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SignsFebruary 19, 2008 Yesterday Rhodry wouldn't put any weight on his bum leg. He seemed dull. Yesterday was a gray, rainy, warmer-than-seasonal day; not Rhodry's favorite kind of day. Was it the weather, or was it the cancer? Was he slipping, or was I overreading the signs? This "one day at a time" thing is hard. I already knew that, but it's still hard. I pulled on my rain jacket, rain pants, and rubber boots and headed toward the truck. Rhodry roused himself under the deck, shook himself off, and limped after me. Good sign: He knows I'm going to the barn, and he wants to come. The big barn doors were closed against the rain and, especially, the wind, but the stall doors were open so the horses could go in and out. Rain they usually don't mind standing out in, but wind whistling around the corners and rattling the doors makes them uneasy. All of them had been spending some time inside. I set about picking out the stalls. Allie's inside door was half open. When I went to grab a broom from the grain room, she came halfway through it. "RRRRRRRRRRR!" Rhodry, ace defenseman, warning me that Allie was escaping, and doing his best to block her advance toward the hay cart across the aisle. He looked totally Rhodry, tail up, ears pricked forward. It took a keen eye to see that he wasn't putting much weight on that left hind leg. Another good sign. Rhodry's got his self-assigned barn chores: supervising me when I'm in the paddocks, letting me know when a horse is going AWOL, panhandling treats from the carpenters at the construction site and from the Levins next door, seeing Allie and me off on our trail rides, coming out to greet us when we get home. One of the lines I've drawn in the sand says that when he can't rouse himself to do his chores, I'll know the end is getting closer. The rain was pelting down when we got home. Sorry, Rhodry; you have to eat indoors. This means climbing the stairs to the deck. Not easy, and getting harder. Bad sign. I stand behind him and coax him upward, one paw at a time. He doesn't trust his leg, and sometimes it collapses under him. But he'll do it if I'm there: "Good boy, Rhodry! You're a very brave puppy, Rhodry. You're a good climber!" So far we've made it to the top every time. Good sign. That's another line in the sand: Rhodry weighs about 80 pounds. I can pick him up, carry him, lift him into the truck. I've never carried him up a flight of stairs, and I'm not at all sure I could. When he can't make it to the top with my assistance, then what? By the time we got to the top of the stairs, we were both dripping wet. Rhodry came in and wolfed down his supper. Good sign. Later he wanted to go out and sleep on the deck. The rain had let up, so I said sure. At bedtime he was still pretty wet, so I said, "Sorry, Rhodry, you're too wet for my bed. You have to sleep on yours." This seemed OK with him but about half past midnight I woke from sleep to a small yip yip. Rhodry had tried to cross the linoleum floor, slipped, and couldn't get up. I fumbled for my glasses, turned on the light, and climbed out of bed. I steadied his hind end. He got up and went for a drink of water. He looked at me. I looked at him. He wasn't as wet as he had been earlier. "Come on, Rhodry." He put his forepaws on the bed. I boosted him the rest of the way. We went to sleep.
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