The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (4 page)

“The reason beagles are used in the research is not just because of their size, short hair, and good nature, but precisely because they are so trusting and forgiving. The labs use those very characteristics against them to subject them to a shortened lifetime of cruel testing. There are seventy thousand beagles in labs across America being tested on every year.”

Seventy
thousand. Beagles.

I was stunned.

I knew then I wanted to help—needed to help. I instantly thought about adopting one of these dogs and glanced over at that sweet-faced Comet who still needed a home. But this wasn’t the time. Seamus was an only-dog kind of dog. He’d shown no interest in sharing his time and total dominion of our household with any other dog. Maybe one day, after Seamus was gone, I’d look at adopting a Beagle Freedom Project dog. But that wasn’t a day I wanted to think about just then. I filed the thought away. It was my turn to address the audience.

I handed Seamus’s leash to our friend Todd, aka “the beagle whisperer.” He and his wife, Tiffany, have six beagles, and Todd can magically make them all behave. (And Seamus was in many ways the equivalent of six beagles.) I walked to the front of the room.

“Well, you may have all noticed that Seamus looks a little different than he does on the cover of the book,” I said. And I saw several people nodding, though no one had mentioned it during the wine tasting.

“Seamus had another bout of cancer last year. And this time it was an eye melanoma. He had one surgery last December—a month I hate, as many of you know—but unfortunately the tumor grew back, and in September we had to have the eye removed.” I could hear the crowd wince and say “ooh,” and I could see the sympathetic faces. I’d gotten used to that in our cancer years. I knew Seamus, though, and he was not a dog who needed or expected sympathy. He’d adapted to his circumstances immediately and seemed to inherently understand that this was something he could use to his advantage.
More
treats!

“But as you can see, it hasn’t slowed him down. And it definitely hasn’t affected his appetite.” At this the audience laughed. Seamus had a legendary appetite—an inescapable fact that everyone present had learned early in the event when he’d knocked over more than one plate and quickly gobbled up the spoils.

“And he is cancer-free at this point. Luckily, eye melanomas very rarely spread to other parts of the body. So, Seamus, in his Seamus-esque way, has just added this permanent wink to his repertoire of cuteness.”

Seamus howled on cue, as he was wont to do in these events. And, likewise on cue, another guest handed him a green-sprinkled doggie doughnut.

“He is my little survivor, and that’s really what we are here celebrating today. Seamus, Comet, Bogart… They are all survivors. And so am I.”

In that moment, I really believed that.

At least this time when I was charting out pills and doctor appointments, it wasn’t because of cancer. This time it was for travel. Two hepatitis shots, a tetanus shot, malaria pills, and two shelves of over-the-counter-oh-my-god-you’ll-catch-everything drugs later, and I was ready for India. I began packing three nights before I was to leave, partially because I was nervous and partially because I knew I’d have difficulty shoveling it all into only one suitcase. This did not seem to be the sort of trip where one should arrive with her entire closet in tow, nor did I think much of a wardrobe would be necessary. We’d be taken shopping shortly after arriving so we could purchase traditional, appropriate clothing for our volunteer time. Still, I had to bring something to wear, and it was hard to figure out what made sense. This was unlike any travel I’d done before.

I was diligently eliminating any leather. (That would be rude, wouldn’t it? In a country that revered cows?) I bought my first pair of canvas TOMS Shoes and even managed to resist buying the sparkly silver ones in favor of a simple cornflower blue pair. I dug out a fabric purse I had in the closet and packed jeans, khakis, T-shirts. Then I unpacked a sundress, sandals, a silk blouse, and two tank tops.

After a few hours of decision making, folding, unfolding, packing, unpacking, I decided to give it a rest. I had two more nights to get it right. I got dressed for bed and joined Chris.

“Have you noticed Seamus’s breathing tonight?”

I looked over at Seamus, lying curled up in his bed. “Not really. Why?”

“I don’t know. It sounds funny to me. Shallow or something.”

I walked over to Seamus’s bed and listened. Chris was right. Seamus was taking shorter breaths. “Did you just notice that tonight?”

“No. I noticed it last night too, and when he was at the shop with me today.”

“That’s not good. I guess I was too busy with all this India stuff.” I wanted to pet Seamus now, but I resisted. I didn’t want to wake him. Normally I noticed every change in Seamus’s behavior or body. I was shocked I hadn’t noticed this one.

“I think maybe we should take him to Dr. Davis. Do dogs get colds?” Chris said.

“I don’t think so.” I’d long ago learned not to panic with every lump, bump, or change in Seamus. I tried not to rush him to the vet constantly, though with his history that was often hard to do. Four months had passed since his eye surgery, and other than checkups for that, he’d been vet-free and doing fine. Up until that moment, he seemed healthy and happy. “I’ll call Dr. Davis’s office in the morning.”

• • •

When Dr. Davis examined Seamus and did chest X-rays, his response was swift and decisive. We needed to get Seamus to a specialist right away—and not the eye specialist. He was sending us back to the cancer center.

My world stopped for a moment, but then I swung into action. I called the Veterinary Cancer Group where we’d first taken Seamus, and when I learned they had no available appointments for the next ten days, I called their other location. They had an appointment available the next day—the day I was supposed to fly to India.

I walked into our bedroom and sat down on the bed, my packed luggage only a few feet away. I told Chris I’d made the appointment.

“So that’s it. I’m not going to India,” I said.

“You have to go. It’s all set. I can take Seamus,” Chris said.

“No, this is serious. I can’t go if there is something seriously wrong with him. We’re not being sent to the cancer center because he has allergies.” I dropped my head into my hands.

“I know. But I can handle it, and your trip is only for two weeks.”

I looked up. “But what if—”

“He won’t.”

“But—”

“He won’t.”
Chris reached over and held my hand.

I had less than twenty-four hours to decide if I was getting on the plane, and I still didn’t feel like I’d made a final decision when Chris took me to the airport, with Seamus in his crate in the backseat. I’d spent much longer kissing and saying good-bye to Seamus than I spent with Chris, though I knew Chris understood. After dropping me off, Chris took Seamus to his appointment, not far from Los Angeles International Airport.

For two hours I sat in the terminal, waiting for my flight to Amsterdam and then on to Delhi, wondering if I was really going to board the plane. I’d gone back and forth on whether I even wanted the call to come.
Would
it
mean
bad
or
good
news
if
the
call
came
this
soon?

It didn’t matter what I decided. As my plane was boarding, my phone rang. I stepped out of line to answer the phone.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Chris said. I could tell nothing from his voice, though I was trying to read everything into it. “The good news is Seamus will be here when you get back. But there is bad news.”

I’m not getting on the plane
. I moved to an empty seat in the terminal and sat, heavy in heart and body.

This cancer was supposed to have been gone. It wasn’t supposed to have metastasized. That only happens in five percent of the cases.
Five
lousy
percent
. We’d beaten odds far worse than that.

“Seamus will be here when you get back. But it is cancer. It’s spread to his lungs.” I could hear Chris inhale. “They said stage four. Unfortunately, it is terminal.”

“I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe it.”

“I know. I feel the same way. They said he has two to four months. We can try chemotherapy, and that may give him six months, if it works. It doesn’t work on all dogs.”

When devastating news is heard, there is a moment where the brain pushes back, protects the heart by refusing to believe it, by grasping at hope, by denying, by closing. But that moment ends and the heart is defenseless.

I slumped down in my chair. “Only
two
months?”

“Two to four. But maybe six months. And this is Seamus—he’s beaten the odds before.”

“He was younger then. And the odds weren’t this bad.”

“I know, baby. I’m sorry.”

“I’m supposed to be getting on the plane right now. They’re boarding. I can’t go. I can’t do this.”

“You can go. You should go. I’ll be here with him. They can start the chemo today and that may shrink the tumor and make him more comfortable. He’ll be here when you get back. It’s only two weeks.”

“How can I leave? I can’t leave him.”

“You’re there. The group is expecting you. I promise I’ll take good care of da Moose.” Chris had many nicknames for Seamus, but “Moose” was a favorite. Normally it would have made me smile. But this time I was in too much shock. And the flight attendant was calling for my section to board the plane.

This wasn’t just a vacation or it would have been easy to turn around and never board the plane. Friends and family had contributed to the cost of the trip—the birthday gift I’d asked for. There were people counting on me, people who supported me, and there were folks who had applied to go who weren’t selected. Not fulfilling my obligation didn’t seem right either.

“I don’t know how I can enjoy the trip. I don’t know what to do.” I closed my eyes and dropped my head.

“It’s your birthday. It’s your special trip. It’s paid for. And it’s only two weeks. Seamus will be here when you get back, I promise. He’s got months. And I’ll be here too. I’ll keep you updated every day. You should go. Get on the plane. I’ve got this.”

“Oh god. I hate this.” I looked toward the plane. There were only a few people left to board.

“Go ahead and go, baby. You just need to tell me if you want them to start his chemo today. At least we know he can handle chemo, right?”

“He shouldn’t have to go through this again.”

“I know.”

We were both quiet until finally, with no one else in line to board the plane, I said, “Start the chemo. I’m getting on the plane, but I will fly home in an instant if anything goes wrong. So please let me know.”

“I think that’s the right thing to do.”

“I hope so. I love you. I love Seamus. Please take care of him.”

“I love you too. And I will.”

I boarded the plane in a state of shock. My seat was in the middle of a row of five, sandwiched between a young boy to my left and an older Indian man on my right. This would not be the time or place to break down in tears, so instead I remained immobilized. I stared ahead, blinking back tears, my hand covering my mouth.

Once the plane was in the air and there was no turning back, I tried to journal and then tried to sleep. I succeeded at neither. Closing my eyes just made me think of Seamus and what a mistake it had been to get on the plane. Writing in my journal had the same effect; I wanted to write my thoughts on starting this adventure to India, but all I could think or write about was what was happening with Seamus and how angry and despondent I felt. I am normally not bothered flying coach on long journeys, despite my height and the tight quarters. I’m happy enough to be traveling and have a long, uninterrupted period of time to write or read. But this time the flight was long and uncomfortable, and my energy was entirely absorbed by my struggle not to break out in violent sobs.

The connecting flight from Amsterdam to Delhi was delayed. As I dutifully called Sahil, our contact with Cultural Volunteer Vacations, to let him know my plane would be late, I began to realize I’d be arriving in Delhi alone, tired, and distraught at three o’clock in the morning. Despite weeks of preparing, I suddenly felt very ill-equipped to handle the events to come.

My flight from Amsterdam to Delhi was just as crowded and my seat was just as poorly located, but exhaustion weighed in and I slept for an hour or two. The bright spot to the flight had been the Hindu meal I was served—piping hot, savory, delicious, and brought to me first as it was considered a special dietary order on KLM Airlines.

As the captain announced our imminent landing, I remembered to apply mosquito repellent with the travel wipes in my purse. I then sat in quiet horror as the plane was fumigated on the tarmac. What were they spraying down on us through these vents? What were they worried was carried from Amsterdam to Delhi?

What
had
I
gotten
myself
into?

I approached the Delhi customs desk, hoping that my visa wasn’t correct and I’d be sent back home. I’d be where I wanted to be, and it would be out of my hands. Whatever happened wouldn’t be because of a decision I made. The customs official did not see things the same way and instead warmly welcomed my weary self to his country and sent me on my way.

While I waited for my luggage, I reviewed the instructions for meeting the group guide. I was supposed to be wearing the T-shirt they had sent so I could be recognized. I figured as a nearly six-foot-tall blond, I’d be easy enough to recognize in the Delhi airport, and I did not feel like being a billboard for anyone, so I was not in the T-shirt. It would thus be up to me to find the guide carrying the “Cultural Volunteer Vacation” sign. My welcome packet said they would be waiting for me after I picked up my luggage and cleared the long hallway. I was to walk to the end and they would be there.

Hundreds of people were there swarming about, and many were carrying signs, but none with the “CVV” I needed. I was quickly annoyed. Then a thought occurred to me: Couldn’t anyone easily just stand at the airport with a CVV sign and pick up unsuspecting Western women gamely here alone for volunteer work and willing to leave an airport with a strange man, provided he was flashing the right sign? The horrific gang rape and murder of a young girl on a bus in New Delhi had occurred only a month prior. Stories of attacks on women in India had been bombarding the news, and phrases like “rape culture” were being used. I hated to generalize or stereotype, but it was the middle of the night and I was alone, tired, and distraught.

I walked until I found a place to sit to phone Sahil.

Two men, both small, came rushing toward me. One wore a Sikh turban; the other held a “Cultural Volunteer Vacation” sign in front of his chest. Without thinking, I stood and said, “I’m Teresa.” Too late I realized it would have been smarter to let them identify me. If they knew who I was, knew who they were there to pick up, it was likely because they had indeed been sent by CVV. These two could have just made that sign in the bathroom and sat waiting for some idiot to volunteer to be kidnapped.
Like
I
just
did
.

The Sikh gentleman introduced himself, but I did not understand his name. Nor did I catch the name of the other man. They grabbed my bags and began quickly walking out of the airport. I followed, my vague sense of possible danger increasing. Now not only was I following strange men (but with the right sign!), I was heading to a parking lot and had willingly handed over my luggage.

Naturally, they were driving a white van (
the
better
to
kidnap
you
with, my dear!
). One lifted my luggage into the back while the other held the side door open for me. I climbed in. (
It’s what my paperwork said to do!
) We drove for about half an hour, but I had no idea where we were. It was drizzling rain and very dark, even on some of the larger highways. My initial impression of India was simply gray. I had expected bursts of color and vibrancy, but everywhere I looked was gray, beige, and wet, as if my mood had colored it all.

The two men made the usual small talk about my flight, whether this was my first time to India and some tidbits about the others they’d picked up before me.
Aha! So there are others
. I hoped he meant other members of our group and not other human-trafficking victims. Whoever they were, a few of them had been there for a day, one had arrived a few hours before me, and another two would be coming later that morning. The rest would arrive, like civilized folks, the following afternoon. If these men were kidnappers or rapists, they were very organized and chatty.

We drove into a large apartment complex through a security guard station (I noted the guard waved like he knew them…
but
he
could
have
been
in
on
the
whole
crime
ring!
) and turned down several narrow streets of identical muted yellow buildings before stopping in front of one of them.

“This is your apartment. You are just down there.” The Sikh man pointed down a dark walkway. “I’ll show you.”

In for a penny and all… I got out of the van and followed him.

My apartment, my home for the next two weeks (or a lifetime, depending on how this went), had a large metal door with several locks. It was four in the morning—anything would have looked ominous to me, but if there was a bed inside, I would be relieved. He opened the door and moved my luggage just inside. I stepped through the doorway and, noticing the pile of shoes next to the door, stepped out of mine. Since I’d been in the same clothes and footwear for well over twenty-four hours, that too came as a relief.
Unless
I
needed
to
run
.

But then Terri stepped out of a doorway and into the living room. This trip was her vision, her dream. She was the one who had put the trip together, interviewed the applicants, selected the group, and was now here, standing before me, smiling and welcoming, though it was four in the morning for her too, of course. I felt comfortable that this was not a coincidence.

Terri and I said our hellos and my driver departed. “Three of our participants are in that room,” Terri said, pointing to the far right door. “And you’re in that room.” She pointed to the middle door in the short hallway. The apartment was one large living room, a dining area, a small kitchen, three bedrooms, a sink in the hallway, and a bathroom. If I had been more awake, I might have focused on the decided lack of bathrooms for the number of women in the apartment. In my then-state, I just wanted a bed. Terri continued, “Your roommates are not part of A Fresh Chapter, and they’re gone for the weekend. So you get the room to yourself for now.”

“I will not complain about that,” I said, though my brain was struggling with the plural. More than one roommate? Even in college, I’d only shared a room with one person. But there they were—three twin beds (and I think “twin” is being generous) maybe eighteen inches apart, with little stands next to each one. There were reading lights attached to the wall above each bed, a linoleum floor, a coat tree, and…well, there’s no
and
. That was it. There was no decor save the bright blue bed coverings, and no dressers or shelves, though there appeared to be closets against the far wall—two narrow closets.

I set my bags down and surveyed the room. My roommates had each wisely chosen a bed near a wall, leaving me with the middle bed. I walked over to the closets and opened them. The doors banged into the bed next to them, and I had to maneuver my body to the other side of the door to see whether there was any space available for me. Each closet was really more of a cupboard, with a bar on top to hang at least a few items, and then two shelves below. The cupboards below were locked. One closet was full and the other was half full—the clothing pushed to one side. I took that as a sign that the empty side was my designated space. But I was too tired to unpack any further than getting out pajamas, a toothbrush, and face wash and leaving my suitcase on the floor. I climbed into bed. I did not know what the plans for the next day were, and I did not care. My exhausted thoughts were solely about Seamus. Finally, I could let out the pain. As the tears came, I was thankful again that I did not have roommates that first night.

• • •

I awoke late that first morning, jet-lagged, swollen-eyed, disoriented, and deeply sad. We’d been waging our war against cancer, Seamus and I, for the past year. We’d made significant changes; I’d thought I’d armed us well. But I knew now that Seamus was going to lose his battle.
We
were going to lose our battle. And I was halfway around the world, unable to fight alongside him. I didn’t have it in me to be a gracious loser.

I headed to the kitchen to see what I might be able to assemble for breakfast and coffee. Some comforting foods and liquids would be good. I figured a plant-based diet in India would be easy, given the variety of vegetable-based meals I’d seen when perusing my guidebooks. I knew I wouldn’t likely be able to have the kale smoothies I normally had for breakfast, but I assumed there would be vegetables of some sort, or fruit, maybe some grains. This was my new comfort food, and I needed it.

The apartment was quiet. In the kitchen I found cookies, bread, and a few bananas. Not perfect, but I could make do. At least a toaster and a jar of peanut butter were available. I searched for a coffee maker.

Terri poked her head into the kitchen. “They serve breakfast over in the office area. You’ve probably got another fifteen minutes to get there. Everybody else already went. I can show you.”

I quickly threw on some clothes and followed Terri. The spread on the breakfast room table consisted of eggs, naan (a flatbread) with
ghee
(clarified butter), some cereals with milk, chai tea (made with cream and sugar), and fruit. Not exactly a plant-based paradise. Had they adjusted the menu for the Americans and Canadians now descended upon them? I grabbed a banana and poured myself some mango juice. I just wanted to return to my apartment and make my backup instant Starbucks coffee while checking for emails from Chris. I wanted to crawl back into my little cubbyhole of a bed. But there was no time for that. Terri was explaining the schedule to the group and, I learned, I’d have about twenty minutes, half an hour if I was lucky, to get showered and ready to go out for the day’s tour. There was barely time to eat the banana. I raced back to my apartment.

During the daytime tour of temples, I met the other members of the Delhi Dozen. Most of the group was much younger than me—in their twenties and thirties—which is tragic when you consider this was a group of cancer survivors. And, though naturally the first connection the twelve of us had was as cancer survivors, I quickly found I could not hear the word “cancer.” I couldn’t tolerate a discussion of “stages” or treatment, or, worst of all, fears of recurrence. I was barely holding it together and still feeling very strongly that I should be home with Seamus, yet I was also aware, of course, that I was grieving for a dog, and not everyone—perhaps least of all human cancer patients—would get or respect that.

I’ve never been much of a “group person.” I hate crowds, noise, and anything that confines me to a “majority rules” situation. I much prefer one-on-one engagement and conversations. I thought this trip would be different simply because of a shared, traumatic experience. I could already sense how wrong I was. I wouldn’t be able to talk about cancer now.
I
shouldn’t have come
.

At dinner, my concerns increased when I learned that I had to be up, dressed, and waiting at the office by seven the following morning to be driven to Mother Teresa’s Home for the Destitute and Dying. Immediately, I began to worry that I wouldn’t be ready in time and that even if I were, I wouldn’t be able to handle my assignment. I am not a morning person, and as far as I know, I’m not much of a caretaker either. I’d done plenty of volunteer work, but it was more in the fund-raising, board of directors, big-picture sort of way. Also, I was really wimpy when it came to medical issues. Well, human medical issues.

I hoped sleep and an adjustment to the time-zone change and jet lag would adjust my mental state. Until then, I’d just keep to myself; I’d keep taking deep breaths and holding on as long as I could. But it did not feel like that would be long. I did not need my cell phone alarm to wake me in the morning.