A Celebration of Shiloh’s Life submitted by Kathleen P. (Shiloh's Mom)

On May 21, 2004 Shiloh was diagnosed with high grade malignant lymphoma.  On May 22, 2004, through donations from friends and family and several “Help Save Shiloh” garage sales, Shiloh started chemotherapy at VCC.  We were all hopeful that chemotherapy would put the cancer in remission for a least a year, but on August 17, 2004, Dr. Kelly reported that Shiloh’s lymphoma was so aggressive that Shiloh was out of remission.  On September 17, 2004 Shiloh lost her bravely fought battle to lymphoma.  She started her journey to the Rainbow Bridge at 9:20 that night.

Shiloh lived her life like the following quote…

"Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, a dog bone in one paw, a chew toy in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO what a ride!"

On Shiloh’s last day, we spent the day together…I reminisced...I told Shiloh about her life with me…I laughed and cried…Shiloh listened.

This is a very short version, but it kind of went something like this…

Shiloh, I remember the first time I saw you.  It was after school on a September day in 1999.  I was getting ready to leave school for the day when I saw a silhouette of a little dog run by the window in the middle school library.  I took a detour on my way to the car…I just had to see what this little dog looked like.  I opened the door in the library that went to the little atrium area where they had put you.  I called “hey, pup” and you came running…a cute little red and white, frecklie faced puppy, with no tail.  In addition to falling all over yourself when you ran up to me, you peed everywhere too.  I knelt down and petted you, told you that you were cute, said “Godspeed little pup” and closed the door.  That’s when the librarian said to me that the town dog catcher had been called and that you’d probably be taken out and shot since there was no pound.  I was mortified.  How could stray animals be taken out and just shot?  I knew I didn’t really want a dog…after all, I was a cat person, but you were very cute and I knew I could find a good home for you.  Meanwhile, another teacher had seen you and started petting you, she was relieved when I told her I would take you and find a home for you.   As we left, that teacher said “goodbye, Baby Shiloh.”  I thought the name was cute, so that’s what I would call you…when I found you a new home, your new owners could keep the name, or change it.  I held you on my lap all the way home.  You were so sweet and so good.  That’s what I thought until we got home and I discovered that not only were you covered with ticks…I was too.  I took you to school the next day and bribed my students not to tell the principal that you were there.  That day at school you got a flea and tick bath.  The kids loved you.  They would argue over who got to take you outside.  I guess that’s when your love for children developed.  You always loved little kids…you were always gentle and kind with them.
As the days passed I kind of started to really like you…the more I liked you, the less I looked for another home for you.  By the end of your first week with me, you had found a new home…smack dab right in the middle of my heart.
Our first year together was an adjustment for the whole family.  The kitties adjusted to having a dog around and so did I.  That first year was full of chewed sneakers, chased kitties, and kitty scratches on your nose…and bee stings.  Remember those bee hives we had for a while?  It didn’t take you long to learn that playing next to those white boxes was not a good idea.  You were always so full of energy…you’d get up in the morning and help me with all my chores and while helping me with the chores you’d find time to chase a few crows, bark at the neighbors horses, and run around like crazy.  That first year was wonderful.  You were always up for a game of ball, always ready to run after your Frisbee, and always ready for a belly rub.  You were developing a wonderful personality…playful and independent, yet kind and loving.
In year 2, you really matured.  The chewed lawn furniture, hoses, tools, BBQ grill, and a variety of other things kind of faded into the past.  Your chewing needs were satisfied with a nightly rawhide chewy.  You no longer chased that cats, you became their buddy and protector.  As you matured, so did our relationship.  You were my friend and my companion.  We took long walks in the morning and in the evening.  Whenever possible, I’d take you with me in the car.  I was never embarrassed by all the dog fur and dog nose smudges in my car.
In year 3 you became not only my friend and companion, but also my comforter.  That was the year your grandpa got so sick.  I can remember spending hours at the hospital with him and grandma…coming home to you was so comforting and was such a breath of life.  I felt bad that I had to be away from you so much, but I think you understood why I had to be gone.
Year 4 was a good year…for the most part.  We had lots of snow days…you loved the snow.  You loved to sniff and roll in it, and you loved to chase snow balls.  No matter spring, winter, fall, or summer, we played…we played hide and seek, we took lots of rides together, you developed your great love for digging in prairie dog holes, and we took so many wonderful walks.  On our early morning walks you taught me to truly appreciate a beautiful sunrise.  You taught me so many things, Shiloh.  Things that words can’t describe…things for which I will always be grateful.
You were just shy of your 5th birthday when on a cold February night I found a lump in your neck.  My friend said it was just a normal lymph node, but I knew in my heart something was wrong.  We went to the vet, took antibiotics, did needle biopsies, and finally did a whole node biopsy.  That’s when the lymphoma diagnosis came.  For the last 6 ½ months of your life, you spent more time at the vet’s than any dog should have to.  You were poked, prodded, given shots, pills, and a new diet, but through all of that you kept your zest for life.  That’s what I respect most about you, Shiloh, is that you never wallowed in your illness.  You looked forward to each new day…be it a day at the oncologist’s or a day in the prairie dog town…you loved it.  You loved life.  You loved living.  Shiloh it’s your love for life that has brought me to the decision to ease your suffering.  Today and yesterday you’ve been so uncomfortable and in pain, you aren’t interested in eating, you’re not even interested in going for a walk.  Your doctor will coming over tonight to stop your pain.  Tonight, sweet Shiloh, you’ll be running and playing in a place where there are no fences.  A place where there’s a prairie dog hole everywhere you look…a place where lymphoma doesn’t exist.  I won’t be there when you arrive, but I’ll be a long in time.  I’m going to miss you more than words can describe, but I have to set you free.  Because of your pain and discomfort, it would be selfish of me to keep you here any longer.

Shiloh’s vet arrived at 8:45 that night.  Shiloh bravely endured her last two injections and she died peacefully in my arms.  As she breathed her last breath I whispered “I love you, Shiloh.  Godspeed, little pup,” and at 9:20 she was gone.

It’s been almost 3 years since Shiloh lost her battle with lymphoma and I still ask myself “If I had to do it all over again, would I opt for the chemotherapy?”  The answer has always been an emphatic “YES!”  Shiloh never suffered through any of the treatments.  There were very few side affects from the treatment, and for any side affects there were, Dr. Kelly always took Shiloh’s quality of life as first consideration and adjusted the treatments accordingly.  Although Shiloh and I didn’t get to spend another year together, we had best summer of our lives.  I consider that summer to be one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever been given.  Dr. Kelly made that gift possible and I am eternally grateful.

Uriel's Story submitted by Rusella S. (Uriel's Mom)

March 21, 2007

It is dusk as I write this, and there is a brisk wind blowing rain and cool air outside. Uriel sits a few feet away from me on a warm carpet, chewing on a treat happily and peacefully. She pauses now and then to lick the flavor from it and rest from the work. Almost 12 years old now, it takes her longer to munch what she used to devour in a few easy minutes. The unsettling tumor on the top of her skull does not help.

It feels like both long and just yesterday that I heard my husband, Raul, casually mention that he had "got us a dog" a female black Labrador puppy for us from a friend who had already adopted the puppy's sister. The most meaningful events in our lives can come from the most mundane circumstances; little did we know at the time how much that brief exchange would change our lives, how much happiness and love a dog could generate.

From the moment we saw her, Uriel became a part of our family. She was and still is as much a part of us as the very breaths we take. She was our first "child" together, and she taught us all the virtues that parents cultivate with human children: patience, persistence, tolerance, and love. After Uriel chewed several pairs of shoes, various hardcover books, and other sundry items, I implored our vet, at that time in Tempe, Arizona, "Can't I do anything about this? Is this normal?!?" The vet's singsong words still ring in my ears today, "Well, she's a lab, she's a lab!" I distinctly remember that I couldn't even get close enough to Uriel's face to give her a kiss because I'd get clobbered by an exuberant paw, a wildly bobbing head, a flapping tongue - all at once. She was a blur of movement in those days. Everything excited her, and a completely new world opened up to me, seen from her eyes. I was perpetually exhausted. I was in love.

Uriel was our companion on numerous trips to and from Arizona, where we lived, and New Mexico, where both of our families were from. She swam with us, ran by my side for countless happy miles, comforted me through many family deaths, witnessed the birth of our two children at home, and took care of them as if they were her own. And they basically were.

Uriel has a special energy. Everyone who meets her, however briefly, takes note of it. She is gentle and vulnerable, sweet and eager to please. She loves hugs and displays of affection as much as I love giving them to her. So, it was peculiar when, several months ago, Uriel began to avoid being patted on the head. She would duck or dodge the well meaning hand, and when I would forget her sensitivity and pet her anyway, her head felt hot to the touch. The strange symptoms continued occasionally throughout the following months: trembling shivers throughout her body, an increased uncertainty while navigating familiar territory, scrambling for footing on our smooth floors, and sudden starts during sleep that would awaken her and make her bob her head up and down like a buoy in water. All these were transient, and when I took her for a check-up and shots, our vet said he could see nothing wrong with her. Still, I was troubled.

Some of the symptoms continued and some abated. A new one appeared: a slight swelling, an almost imperceptible bulge on the left top of her head. I took her back to the vet, who took X-rays of her legs to look for a cause to her lack of coordination, and laboratory tests of her blood, which indicated an elevated white blood cell count. He insisted that there was "no bump" on her head. Throughout the next four weeks, the bulge grew rather quickly, and some of her other symptoms vanished. I tried unsuccessfully to ignore it, clinging halfheartedly to the vet's words that Uriel seemed all right. But something was very wrong, and Uriel told me herself by following me everywhere, looking up at me searchingly. It was obvious that she did not want to be left alone. Finally, three weeks after the previous appointment, Uriel went back to the vet, and this time, he immediately noticed the bulge. He took a small cytology sample and told me he would call me with the results in a few days. Unable to wait, I telephoned within two days, and he informed me that Uriel had a malignant form of cancer, an osteosarcoma, that was producing a new bone formation on and possibly within her skull I was devastated as I heard words like "terminal", "aggressive", "unaffordable". In that tone I have come to recognize with dread, he implied that the best thing to do would be to put her to sleep. I listened silently and then asked questions. At that point, he referred me to an oncologist in Santa Fe who could give me a more informed explanation and discuss treatment options, if there were any . Uriel had her first seizure a day later.

I first took Uriel to Veterinary Cancer Care on March 1, 2007. She was apprehensive, as usual, as was I. We both knew she was quite sick. When I entered the office, I was surprised to see a comfortable, home-like waiting area unlike the sterile, clinical atmospheres of typical veterinary practices. There were soft couches with oversized cushions, animal decorations throughout, a porcelain dog bowl with water on the floor, and a sense of serenity. All of the staff was soft-spoken, accommodating, and warm. Uriel sniffed around for a few moments and promptly went into a seizure. The staff quickly acted to keep her safe. Dr. Marie Mullins, who had introduced herself to me moments before, administered Valium to break the seizure. Once Uriel was resting comfortably on soft blankets, Dr. Mullins proceeded to spend time with me carefully explaining, answering questions, and covering every possible treatment option. Her demeanor was professional, encouraging, and kind. It was clear that her foremost goal was to make Uriel as comfortable as possible and maintain her high quality of life. I left the office that day with hope, with an appointment the following week for treatment, medications to help Uriel, and with a commitment to her well-being that Dr. Mullins and her staff fully supported and shared.

Dr. Jeannette Kelly gave Uriel an intralesional injection seven days later. It consisted of a cancer-fighting drug, carefully inserted in and around her tumor site. I had been worried about Uriel's reaction to clinical interventions. Early on in her life, perhaps as a result of her hospitalizations with parvovirus and a detached retina caused by the overly aggressive play of our other dog, her companion, Missy, Uriel developed a learned fear of veterinary clinics. She would howl ceaselessly throughout the night, needing extra reassurance. So, I was quite surprised when the staff informed me that Uriel was quite comfortable, relaxed, and had accepted the IL injection very well. That had never happened before. Uriel's sense of calm indicated that the staff at VCC was very special.

Quite a few times over the next few weeks, I thought I would have to put Uriel to sleep because she would develop new and troubling symptoms. I came to dread the telltale sounds that heralded a seizure, but eventually, grew accustomed to them enough to remain calm and focused on keeping Uriel safe. Dr. Mullins even explained to me a simple technique for reducing the severity and duration of the seizures. Dr. Kelly made herself so available to me and always worked with me towards making Uriel feel better despite her illness. I would telephone Dr. Kelly with developments; she would listen carefully and then prescribe a course of action that had Uriel feeling better within a day. Uriel truly rallied many times with this type of nurturing. I was not ready to lose her yet, and she was not ready to leave, either. Our family exceptionally grateful because each additional day with Uriel was a gift. Drs. Kelly and Mullins, and their wonderful staff gave Uriel a temporary reprieve from the ravages of her cancer and granted us the priceless blessing of several more weeks of precious time with her - time I will treasure forever. More importantly, Uriel's final days were gentler and sweeter than they would have been without treatment, without the tender care that she deserved. Her suffering was alleviated, and her quality of life was preserved as long as humanly possible. It was a very special time.

April 3, 2007

Uriel died peacefully at home today in my arms, surrounded by her family and the love she had always known. She required no sedative because she was already calm, perhaps ready. She succumbed within three seconds to what I hope was paradise for her. The afternoon was warm and light, and the breeze picked up when my daughter spoke of her conviction that Uriel was ready and happy to go. At that point, the front gate slammed shut. A member of our family was gone. We buried her next to Missy, her companion of nine years, who died seven months ago. We told her to say hello to Missy and Dante and all the others for us. I told Uriel to be there to greet me when I left this world, too. Their resting place is next to a grove of trees and overlooks our home, and I can see it every day I go outside to feed the dogs.

Letting Uriel go was one of the hardest decisions of my life. I miss her so much. I miss stroking her soft fur and looking into her beautiful eyes. I miss the love I always felt between us. The only solace I have is the hope that we freed her to be as happy as she was when she was healthy and running or swimming with us...perhaps even happier than that.