It was a Friday. My husband, who has never been a “Biff fan”, had nagged me enough to convince me that he needed a trip to the vet. You see, Biff had been limping on and off for a few weeks. And me, I am not a worrier. It was cool outside, so I figured it was arthritis acting up. But the night before I had reached down and felt his leg. Worry did descend over me. His leg was huge. Crap.
It was almost a year ago we had been to the vet and he had told me he had what felt like an old ACL tear. Today we saw a different vet at the practice. He was cool… not even lukewarm… towards us. He explained that there were three possibilities: injury, local infection, or cancer. Me, not the type to worry, hoped for infection. Antibiotics are such an easy fix! He led Biff off to have an x-ray and came back with a laptop. It was cancer. The news got worse.
The vet shared, a dog of his age is likely to have osteosarcoma. Osteosarcoma is highly aggressive, highly metastatic. There was a slight chance it could be a different type of cancer, I don’t remember the name, which is less aggressive. Either way, it was bad news. I asked what my options were. This is when the vet got cold… very cold. I could just pick a date and have him put down. “WHAT?!?! That doesn’t seem like an option.” I could wait out the cancer, manage him with meds, and eventually he would break his leg, then I could put him down. I repeat, “WHAT?!?! Again, how is that a good option?” I could go see a specialist and have his tumor biopsied, but that’s painful. Ok, but at least I’m doing something besides putting my dog down because he has cancer. He decides he needs to go fill some prescriptions for Biff. I am left to “think about my options.”
When the vet returns it is me who brings up the route we are bound to take. Growing up on a dairy farm, I have seen more than my fair share of animals surviving unthinkable odds. I have also seen a fair share of not so happy endings. Either way, I know there has to be more than these options. I brought up the option I thought would be best. Here’s how I thought: He has cancer in his leg. Get rid of his leg. “So, how about amputation?” How cavalier.
The answer I received was not as I expected. “Well we could. But it’s probably spread.” Then he asked me how old Biff is (wait, don’t you have this nifty little chart that has his age?) “He’s not even 9.” The vet told me he thought he was older. Yea, he’s been greying since he was 4. He looks and acts like an old man. But he is only 8, and a medium sized dog, only 60 pounds. He went through some statistics. Some reasons not to do it. Blah blah blah. He did offer to email me the x-ray so I could discuss my options with my husband, or whoever. I got Biff’s pills. Paid the bill. And left, dejected. As far as bad news goes, this was heart wrenching. The way I saw it I only had 1 choice to make: Do I let my dog suffer in pain until it’s excruciating, and then choose to kill him or do I cut off his leg.
My husband has never been a dog person. Biff came with me to our marriage. I got Biff as a puppy, fresh from a neighbor’s farm, 7 weeks old and a little ball of fluffy fur. I was a junior in college, and he took a 2.5 hour trip to college with me. Who does that? Decides to get a puppy and takes him for a car ride for 2.5 hours. Apparently it all worked out though, he loves the car to this day. I named him Otis. Nobody liked that name. I said well fine then, we will just call him Big Fat Lazy Dog, BFLD (pronounced “Biffeled”) for short.” My boyfriend at the time proclaimed, “That’s it, that’s an awesome name: Biff!” And the name stuck. 6 years later I met my husband. I was in grad school at the time, Biff was living on the farm with my parents. He loved the farm life. Riding on wagons, riding in the truck, chasing cats, lounging around. Sounds like a premier life for a dog. My husband and I, just dating, moved in together. With a new job offer and young love, I mistakenly rushed to find an apartment. Biff did not come live with use, he stayed on the farm. Once we were married and bought a house, Biff moved in. My husband had never lived with a dog. And Biff is set in his ways. He is stubborn and cocky and has a slight suave to him that makes him so human to me. My husband just found him annoying… and so hairy! They have since learned to peacefully coexist – but still have disagreements about who I love more. But with that said, my husband’s thoughts on the choices were “Isn’t amputation awfully extreme… and expensive? I mean, he’s just a dog.”
Ugh, he’s just a dog. Another disagreement ensued about the dog (believe me, not our first). Biff is my baby. I don’t have children, so he is my child. And I have raised him since he was a baby. A connection that he is beginning to understand about, as we also have a 1 year old dog that we got as a puppy. That’s a story for another time…
Well, in the upcoming days I decided to have his lungs x-rayed. I was secretly hoping they would show metastatic tumors, so I didn’t have to choose. Horrible, but I didn’t want to choose. Clean. Completely clean. I should have felt relief. I didn’t, I felt pressure. I went home to think more about the decisions I had to make. I actually let a couple weeks pass. I called and had pre-op bloodwork done. Again, secretly hoping he wasn’t a good candidate for surgery. Results came back good. At this time, everything has decided for me… just not in the way I expected… I realized, with all these results showing things hadn’t spread and he’s a good candidate for surgery: I don’t have a choice. Everything looks good except this horrible tumor on his leg. Get rid of this tumor. And with that, we scheduled surgery. His amputation was Wednesday 6/13/12. I dropped him off as a 4-legged dog, but soon to be a tripawd.