Good Taste in Books, no. 2

Basenjis are devilish creatures. Owners of this breed of dog will say that the dogs train them more than the owners are able to train the dogs. Yo-Yo might know "sit," but I know to keep the closet door closed if I don't want holes chewed in my underwear, and I leave the TV remote, cell phone, and stapler out of the dogs' reach if I don't want to find a pile of mangled plastic components on the living room floor. Elizabeth, proud owner of basenji Pequod, knows to push the bananas and tomatoes to the back of the kitchen counter—or better yet, put them on top of the refrigerator—if she expects to have fruit for breakfast or salad for dinner. I think that most basenji owners reach happy compromises with their pets: In my house, I keep the toy chest full of smelly hooves, and the dogs don't eat the sofa.

Both Yo-Yo and Bug are way past puppyhood, but they can still get into trouble. Usually I conclude from their bad behavior that I am being punished. "You were gone too long, so we decided to chew the zipper out of this pillow," their faces say when I get home.

The last book that Bug ate was an expensive collection of plays by Euripides, my favorite ancient author. I was really looking forward to reading fresh, clean pages of the Alcestis, for instance, without getting distracted by marginal comments I had made in graduate school or while preparing for classes. I thought I understood that destruction, as I had gone out longer and later than usual one Friday night.

Sometimes, though, the destruction is inexplicable.

The most recent bit of destruction, for example, has no reason as far as I can figure. I had spent the whole evening at home. I was brushing my teeth, getting ready for bed. I heard a thump in Command Central, the spare bedroom I use for all things technological, and mistakenly guessed that Bug had jumped off the chair.

When I finished my bathroom routine, I walked past the open doorway of Command Central to witness Bug mauling my $125 dragonfly book, which he had pulled off the desk. Of all the things he could have chosen! I have poorly written/edited textbooks from school that I would have encouraged him to chew, dried out Sharpie markers, printouts I could have found again on the internet. But, no, he has to eat my most expensive book:


Eventually, I will forgive him. But I am left wondering why? Does the binding use really sweet glue? Did the guy who packaged it have greasy fingers from lunch at McDonald's? Can Bug smell cost and then intentionally chooses my most expensive purchase? Is Bug an incarnation of the Buddha, here to teach me nonattachment to material things? The little devil always eats books that are too expensive for me to justify replacing.

At least the book is still readable, unlike the collection of Euripides, half of which Bug vomited up during the 24 hours following its destruction. Ah, basenjis!

How can you stay mad at such a cute puppy, Ma?

Fanconi Syndrome, Part 6

A couple of weeks ago, Yo-Yo and I returned to the specialist for follow-up blood work, as per Dr. Gonto's Fanconi syndrome protocol. Based on the results, Dr. Skeptical has increased Yo-Yo's sodium bicarbonate dosage from 8 to 10 pills per day. Apparently her carbon dioxide level [pCO₂] had dropped to 33.3 mmHg, but her pH reading was more alkaline at 7.323, up from 7.252. I was hoping to hear that we wouldn't have to return for six months to a year, but Dr. Skeptical wants to run Yo-Yo's blood again in 3 months. She also confirmed my suspicion that Yo-Yo will need an ever increasing amount of sodium bicarbonate until she is taking 32 pills a day, the maximum dosage on the protocol.

This visit was much more pleasant than the first. The clinic was on schedule, so we were seen immediately. I knew what to expect and felt less anxious [Yo-Yo, however, expressed her dissatisfaction by peeing under the exam room bench]. Dr. Skeptical was in a much happier mood and didn't dis the protocol as she had at our last visit. We even had a laugh inventing the circumstances necessary to perform a double-blind study to test the protocol's effectiveness. On a secret island, researchers would establish a colony of 1,000 basenjis, fed by assistants who were paid to do just that, provide sustenance, not get attached as regular owners would. Then, after the 10 percent developed the disease, the other 900 could go up for adoption [Wouldn't the national rescue group love that!]. The remaining 100 would participate in the research. The only problem, as I pointed out, was that basenjis could win over even hardened scientists who, as a result, would start sneaking sodium bicarbonate to the "sugar pill" group anyway!

I decided to spring for the very expensive ultrasound [$270], just so we would know early in this "adventure" the state of Yo-Yo's kidneys. Dr. Skeptical sent Elizabeth and me away for an hour, and Yo-Yo went to radiology, where she received a Brazilian wax before the procedure. Elizabeth and I drove up the road to Quiznos, and since the restaurant was in a Publix shopping center, we got Yo-Yo a quarter pound of roast beef to make up for the stress of the afternoon and the sandwich stink on our breath. When we returned, Dr. Skeptical had a laptop loaded with pictures of Yo-Yo's insides. Her kidneys are normal size, but the ultrasound showed that her bladder wall was thickened, indicating an infection. There was no blood in her urine, though, and at the last visit, her culture had been "clean." Her walk behavior didn't indicate an infection, either. We stopped to pee just once; if she found a really interesting street corner, she might squeeze out a few extra drops for any other dogs that happened by. Dr. Skeptical decided that we would culture her urine again at the next visit and see what happened.

Elizabeth unwrapped the roast beef, and Yo-Yo gobbled a slice. Elizabeth gave the second slice to Dr. Skeptical, who tore it into little pieces. In typical basenji fashion, Yo-Yo accepted the offerings—it was roast beef after all—but remained aloof to her "torturer." She acted as if Dr. Skeptical's hand was the floor, and she just happened to find bites of beef there.

Yo-Yo still looks good, has high energy, and is her usual spunky self. An extra meatball with breakfast and dinner to accommodate two more sodium bicarbonate pills suits her fine.

Yo-Yo considers whether or not she will forgive the trip to the specialist.

Yo-Yo knows how cute she is.

Not another picture, Ma!

It's Not All Bad

The last five posts, all dealing with Yo-Yo's diagnosis with Fanconi syndrome, have been pretty depressing, but it's not all bad. Both basenjis are still full of energy and beauty, as evidenced by two photos out in the yard this week:

Yo-Yo in her hot red-leather collar, a Christmas present

Handsome Bug in his spiffy new collar

Fanconi Syndrome, Part 5

Yo-Yo and I are now comfortably in the routine of the protocol for treating Fanconi syndrome. But the disease and life-saving supplements that she must take come at a price—polydipsia [i. e., sucking down water as a sinkhole would] and polyuria [i. e., flooding urine the way the broken levees spilled Mississippi River into New Orleans]. The protocol notes that "urine volume, glucose and PH all contribute to potential 'urgency' and 'leaky incontinence.'" According to an article in JAVMA, the protocol "supplementation ... may exacerbate" the polydipsia and polyuria. Yo-Yo had been drinking and peeing slightly more before her diagnosis, but I believed environmental factors—such as the emotional upset and hard play with our foster boy Java and the long, hot summer—had been the cause, so I hardly noticed the difference. Now that the vet has confirmed Fanconi syndrome, however, I cannot help hearing her gulping water from her bowl and scratching more frequently at the door. And then there were the "accidents" I started finding when I got home from work.

Yo-Yo tries as hard as she can. When I am home, she comes up and lays her chin on my thigh or paws the door and we go right outside. We have developed new habits, like a pee break in the backyard before breakfast to avoid her dancing impatiently at the door as I'm trying to lace my shoes for her morning walk. I've added an additional "out" right before I leave for work. And no matter how cutely she's snuggled on the couch, I wake her up right before bed for one more trip into the yard so that we can sleep through the night. But during the eight or so hours I am at work, she cannot manage to "hold it."

Initially, Elizabeth suggested crating her [something I haven't done since she was a puppy], but the idea of her suffering in a wet crate [there's just too much urine for her to hold] was unacceptable—that was punishing her for getting sick. Coming home to a pee-soaked carpet that required half a roll of paper towels to dry was not acceptable either—plus I had to remember where the latest accident was so that I didn't step on the still-damp spot. Basenji folks suggest installing a doggie door, and I do have a fenced backyard. The only problem is that although I can trust Yo-Yo to have free access outside during my absence, I cannot trust Bug, who would climb over or dig under the chain link, get loose, and either bite a child or be hit by a car. I considered confining Yo-Yo to a specific portion of the house, but she can be what Elizabeth calls a "revenji," and I would pay in eaten furniture or some other expensive destruction.

The solution that I finally chose might be weird but seems to work well enough. A real plus is that I have hardwood floors. The dogs do not have the run of the whole house while I am at work, just the front part, covered by two large area rugs. I repositioned the furniture so that at least three sides of each carpet are free. Now, every day before I leave, I roll up the rugs. Then I put down two extra-large "wee-wee" pads by the front door, Yo-Yo's preferred place for accidents. [The message, of course, is "I was ready to go out, but you weren't here with the leash!"] The first day I tried this, Yo-Yo peed on the sofa, perhaps to indicate her displeasure at the change [or the cold floor under her delicate paws]. The next couple of days, she peed by the pads, sometimes half on them, half off. Eventually, however, she got the idea and now hits them with 98 percent accuracy. If a little spills off the pad, I wipe it up with Windex. One or two paper towels sure beats half a roll and constantly damp carpeting.

I don't know how this disease will play out, but I have made a commitment to deal with each new problem as it occurs—as well as documenting it here.

Fanconi Syndrome, Part 4

After Dr. Young Snot confirmed Yo-Yo's Fanconi syndrome with blood work but before the appointment with the specialist, Elizabeth and I went shopping for all of the supplements the protocol recommended. Mealtimes would never be the same again.

Our first stop was the neighborhood Walgreens. The Centrum vitamins, meant to replace essential nutrients Yo-Yo's kidneys were hell-bent on excreting before her body could absorb them, were easy to find. But the sodium bicarbonate eluded us even after a careful inventory of the shelves. So we went to find a pharmacist who clarified, "Oh, that's Alka Seltzer!" and accompanied us to the digestive remedy section of the store. None of us could find the bottle of pills described in the protocol, though. "Wait here a minute," the pharmacist said, then left to check the shelves behind the counter. "What amount should the pills be?" he asked when he returned. "10 grain," I confirmed from my printout. And then like a pirate showing off his treasure, he presented the 1,000-pill bottle.

In the crash course in blood chemistry and kidney function that Yo-Yo's Fanconi diagnosis has been, I've learned that floating around with the blood cells is sodium bicarbonate, a chemical necessary for regulating the acid level of a mammal's blood. Too acidic a level creates acidosis, a condition that causes irreversible cell damage and eventual organ failure. In the Fanconi-afflicted patient, the kidneys start dumping the sodium bicarbonate into the bladder where it is excreted prematurely, keeping the blood from the benefits of its neutralizing powers. By supplementing the dog with additional sodium bicarbonate [as many as 32 pills per day], the dog manages to retain enough of this important chemical, despite the insistence of the kidneys to usher it out of the body as speedily as possible. Who knew, Alka Seltzer in our blood!

Our next stop was Petco, my least favorite of the pet supply stores but in the same shopping center as Walgreens. Here we braved smelly rodent cages to find the Pet-Tabs Plus and Pet-Cal, the canine-specific supplements on the protocol's list [the Pet Tabs smell so good that even though I am human, I'm tempted to try one myself]. The only problem was that the bottles were so dust covered that I wondered how long they had sat on the shelf.

We decided to do things right and headed over to Pet Supermarket, my prefered pet supplier, for the purchase. Once there, however, we discovered that Pet Supermarket sold neither supplement. We found Pet Tabs, but I stubbornly insisted that since the protocol said Pet-Tabs Plus that I must have that type. Elizabeth, who was doing the driving, agreed to return to Petco where we purchased the dusty bottles.

Our last stop was a General Nutrition Center, which no longer sells the exact product mentioned in the protcol, Stack, an amino acid supplement for body builders. [Now it's called "Fuel."] As I certainly wouldn't pass for a Schwarzenegger wannabe, the clerk asked why I needed this supplement. I explained that the pills were for my dog, whose haywire kidneys were causing her to lose too much protein. "Oh, we get people buying stuff for their pets all the time!" he said. I guess a mammal is a mammal ...

The other items in the protocl were dog food. One Fanconi syndrome story mentioned Innova as a good choice of food, especially because its probiotics reduced urinary tract infections. This food, however, is sold in "specialty boutiques," the closest one quite a drive from either home or work. I mentioned this brand when Dr. Skeptical, the specialist, was quizzing me, and she made a very good point: Don't buy food that would be difficult to get. She said that the lamb and rice Eukanuba, what Yo-Yo and Bug currently eat, qualified as good food. Since the specialist compound didn't have a whole wall devoted to a specific brand of dog chow, since no one attempted to suggestive sell anything to me [as do my regular vets], I decided that I could trust her advice and keep Yo-Yo on Eukanuba. I now add a scoop of low-fat Stoneyfield Farm yogurt as a way to get healthy bacteria into her.

The protocol also requires one can per week of mammal-based wet food as a way to replace long-chain amino acids. Pre-diagnosis, Yo-Yo already got a scoop of canned Eukanuba with every meal; now she gets a huge scoop. In addition, I make meatballs from beef and rice Nutro [more malleable than the Eukanuba wet] to get the sodium bicarbonate pills down.

Since the protocl mentions that the Centrum is replacing "trace" vitamins and minerals lost in the deluge of urine, I also add a slice of roasted sweet potato, a scoop of canned pumpkin, or a pinch of broccoli sprouts [the most nutrient dense human foods I can think of] to her dinner.

Stories from basenji owners made the pilling sound like a difficult chore. They include ways to "trick" the dogs into taking the supplements. Yo-Yo, however, has balked at none of her new meds. The Pet Tabs and Pet Cals are flavored, and Yo-Yo will nose around the kibble seeking them out. I would require a huge gulp of water to swallow either the Centrums or amino acid supplements, but I just roll them in a dog food meatball, and Yo-Yo sucks them down in her happiness over extra wet. Mealtimes are more labor intensive, though. Gone are the days of a scoop of kibble and a scoop of canned. Now I have to assemble complicated bowls with more "courses" than any of my own dinners. So that Bug doesn't feel left out, I give him one Pet Tab per day, pill-less extra meatballs, the yogurt and sweet potato slices.

Fanconi Syndrome, Part 3

After Dr. Young Snot explained her apprehension about treating Yo-Yo, I quickly made an appointment at the area's huge veterinary specialist compound, comprised of four separate buildings and 15 different vets. A week later, we made the long drive and found our building, Internal and Avian/Exotic Medicine. As we sat in the waiting area, we listened to a macaw squawking from the bird side. Dr. Young Snot had described the facility as someplace so nice and so advanced that a human being would feel comfortable receiving treatment there. When a tech put Yo-Yo's front leg into a blood pressure cuff and pumped it up [$25 charge], I was convinced. That we waited 45 minutes past our scheduled appointment time before seeing the doctor was another factor reminiscent of a trip to a human health facility. While Yo-Yo shook beside me, I was happy to observe that regular art decorated the walls, not posters from drug companies advertising medication my pets just had to take.

No matter how impressive the facility was, seeing a specialist is no fun. I waited knowing that the only reason for the visit was a health issue so rare our regular vets couldn't handle the problem. When I glanced at the other patients and their humans, I knew that they were in dire straits as well. One woman left an exam room in tears. The doctor had had to admit her rottweiler for overnight care. The receptionist whispered that after putting down two of her own—one only three years of age, the other four—she would never have another of the breed. Rottweilers must have their own health issues.

When we finally met the doctor, I did find her very impressive, despite my annoyance at the long wait. While Yo-Yo hid under the hardwood bench in the exam room, this woman took out a blank form and asked me all kinds of questions. She wasn't rushed or impatient as our regular vets could be, wrote down all of my answers, and encouraged me to ask questions of my own.

After getting Yo-Yo's health history, she folded her hands and told me that no published scientific research proved that the time-honored protocol made the slightest bit of difference in the progression of Fanconi syndrome. She had seen some owners adhere to it religiously and others who just monitored blood gases. She didn't come out and say it, but she intimated that all the animals progressed identically. The last dog she had treated with Fanconi syndrome lived until 12 [an age I would be happy to see 6-year-old Yo-Yo reach].

I told Dr. Skeptical that I wasn't bothered by the lack of published scientific research. Basenji people had lots of anecdotal evidence that the protocol helped, so I wanted to try it. I realized later, while digesting this whole afternoon, that a scientific study would be nearly impossible to arrange anyway. Fanconi syndrome is incredibly rare outside of the basenji breed while basenjis are rare themselves, so finding enough candidates for a double-blind study would be difficult. To further complicate the research, no basenji owner I know would agree to enter a dog into the study and then receive placebos in place of the meds that the protocol recommends. My understanding is that to prove the protocol's effectiveness, some dogs would receive sugar pills so that researchers could compare the results of those unlucky participants to the dogs who got the real thing. Only under these conditions could the researchers show that the "protocol-ed" dogs lasted longer and did better. Not even in the name of hard science and to make progress toward journal-verified treatment would I allow Yo-Yo to be part of such a study, a feeling I'm sure all basenji owners would share.

After our first discussion, Dr. Skeptical left to prepare the estimate. At this point I was a little panicky. Dr. Young Snot had said, "Why spend money for a very expensive blood gas panel if you don't need it?" Since the blood and urine work that she had performed cost $127, I assumed that the Venous Blood Gas Panel must be double or more in price. I figured that with the expensive exam fee for a specialist, I'd be lucky if I got out of there under $500.

When Dr. Skeptical returned, I was pleasantly surprised. The blood gas panel cost only $40. She wanted to culture Yo-Yo's urine, looking for an infection that might not be readily evident in Yo-Yo's diluted pee. "It's dark, warm, and sugary in there--the perfect place for bacteria!" she noted. This test was a pricey $110 but recommended in the protocol, so I agreed. The exam fee itself was a whopping $125 [compare that to the $36 the regular vets charge], but I really appreciated never feeling rushed and getting plenty of opportunities to ask questions. Dr. Skeptical explained that follow-up visits would be half that price. She also wanted to do an ultrasound of Yo-Yo's kidneys [apparently they had all the toys in the back]. To culture urine, she explained, she would have to insert a needle right into poor Yo-Yo's bladder so that the sample would be sterile and the lab wouldn't be growing bacteria picked up outside the body. So many dogs these days are overweight that the ultrasound is usually mandatory to find the bladder. "Yo-Yo's nice and trim, though, so I think I can find it by feel," Dr. Skeptical added, and we dodged that expensive bullet. She wants to perform the ultrasound at the next visit just to see if my poor dog has shriveled little kidneys or ones that are a normal size.

Yo-Yo got hustled into the back and returned 15 minutes later. Eventually Dr. Skeptical rejoined us with the blood gas results and showed me how to calculate the dosage of sodium bicarbonate [pCO₂ = 37.9 mmHg; pH = 7.252; dosage = 80 grains or 8 tablets]. I knew that some Fanconi dogs took as many as 40 pills daily, so I was happy to learn that in addition to the vitamin and amino acid supplements recommended by the protocol, Yo-Yo needed only 8 sodium bicarbonate pills per day, 4 with breakfast and 4 with dinner. At this point I didn't know what challenge administering the pills would pose, but 8 per day was a way easier number than 32, the highest dosage in the protocol.

I asked Dr. Skeptical if she thought Yo-Yo was asymptomatic or symptomatic as I didn't understand the distinction, and the difference determined how much of the other supplementation Yo-Yo would require. She seemed a little stumped by the question. On the one hand, Yo-Yo looked perfectly healthy and had nearly normal blood readings. Dr. Skeptical had said earlier, "Look, based on her blood work, she feels fine, so don't let what you know about the disease affect how you treat her. Just let her be a dog!" On the other hand, Yo-Yo was drinking and peeing slightly more—although I couldn't tell if that was the result of all the hard play and emotional upset of having our foster boy Java around. Dr. Skeptical finally concluded that drinking more = kidney damage = symptomatic, but she didn't seem entirely convinced.

I left with the blood gas results in hand, something I had wanted for over two weeks. We would have to return in 10 weeks to see if the sodium bicarbonate supplementation was doing its job stabilizing blood acid levels and preventing organ damage in Yo-Yo's body.

Fanconi Syndrome, Part 2

Yo-Yo and I showed up for our appointment at the vet's on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Since I had earlier left a list of tests that my poor little dog needed, I expected to walk in, have the techs draw Yo-Yo's blood, and then get me the results. With that information, I would discuss protocol variables with Dr. Young Snot. I already knew that the discolored urine test strip meant Fanconi syndrome and was eager to get Yo-Yo on the pilling regimen that would make the disease a manageable, chronic condition.

Dr. Young Snot had other ideas, however. She was unhappy that I was playing the doctor and diagnosing rare illnesses based on pages I had downloaded from the web. "It's good to see that you've done internet research," she noted with condescension, holding up the protocol I had printed and delivered beforehand. "But none of the doctors here have ever had to diagnose this disease."

On the one hand, I understood her patronizing manner. I have had a similar experience: 18-year-old students from area high schools rated D and F by the state who tell me what excellent writers they are. These young people, with their essentially meaningless diplomas, believe they know more about effective composition than I, a veteran teacher and published author. I could sympathize with Dr. Young Snot; I'm certain that she has seen her share of clients who drag in all kinds of crap off the internet and don't know the difference between credible and bogus websites.

On the other hand, her dismissal really angered me. I might not have ever pithed a frog or dissected a kidney, but I am far from stupid and know my breed and its health concerns. I am also capable of reading and understanding scientific literature, even though I might need a dictionary by my side while doing so. I have been a client at this practice for over ten years and have never waved internet printouts at any of the doctors. I don't interfere during an examination and always follow the doctor's instructions. When the Old Man injected Eudora, my ancient cat, with cortisone [$70 visit] because she was clawing at her face—"It's a food allergy, and this will fix her right up"—I didn't complain when, two weeks later, Dr. Young Snot discovered the abscessed tooth [another $200] that the Old Man had missed since he didn't even bother to look in Eudora's mouth.

Dr. Young Snot was unable to run the Venous Blood Gas Panel, a test necessary for detecting the acid levels in Yo-Yo's blood, because the office didn't have an I-Stat machine, a fact that no one mentioned to me when I left the list of tests that I needed performed. Dr. Young Snot wanted instead to do only the urine analysis and a senior blood screening. These tests, which cost $127, had to be sent out to an independent lab. With them, Dr. Young Snot would confirm or rule out Fanconi syndrome. "Why spend money for a very expensive blood gas panel if you don't need it?" she asked.

She drew blood for the senior screening as well as a heartworm check—"Might as well while she's here"—and sent us on our way [total bill = $193]. I had hoped, after leaving the office, to know how many and which pills I would be administering, but instead I had a five-day wait for the lab to return results. "I'll call you on Monday," promised Dr. Young Snot. "It's probably not Fanconi syndrome, and you can bring her back for her shots since she's overdue."

While waiting for the lab results, I was plagued with anxiety and guilt. Although the protocol notes that dogs lead fairly normal lives with the correct supplementation, basenji people always discuss Fanconi syndrome in tragic terms. That I couldn't immediately start the pilling was also frustrating. If I had tested the dogs every month as recommended, how much sooner would I have caught the problem? Yo-Yo was showing few if any symptoms. She was a healthy weight and had a nice coat and skin, all things negatively affected by the disease. She had been drinking slightly more, but I had [mistakenly] attributed that to a very long, very hot summer, worse than usual because we had lost so much shade after last year's hurricanes took out one-third of the neighborhood trees.

Late on Monday afternoon, I still had not heard from Dr. Young Snot. I called the office as soon as I arrived home from work. The techs told me that she was with a client and would return the call. In my imagination, I saw her in front of the computer visiting the same websites where I had done my research, trying to make sense of Yo-Yo's test results. The basenjis and I sat by the phone, unable to take our afternoon walk, waiting to hear. Elizabeth came over to walk Bug for me, but Yo-Yo refused to leave the house for more than a quick pee and seemed as impatient as I for the news.

I decided that at 4:45—fifteen minutes before the office closed—I would call back and demand my $127 test results. At 4:43, the phone finally rang. Dr. Young Snot said that yes, Yo-Yo had Fanconi syndrome [big surprise]. Yo-Yo did have sugar in her urine [yet another big surprise] and a high level of creatinine in her blood [1.8 when the reference range is 0.5 - 1.6]. The high creatinine level meant abnormal kidney function. The good news, though, was that she was heartworm negative [wow, another big surprise]. I'm sure that I imagined it, but I thought I heard in her voice disappointment, not that Yo-Yo was sick but that my unschooled diagnosis had in fact been correct.

Since none of the doctors at this practice had any experience with the disease, Dr. Young Snot wanted to refer me to a specialist, which meant postponing the start of the protocol even longer. I told Dr. Young Snot that I wasn't bothered by her lack of experience, that we could learn the ropes together, but she felt uncomfortable and had already consulted with a doctor who had treated a couple of dogs with Fanconi syndrome. Dr. Young Snot couldn't say enough good things about the specialist and the huge veterinary compound where the doctor worked, but I was demoralized by another expensive trip to see someone who didn't have considerable experience with the disease but would charge me twice as much for the privilege of working with her.

I was able to get a copy of the test results and could compare some of the numbers on it with those that Dr. Gonto mentioned in the protocol. Yo-Yo seemed very close to normal, and I realized that if I hadn't fostered Java, hadn't tested all of the dogs because of a remark that the coordinator made, but had brought Yo-Yo in for her regular annual, that the disease would still be undiagnosed. In this situation, a well-informed basenji owner did know a little more than the vet.

Fanconi Syndrome, Part 1

One of my favorite movie scenes is from City of Angels with Nicholas Cage. This film alludes to the ancient hierarchy that assigns personal angels [lowest on the list of nine "breeds"] to individual people. The scene I like so much occurs during a liquor store robbery when two angels, invisible to the human participants, approach the clerk and thief and direct the flow of action as if they were moving energy in a T'ai Chi exercise.

I am not necessarily a Christian [too much exposure to too many religions, alas], and I truly believe that God is way too busy to involve himself in the daily affairs of either grasshoppers or humans, but every now and then, I feel the gentle guidance, the slight push, the nudge in a particular direction represented by the angels in the movie. The clerk could have antagonized the robber and gotten pistol whipped; the robber could have panicked for a different reason and fired the gun. Both men had free will, or so the scene suggests, but both had divine promptings that navigated them successfully through the ordeal.

I bring up this scene because I felt nudged the day I received the URGENT email asking for help fostering Java. I felt that ineffable prompting to respond. I didn't know why, but I felt [and I am typically an I-think kind of girl] compelled by something outside myself to answer. It turned out that in one way, it's a good thing I did.

The day that the coordinator dropped Java off, she said that she had observed him drinking and peeing frequently. Off hand, she said, "If you have test strips, you might want to check his urine." A basenji person knows immediately what would prompt this statement: the possibility of Fanconi syndrome, a rare condition that any mammal can get but quite prevalent from a genetic flaw in the basenji breed. Depending on the source, 10 to 15 of every 100 basenjis will develop Fanconi syndrome. The initial symptom is sugar in the urine, detected by dipping test strips for human diabetics into a fresh sample of dog pee. Java was guestimated to be a year old, and Fanconi typically kicks in at 3+ years of age. He was probably drinking as a sign of nerves, but it didn't hurt to test.

Basenji owners are supposed to test their dogs once a month because the earlier the disease is caught, the less damage there is to the kidneys. But like lots of things a person is supposed to do [save for retirement, avoid eating bacon cheese burgers, take the car in for an oil change every 5,000 miles], I didn't test my dogs every month. Checking Java's urine was a good excuse to test Yo-Yo and Bug's as well.

Imagine my shock when Yo-Yo's test strip started changing color.

Luckily, basenji folks are a well organized group. I have known as soon as I started researching the breed on the internet [after Yo-Yo's purchase, not before as basenji people would hope] that Fanconi syndrome was a possibility in her future and that a treatment protocol existed for handling the disease. I had long ago bookmarked the protocol in the "basenji" folder in Favorites; this time I read it with real interest, not just scanning as I had in the past.

I made a list of the recommended tests that Yo-Yo should have and visited my vet's office to make the appointment in person and explain my suspicions. This practice has three doctors: There is the Old Man who believes that a shot of cortisone will cure anything. He is actually Yo-Yo's favorite, but he's really only good for the yearly exam and shots because he long ago lost interest in diagnosis. The Old Woman, the most popular of the three, the only doctor that Bug hasn't tried to bite, has school so far in her past that I worried she would view a Fanconi diagnosis as The End and not be receptive to the protocol. Then there's the Young Snot, dismissed many times by clients, I'll bet, because of her age. But she had attended veterinary college at a time when there was a successful strategy for turning the disease into a manageable, chronic condition. So I made the appointment with Dr. Young Snot and left a copy of the protocol and tests I needed with the tech.

What happened at that visit will be the subject of the next post, for I have decided to chronicle each stage of Yo-Yo's progress with the disease here. Two really good stories about Fanconi syndrome and basenjis already exist on the web. One of them tells of a female dog who made it to 14.5 years of age on the protocol; the other is a story of a male who lives on the protocol still. I think regular updates of Yo-Yo's status—especially specific information about prices of tests and blood gas levels, what she's eating and how's she's responding to the protocol—will contribute to the overall instructional value of the web. God knows, neither of the two stories that currently exist prepared me for everything that happened the two weeks after that initial test strip started turning brown.

Java Update, no. 2

My cancer treatment included radiation to my head. My oncologist warned me that I would lose my sense of taste, emphasizing that this loss would be difficult to tolerate. I could imagine loss of taste, as could my doctor who had only observed people coping with the deprivation. I remember thinking, "Well, that will be weird, but I can do anything for six weeks." In reality, absence of taste was completely demoralizing. I lost so much weight that my doctor threatened to insert a feeding tube into my stomach. I tricked the nurses by filling my pockets with keys and coins and not peeing until after I got on the scale each day.

I not only lost my sense of taste but also had to tolerate the sour radiation burn. I kept convincing myself that a specific food item would clear my mouth. If I only had a bottle of Coke over ice, for example, I'd feel better. If I only had a Ring Ding, all would be well. But the Coke and the Ring Ding, neither of which my tongue recognized, only depressed me because they didn't do what I'd hoped, rid my mouth of the burn. Before radiation, I understood intellectually what absence of taste must be like; after radiation, I had a full body knowledge of it. On the last day of zapping, the techs congratulated me. Apparently most patients getting radiation to this part of the body bail long before they complete treatment. Believe me, I knew why.

On Monday, Java's "forever dad" arrived to take Java to his "forever home." When I first agreed to foster him—before he even arrived—I imagined that I would get attached and then be sad to see him go. But again, this was an intellectual understanding of how I would feel. I wasn't prepared for the full-body sadness that consumed me as I handed over the leash, watched his new owner lift him into the SUV and drive off. I no longer controlled how often he would get walked, whether his time would be spent free of a crate, if he would get smacked for bad behavior or squirted with water. He was such a dynamo that the house seemed too quiet, too empty without him in it. The loss wasn't an idea in my head but a heaviness in all of my limbs.

Today I washed the sofa covers and kitchen floor, both of which Java had dirtied with muddy paw prints. I vacuumed up the fuzz that he had pulled off the tennis balls, the stray pieces of stuffing he had loosed from all of the stuffed toys. I threw the Nylabones into the toy chest. I imagine that Yo-Yo and Bug will ignore them now; they no longer have a puppy to steal them from, no puppy to torment as they gnaw the bones leisurely just out of reach. I won't miss all of the extra house work, but I do mourn the loss of that sweet soul, as does Bug, who let Java chew on his head so often that he now has bald spots above his eyes. Yo-Yo, however, seems satisfied that the house no longer includes Java nipping at her heels, trying to get her to play. Vaya con dios, Little Man.

It turns out that Java played a very important role around here, but I'll get to that in the next post.

Java Update, no. 1

On Saturday evening I received an email from the coordinator of the basenji I am fostering. She was updating his profile and needed a few pieces of information. A wave of possessiveness overtook me, so I immediately phoned to ask if I could be the one to adopt him. We were all sitting in the living room with the dogs happily chewing on smelly hooves. I wasn't on the phone more than 2 minutes before Yo-Yo and Bug exploded. When basenjis disagree, they rear up on their hind legs, "boxing" their opponent, all the while snarling like horror movie monsters. I had just explained to the coordinator that everyone was getting along so well when basenji apocalypse erupted beside me, loud enough for the mouthpiece to convey.

I hastily explained to the coordinator that my dogs had caused the brouhaha she had just heard, that Java was doing well and fitting in nicely with the pack. I'm not sure if the disagreement concerned a hoof or if Elizabeth's "translation" is more accurate:

Bug: Oh, be a sport, and let her ask the coordinator if we can adopt Java. I kinda like him.

Yo-Yo: The hell that puppy is staying in this house.

The coordinator said that of course I could adopt my charge, but that she didn't want me to think that no one out there could provide a good home. She was carefully evaluating applicants and wouldn't give him to someone who would irresponsibly open the door so that he could escape. She assured me that I would be involved in the process, that if I changed my mind and couldn't part with him—even at the last minute—I could still be the one to adopt him.

After I hung up, I felt better about the whole process. I got a great dog because of the rescue group, and I don't want to hog a wonderful puppy and keep someone else from having the same experience I have had with Bug.

But the truth is, I want Java, even if it means having to walk three dogs three times a day.

As you will see, Yo-Yo must have tuned in on my feelings. I took her for the first walk after this phone call. Yo-Yo likes to sniff the street outside the house, confirming with her nose all of the activity she has observed from the front window. I didn't rush and let her decide when she wanted to return to the house. Then I walked Bug. When he and I got home, we discovered that Yo-Yo had defecated all over the living room carpet and was sitting on the couch with a I'm-not-the-one-who's-done-anything-wrong look on her face. Basenjis use poop as punctuation to make their wishes clear, and Yo-Yo wanted no new member of the pack. Message received!

By Sunday night, however, Yo-Yo was letting Java sleep with his chin on her thigh. There's no telling how this experience is going to end.

I Accepted the "Call"

One reason for my inexcusably long absence blogging here is that I am caring for a foster basenji, a one-year-old bundle of raw energy who requires constant supervision. Java plays so hard and so rough that I often have to be the bad guy and break up the "fun" so that one of the dogs during the frenzy doesn't break a neck or crush a skull after a collision with a hard piece of furniture. If Java gets hurt on my watch, the news is sure to be broadcasted on the organization's email list, and I'll become another "inexperienced" foster parent who killed the shelter rescue the organization was trying to save. When Java finally falls asleep, he insists on draping himself over me, making even laptop work difficult.

This experience began a week ago Tuesday when I discovered an URGENT email asking for foster help, preferably in Florida [Java's first foster dad had died unexpectedly]. Although I am an official member of the rescue group, I do not share the animal welfare passion that some of the vocal members espouse. So normally I ignore such requests because I don't want to get involved with someone I worry will be a nutcase. Emails from the list are sometimes lunatic:

"Honey, if your husband insists that you get rid of the dog, get rid of the husband!"

"If you continue striking your dog as punishment, you should be taken out in the street and shot!"

"I heard that police and the National Guard are ordered to shoot all loose dogs on sight in New Orleans! Oh my god! What should we do?!"

Often I don't have the patience to read the nonsense, so I just mass delete all of the email from the group. Last Tuesday, however, I felt that "call to adventure" that I've been writing so much about and decided that I really shouldn't ignore it. The coordinator for this dog did not know me [I never post to the email list], so I was sure I would get rejected as a foster parent, but I decided to attempt to start the adventure at least. In my reply email, I name-dropped the coordinator I had worked with when I adopted Bug, included the web address of my basenji site so that she could see my own dogs, and steeled myself for a "Sorry, we've found someone else." The coordinator agreed to let me help, however, because I was close to Java's current location.

When I got home the next day, I picked up the house and debated whether to vacuum or not. Dog hair on furniture and floors indicates to rescue people that animals are allowed inside and share their lives with their owners [a good sign]. The picture I had formed in my head of the coordinator, however, was someone wealthy and snobbish, so I vacuumed. I also spent a good deal of time kicking myself: "Hey, Sparky, when was the last time you washed the baseboards? Why haven't you finished painting the dining room? What poor foster dog would want to live here?"

I relaxed a little when an ancient Toyota pulled into my driveway [I had expected a Cadillac Escalade with the dog crated in the back]. The coordinator turned out to be a very nice woman with a gentle but firm dog-training voice. We walked Java into the backyard, and I went to get Yo-Yo for her introduction to the puppy. I had explained to the coordinator that Yo-Yo loved everyone and would cause no problems. So of course when I let her loose, she immediately tried to kill Java. The coordinator said that this kind of thing happened all the time, that maybe Bug would surprise me. I took Yo-Yo back inside [where, during my absence, she peed on the sofa] and brought out Bug, usually the aggressive one, especially with other males. To my surprise, Bug immediately began playing with Java, racing happily around the yard so that Java could chase him. We tried all three of them together, and with plenty of supervision, Yo-Yo eventually decided Java could live [although she's still not happy about his presence in our lives].

The problem now is that I have become attached to the little guy. No, I don't want to adopt him [Two of the breed, believe me, are enough], but I do want assurance that he gets a home that understands his needs. He is the most high-energy dog I have ever met. He never walks; when it's not a full-out race to get where he's going, he bounces, twirls, or leaps. He's also an incorrigible door-darter. I've been using the back door exclusively so that the fenced yard acts as a safety net, but I'm concerned that the folks in his "forever home" might not be willing to make that sacrifice, leading to his escape and getting hit by a car. The coordinator seems very picky about potential adopters, so I trust her judgment, but ... I can't help thinking that I alone would provide the ideal home.

I knew that I would feel this way. I decided to volunteer this time because I like the idea of an occasional needy dog who could benefit from my care, but I need to know that I can give the animal up without too much emotional distress. I know that I can't adopt every foster without turning into that strange old lady with the weird breed of dogs. I guess I'll see. It took two weeks before I signed the papers for Bug, and he was already in my care. I imagine Java will be around for at least that long, maybe longer.

Java and Bug enjoying the sun

Java and Bug inspecting the yard for squirrel intrusion

Good Taste in Books

Friday night I saw The Aristocrats with friends from work. We went to the 7 p.m. show. The documentary was only 86 minutes long, so I was home by 9:10. Apparently the basenjis thought I had spent too many hours away and to signify their displeasure destroyed my brand new $65 collection of plays by Euripides. I found the middle portion of the book on the couch; the first 60 pages and the last 60 pages were shredded all over the living room and back hallway. You would have thought I had soaked the tome in chicken soup based on the attention they gave it.

My dogs have never pulled a book off of the shelves before, although they do love paper, a typical basenji trait. They steal napkins from the dining room table if I am in the kitchen, magazines from the couch if I get up to answer the phone, and toilet paper from the bathroom any chance they get. Napkins and magazines are shredded immediately on the spot; I'll find a pile of paper similar to the feathers left in the yard after a hawk gets a pigeon. Toilet paper streamers get dragged through the house in celebratory fashion.

So I picked up pieces of the Alcestis, Medea and Bacchae and tossed them in the trash can. I told the two of them that I was disappointed, but since I hadn't caught them in the act, couldn't confirm the instigator, there was no point in yelling or swatting them with what remained of the book. As punishment, they didn't get a dog cookie after their evening walk, a treat they anticipate.

On Saturday morning I noticed that Yo-Yo had pushed Bug out of his bowl and was eating his breakfast unmolested. Usually Bug will not tolerate such effrontery. I didn't think much of it because Bug had eaten the piece of waffle I had saved for him and insisted, as he always does, on licking out my coffee mug. Later, however, I understood why he had reliquished his breakfast so readily. There was no room in his stomach! When we took our afternoon walk, he started to eat grass at the edges of my neighbors' lawns, and then when we reached the lake, he puked up two to three cups worth of cardboard and cloth cover. I realized then that I hadn't found any hardback while cleaning up the night before.

At dinner, Bug was still not eating with his usual gusto, allowing Yo-Yo to push him out of his bowl a second time. I guessed his stomach was still upset from the huge vomit at the lake. Not so! Later that night, he stumbled off the couch and disgorged another huge pile of slimy cardboard and black cloth, and then an hour later, out spilled the last few pieces. Apparently, Bug had eaten the entire hard cover, front, back, and spine. His digestive system just couldn't break down the material.

Unfortunately, I still don't know which one of them to blame. In my head, I can see Yo-Yo pulling the book from the shelf to start the fun. Poor old Bug paid in digestive distress whether he instigated the shred-fest or not.

Since the basenjis might have been upset that their photos here have since been archived, I give them both their proper due:

Innocent Yo-Yo enjoying the sun

All of the vomit evidence, Ma, indicates that I did not eat your book.

Bug shares a quiet moment with Pequod, over for a visit.

My stomach hurts!

Let the Fun Begin!

Today begins the 21-day break between summer and fall semesters; I don't have to be back on campus until August 24. This summer break I have no major ambitions. Last summer I did have big plans and then got to spend the vacation sweating the removal of a 50-foot, 100-year-old, half-rotten oak tree towering over the house as Charley churned its way to Florida, followed by 8 days with no electricity because my other neighbors didn't get their trees down before the storm. I now feel lucky that the oak cost only $3,500 to remove, a real bargain as the rip-off artists arrived a day or two after the storm and were charging $18,000 to cart away trees the same size, now lying on front lawns, the cars in the driveway crushed underneath.

Today my one big goal was to take a decent portrait of the basenjis. And so I give you the beautiful Yo-Yo ...


... and the handsome Bug:

Trimming the Bush

Okay, I admit it: In a few areas of my life I still procrastinate. I go too long between haircuts. I might have 11,000 miles on the car before I take it in for its 10,000-mile service. Sometimes the basenjis get their Heartgard on the third or the fourth of the month instead of the first. And I usually let the front bushes get a little "Amazon" before trimming them back. Such was the case until this past weekend:


In some ways I'm happy that I waited as long as I did because I was able to take a couple of interesting pictures. I finally bought a book to help me with my photo woes; the subtitle really caught my attention: Simple Techniques for Taking Better Pictures. Its author, John Hedgecoe, claims that photographers have to "see the potential in a subject." So I took the camera outside and shot this:


I used the "portrait" setting so that I got the crisp foreground in contrast to the blurred background. I like this photo because it looks like a serpent or a sea monster tentacle slithering towards the viewer. And the bush was indeed acting like a dragon: snatching at the car as I pulled into the garage, slapping at my face as I walked past it to the front stairs.

Not everything about the bush was reptilian, though. I also took this picture which reminds me of a flock of ducks heading south for the winter:


What I like about these pictures is that I took them on my residential street in the middle of a sprawling metropolis, but I could say that I shot them during a trek through El Yunque and no one would know that I was lying!

After the camera came the clippers, reducing my "rainforest" to landscaping that makes my neighbors happy:


The basenjis, meanwhile, sat on the back porch, hot and bored:

Firecrackers

Tonight is still and humid; the air choked with the smoke of incendiary devices. This is the first Fourth of July holiday when I have been able to walk Bug all the way around the neighborhood park at night. In the past, I have had to listen to his asphyxiated breathing as he nearly hanged himself on the leash, his toenails raking the sidewalk as he tried to flee to the safety of the house. While loud noises do not faze Yo-Yo, Bug is terrified of cars backfiring, skateboards rolling on pavement, and firecrackers popping during New Year and Fourth of July celebrations.

Or I should say was terrified. He has come a long way from the starved, half-hairless rescue I agreed to foster and then adopt. Since Bug was picked up as a stray with no history, I can't account for his fright. I do know that the past year brought two changes. This spring when he lost his winter coat, he started getting gray around the mouth and eyes [I have a feeling he is a good bit older than the six and a half he should be]. He also relaxed one stage further. Rescue people will say that a basenji needs six months to grow accustomed to a new home. Bug has taken [in little increments] four and a half years—and still has a way to go.

I love Bug a great deal [as does Yo-Yo on the days Bug isn't bucking for alpha], but I'm not sure I would adopt another rescue. There are too many unanswered questions. I don't know if Bug's anxiety is a result of fears he learned at the harsh hands of his original owner or acquired after he escaped. I don't know if he was deliberately dumped or lost by a loving owner who just couldn't find him. [Bug does have a peculiar habit of going out of his way to smell cigarette butts, as though he is hoping to find one tossed by a particular person.]

Since I live in the tourist capital of the world, I can imagine that a family traveling by car might have opened the door at the wrong moment, and since everyone was unfamiliar with the locale, people and dog just couldn't find one another. I can also imagine one of the many apartment dwellers in the city letting the poor boy "escape" as a way to avoid any more chewed furniture. Unfortunately, God doesn't grant video check-out privileges as Blockbuster does, so speculation is all I have.

Whatever his story, this year Bug walked all the way around the lake without anxiety about the celebratory noise coming from all sides.

Bug, who always looks worried

I Should Be Reaching for the Squirt Bottle

I just bought a brand new Canon Digital Rebel, and since it keeps my hands busy, I haven't been as good about disciplining Silly Little Pequod, Elizabeth's basenji, as I should.

Silly Little Pequod got his name when Elizabeth's sister came to Central Florida for a visit, her seven-year-old son in tow. Up to his usual counter surfing antics, Silly Little Pequod grabbed something he shouldn't have—a paper towel, a sponge, a spatula—and Elizabeth turned around and cried, "You silly little shit! Give that back!"

"Elizabeth!" Madeline chastised, pointing to Joseph, her son, unfortunately within earshot. Joseph began giggling and chanting, "Silly little shit! Silly little shit! Silly little shit!"

Madeline rushed to fix the situation, explaining to Joseph that his aunt had said "silly little ship" instead. Joseph happily began screaming "Silly little ship! Silly little ship!" to oblige his mother, but Madeline was still unsatisfied since, if he began the chant at Catholic school, the nuns might not hear the distinction between "ship" and "shit." And so Elizabeth's basenji became Silly Little Pequod, named after the boat in that dreadful novel, Moby Dick.

I am always ready to help with the dishes!

How This Blog Got Its Name

In early March of 2000, I stopped at Publix to pick up something to eat. I had had a bad day at work [can't remember why], and nothing lightens my mood better than watching fish in a saltwater aquarium. The shopping plaza also had a Petland, so I decided to fish gaze before selecting a frozen dinner. As I walked past the puppy cages, I was surprised to find a basenji behind the glass. Basenjis are a very rare breed, and I had never seen one in a pet shop. [That I even recognized the breed is a long story better saved for a different post.] I spent a few minutes admiring the red and white female and then moved on to the fish. At that moment, I had no desire to have another dog. After euthanizing Pretty Boy [my 13-year-old Brittany in congestive heart failure], I had discovered that my busy professional life was a lot less complicated without a pet. I put the basenji out of my mind.

The following evening I had dinner with Elizabeth, who had heard me recount tales of Shiny Penny, the basenji that lived with me for a short time [longer actually than the lover who brought the dog, but, as I've already said, that's a story for a different post]. The lover must have come up in dinner conversation, for I said, "You know, there's a basenji puppy over at the Petland next to Publix."

"Oh, let's go see!" cried Elizabeth, who couldn't picture the breed despite my careful descriptions, and so we made the drive after the meal.

As a teenager, I worked one summer for a McDonald's, where I was trained in the art of suggestive selling—"Would you like fries with that?"—so when Elizabeth and I walked into the Petland and Molly the salesgirl asked if we would like to hold the puppy, I sternly said, "No!" Elizabeth, however, immediately chimed, "Oh, yes, bring her out!" and the next thing I knew we were in a puppy-meeting cubicle with a little demon from hell. This puppy was an aggressive biter who nearly chewed off my watch band and drew blood several times. I kept motioning to Molly to take away the hell spawn, but she ignored us, hoping that we would be won over.

Eventually, Molly retrieved the puppy—"She's a feisty one!" she explained—and then in more hushed tones said, "There's another one in the back. I'm not supposed to let anyone see her because she hasn't been checked by the vet, but, if you want, I can bring her out."

"Oh, do!" cried Elizabeth, and a few moments later, I was holding the first black and white basenji I had ever seen. In temperament, this puppy was the complete opposite of the red and white, a warm little cuddly thing that couldn't possibly chew holes in upholstery, and even though I knew Molly had manipulated me, I wanted this dog. But I wasn't going to house train alone. Elizabeth had recently put down her old beagle, Eyeball, so I asked Molly if she had by chance a beagle puppy we could see. In a flash, Elizabeth had a warm little hound in her own arms.

We ended up buying both dogs that evening. Yo-Yo is worth every dollar that puppy-mill peddler overcharged me, and Elizabeth feels the same way about the Banana. But once we left the store, we realized the full extent of the nightmare we had entered. Yo-Yo began shrieking as soon as I started the car engine [basenjis might not bark but that doesn't mean they are silent], and then had explosive diarrhea in the crate. I invited Elizabeth to spend the first day at my house because I had hardwood floors, which Yo-Yo and the Banana christened repeatedly with urine. The next day the Banana got left alone at Elizabeth's condo, where she defecated on the bathroom floor, stepped in the feces, and then smeared them all over the walls, the vanity, and the toilet as she tried to claw her way out of the room.

"This is all your fault," accused Elizabeth.

"My fault? I'm not the one who said, 'Oh, yes! Bring her out!' to that salesgirl. I just wanted to show you what a basenji looked like. They know that once you get that warm puppy in your arms, they're going to be able to sell it!"

"Yes, but you're the one who found the dog in the first place!"

"But you're the one who wanted to go see her!"

"It's still all your fault."

"You can think whatever you want to, but God has videotape, and in it, you are the one to blame." And so an argument-ending sentence was born.