Life Lesson #32: Tour de France now to be Tour de Lance? Pu-lease! Tour de Brutus is more like it!

I’ve unofficially renamed my dog Lance. As in Armstrong.

His actual name is Brutus. He also goes by Boots, Booty, Toots, Fatty, Fatty Patty, Stinks, Old Man, Fart Knocker, and sometimes, when I get really annoyed, Idiot or even Asshole. However, his real name is truly fitting for a bulldog so ugly; my entire family insists he’s actually adorable. The Latin origin of Brutus means “heavy,” “dull, stupid” and is often associated with the word “brute”. I need not go on.

I know the whole world would probably agree that we did indeed name him correctly. Including Westchester, who once received not one, but two golden showers from him in a span of twenty minutes. And Madonna, who is allergic to most things furry and whom Brutus has a weird infatuation with (I think it has something to do with her whole babies-love-my-big-head theory. It seems to apply to animals as well) and sniffs her incessantly. Or Hansel, who has been brought close to tears and/or vomiting from Brutus’ trademark farts that I gather could be harnessed into energy for a small, third world country. And anyone he’s slobbered next to, humped up on, or begged for food from.

I was the crusader for bringing this loveable bag of stink into our home. The summer before I left for my freshman year of college, my mom mentioned getting another dog (our previous pooch had died a few months prior). I immediately suggested a trip to a local pet store.

Truth be told, I love going to pet stores, regardless if a purchase is in the cards. Much like Yoo Hoo and the rollerbladers in Central Park, pooches cheer me up. I have the biggest soft spot for these canine bundles. Always have. Which this really annoying kid I knew in middle school discovered. He apparently had a huge crush on me, even though I was in sixth grade and he was in eighth, and so to try and win my innocent heart, he bought me a freaking puppy. Showed up at my house with the thing in a box. And while I hated this boy and vaguely remember him having vial breath and some sort of embarrassing sweating problem, I was ready to throw my arms around him and call him my B.F.F.E. Until my mom came outside to kindly remind me we already had a dog and that it was time to start my homework. I, being the highly mature adolescent that I was, never spoke to him from that day on. Poor kid. Wonder if he was able to get his money back.

Anyway, I absolutely love dogs (minus anything smaller than twenty pounds which is not a dog but rather a weird cousin of the cat or rodent family). And so, the prospect of one becoming part of our household, even if I was leaving for college in two weeks, was great.

While he was the damn cutest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on in that store, no one really wanted to take him home. My mom heard rumors that bulldogs had a history of breathing problems and bad gas (true, true). My dad was pretty sure they died relatively young (correct). My younger brother wanted a beagle (um, sorry buddy, I’m older, I win). So after working on them all, my mom caved in. The rest fell like dominos. Brutus was soon adopted into our family of loveable dysfunction.

I immediately realized he and I have tons in common. We shake our butts when we walk. We don’t always know the dimensions of our own bodies (demonstrated by me with a litany of daily bruises, he by walking into walls and pushing objects until they finally fall out of his way). We really enjoy midday naps. Sometimes we get pink eye. We get embarrassed when people watch us poop. Neither of us have testicles (although, I admit, he had his snipped away, not by choice). Peanut butter is in our top ten favorite lists of foods. We love having our backs scratched and/or hair (fur in his case) played with. You know, stuff like that.

When you really get to the heart of the matter, Brutus is like the best boyfriend a girl could ask for. Not in a gross way people. I mean, he will listen to me rant and rave for hours without interrupting, even once. When he was more agile, he would hop on the couch with me to lie on my feet and keep them warm as we watched television. He’s protective without being jealous. He still tries to sit in my lap and take a nap like he did when he was a puppy and at least fifty pounds lighter.

Unequivocally, I love him.

And so, when my mom called me over two weeks ago to let me know that she had to rush my Number One to the hospital that morning because he had been vomiting and bleeding all sorts of nastiness the night before, my heart just broke.

The diagnosis: a massive tumor in his lower stomach that was not allowing him to digest any food he was eating and another tumor in his lungs, large enough that the vet gathered he was really only using half of a lung to breathe (the other being completely out of commission).

The treatment: a combination of radiation and drugs that if he did not immediately die from (I’m guessing trauma of some sorts?) might give him, at most, four to six more months to live.

The alternative: to feed him only boiled chicken and water so as to not irritate the stomach tumor and to keep him calm and cool to avoid him over-breathing. Ultimately, this would probably give him another week to ten days before his body would simply give up.

Our decision: to take the alternative and let him go peacefully.

We decided on this for a few reasons. The main one that we know what a tough cookie he is. He was already hit with Lyme Disease three years ago. When initially diagnosed, the vet said he probably wouldn’t survive it since the bulldog breed is not known for their strength against illness. Well, they can take that and shove it. With the care of my mom (including daily IV shots of steroids she gave him to the back of the neck), he gained back his strength and survived. And at this stage of his life, the stinker isn’t so young. Pumping him with all sorts of radiation and heavy drugs will definitely put him six feet under.

And it seems we made the right decision. Amazingly, Brutus seems to be doing quite well. His diet sure does suck, he sleeps way more than usual, and every once in awhile it seems like he stops breathing for a few moments. But he’s happy as a pig in shit. He even gets excited and barks his giant head off before promptly laying back down to wag his little nubbin’ of a tail. Even his farts have remained oh-so pungent.

Life Lesson #32: Lance Armstrong survived lung (and brain) cancer that had metastasized from his testes after he was given a less than forty percent chance to live. I’m not naïve. I know our four-legged Lance is not going to beat this. But he sure as hell is going to stick around longer than the veterinarian’s office predicted. And that, I believe, is due to the fact that he’s got a family that loves him and is doing everything they can to make him one happy little puppy. Now all I need is for someone to send me four of those yellow rubber “Livestrong” bracelets to strap around his paws.