In which I clutch on to hope
Tuesday. Not my best day.
Gracie didn’t want to get out of bed. This isn’t unusual: she never gets up until I have had my second vat of coffee.
But today was different.
She lay on the end of the bed, squirming and wagging. Normally, she will step down on to the pile of pillows placed to give her confidence. I briefly went down to open the back door for the other collies. She appeared, then collapsed. I lifted her into her dog bed. She didn’t want to eat, which isn’t like her. The night before, after weeks of having a sore leg, she was bright enough for a short potter. I felt it was good for her self-esteem.
I called Nic, who came and put a painkiller down her throat. By midday, she hadn’t improved, so I called the vet, requesting a home visit. The vet examined her; Gracie was still reluctant to stand. The vet took blood samples, gave her an antibiotic and more painkiller. I tried to work, sat beside Gracie with my laptop. Then Nic called (the vet always calls Nic as I’m deaf; when stressed, I cannot hear phone calls at all).
‘They have the blood results. They want Gracie to come into the surgery.’
We carried her to Nic’s car. I have had so much bad news (there are books) that I was slightly fatalistic, detached. My life is s**t; this is just one more thing. The vet and a nurse carried
Gracie inside, and we waited. After about 20 minutes, the vet returned. ‘We’ve done a scan and it looks sinister. You need to take her to a referral clinic. Now.’
The clinic is in Wetherby, an hour away. Nic drove. She could hear Gracie snoring in the boot. We arrived at 7pm and discovered that the surgeon had been expecting us. He took
Gracie backstage. We waited. He returned.
‘We’ve looked at the scan.
And it isn’t good news. She has a cancerous tumour in her chest, which is bleeding, which means she’s anaemic. Her liver looks…patchy.’
I think of my liver. I need a drink.
I met Gracie 14 years ago. I’d heard of a collie rescue charity called Wiccaweys, in Lincolnshire. Gracie’s mum, while pregnant, had been badly abused in Ireland: no human could get near her. Gracie was born in the sanctuary. I turned up with Sam, my first rescued collie, a glittery name tag and a collar. It was love at first sight. Gracie has a pink tummy, pointy ears. Very nervous, just like me. I took her home, stopping to get petrol, only to discover she had been car sick on her paw. She did a Daily Mail photo shoot on her very first night. She never did learn to wee outside, or not to chew. There has never been a more difficult dog: she can’t spend even a few minutes on her own. When I’m in the bath, it’s seconds before a pointy nose with two black nostrils hovers. I love her with every fibre of my being.
The surgeon tells me there are two options. As she is 14, with cancer, and has collapsed, the first is to put her down. There is no shame or guilt in that. Or, we can take a biopsy, find out how aggressive the cancer is and have a CT scan in the morning, followed by chemotherapy.
I opt for number two. I cannot lose her, not tonight. Not ever. We stand at reception. Gracie is now insured (I insure all my dogs and horses, apart from Benji the pony, who is ineligible as he’s too old) and I’m told that the treatment estimate is £4,000. I have to pay £2,000. Straight away. The insurance company will hopefully reimburse me*, but I can’t help thinking, ‘What if I were a pensioner, with no money?
What would I do now?’
We leave, me clutching on to Gracie’s harness, lead – and hope. I ask Nic to sell my car. What’s the point of a possession, compared to a collie who has always been cheerful, despite her horrendous start in life?
I’m now in bed, waiting for a text from the clinic to tell me she has eaten, has had her biopsy and is prepped for her scan. If I can just get her home, I will make sure whatever time she has left is filled with cuddles, tummy tickles, warmth and love. Amazing Grace. There will never be another dog like her.
*I still owe Virgin Money £4,000 of the £6,000 I borrowed for Gracie’s slipped disc surgery, pre-pandemic and pre-Petplan
The surgeon was expecting us. He took Gracie backstage. We waited