, but all of the uncomfortable flexing and stretching of that leg, every day, for months on end.

He and Bosco made it through the raccoon deal, and went on to take many more walks together until Bosco suddenly succumbed to cancer in October of 2009. Our dogs have always been loath to show discomfort, and when Bosco suddenly collapsed, it was a shock to everyone in the family. His death affected everyone in the family, but it was my mom and Kit who seemed to take it the hardest. Kit was without his best buddy, for the first time since he came to live with us.

Losing Bosco was the first of two deaths in the family that would cause Kit to age noticeably. Eight months after Bosco, our beloved Beagle-mutt Shadow became very ill, and after two weeks of ill health, she too was gone. In less than one year, Kits two best friends had vanished, and I quietly began to wonder just how long I had left to enjoy his company.

I still don’t have that answer, entirely, but I know now that it won’t be long.

Two weeks ago, after noticing Kit limping with his front leg over the weekend, I took him to his vet for a look-see. The vet took blood for a CBC, did a routine physical exam, and took X-rays of his front legs. Kit’s right front leg looks like that of a dog half his age – it’s in great shape, with almost no perceptible calcification of the shoulder joint.

His left leg, however, showed a peculiar shadow. There were also curious spots in the chest. His vet asked if he could show the X-rays to a radiologist, to get an opinion as to what we were seeing.

The answer came three days later: Kit has osteosarcoma, advanced stage, and has already spread to his lungs.

To say I was hammered by this, is the great big hairy godfather of all understatements. The past week and a half, I’ve probably shed more tears than I have in the previous twenty years. Kit still looks good – he’s happy and smiling and his limp has decreased and he’s playing with our “new kids” Zeus and Della, but the Senior Dog is on borrowed time – cancer doesn’t turn itself off, and it doesn’t care how good you feel.

Cancer is Hell.

So… where am I? I’m in the media office at Sebring International Raceway, in Florida. The last few days before the trip down, I seriously considered canceling the whole deal – the hotel and the train fare wouldn’t necessarily be write-offs, and I could probably get anywhere from a partial to full refund on those… but to what end? I can be worried about Kit up in VA or MD, or I can be worried about Kit while doing my work, down in FL. I don’t know if the decision to go through with the trip was right or wrong, but it was definitely the harder of the two choices. I hope I don’t regret it.

And Kit, for now, is with my mother. She’s done holistic treatment on her own dog (Shayna) when conventional medicine threw up its hands and said “that’s all we can do, you’re out of options,” and Shayna lived a happy four more months thereafter. Kit is reportedly enjoying his food, doing well right now, and apparently doesn’t begrudge me the trip – at least I hope not.

I’m here. I’m doing what on any other day I’d love to be doing. And all I can think of, is next week when I get to see Kit again.

I don’t know any other way to start this, so I’ll start with the hard part:

My beloved dog Kitsune, has cancer.

A little over a week ago, I noticed he was walking with an unusual limp. His front leg seemed to be in pain, and after 24 hours it didn’t seem any better. I got him over to the vet, where all of our pets have been seen for over 30 years. His attending doc was a new guy, who hadn’t seen Kit before. He did a thorough bloodwork set, took X-rays, and… determined there was some arthritis and a little calcification in the left shoulder, possibly some soft tissue injury. He also noted a shadow in the film, which he said “might not be anything important, but I want to get it over to our radiologist to rule out cancer.”

The call came back on Wednesday: Kit has osteosarcoma, and it’s already an advanced case. It has spread from the leg to the lungs, as this cancer always does. The only question that remains is how long he’ll keep any quality of life.

Needless to say, I’ve been a wreck. Kit’s been my best friend and at times a hero to me over the years. He’s gone from the young and pretty mutt I adopted back in 2000, to the elder statesman of our dog pack. I knew he’d get old. I knew there would eventually be health problems. Nobody expects a sudden diagnosis of late-stage cancer. There might be two people reading this whom have ever seen me cry – I just don’t get that moved, that much. The last week has seen me make noted crybaby John Boehner look like noted wooden plank Al Gore. Just, without the conservative-based political pandering.

For now, Kit’s staying with my mother in MD. He has a full fenced-in yard up there, and many fewer steps to climb and descend to get outside. Since mom is still recovering from a broken ankle (she’s doing well, can walk with crutches now), she’s able to devote all the time needed to his care for the time being. I’ve been up to see him twice in the last 3 days – he’s looking OK, he’s eating well. He’s happy – and I’m glad my mother and grandpa are getting to spend time with him. One thought I’ve had, is that with his hourglass running down, I don’t want to keep him entirely to myself. I don’t want to be selfish with him.

Tonight, I had my friend Eugene come down to visit. He’s a good friend, and we never get to hang out enough. He had also never met Kit. I got it in my head that anyone I consider a close friend, who lives within a reasonable distance, I’d like for them to meet my dog at least once. So they can see his smile. So they can be charmed by his presence. So that, when he’s gone, you know why I’m so torn up. So that it’s not just myself and my wife and family who remember him. I want my friends to remember him, too.

I love you, Kit – and I wish I could find a way to make you better… I will keep trying as long as there’s any time.