"She was an Old Trouper": Canine Mammary Cancer

"Ginger has mammary tumors. They’re most likely benign, but need to be removed quickly, since they’ll continue to grow," explained Dr. Shaw. I was confident in his prognosis that Ginger would recover easily from a relatively simple surgical procedure.

Under anesthesia Dr. Shaw detected tumors deep in the groin area. Surgery and subsequent biopsy confirmed a diagnosis of mammary carcinoma.

He had performed a more drastic surgery than anticipated, but felt confident that he had removed all affected tissue. Nevertheless, he warned me that the tumors would recur and showed me how to check regularly for them. He also taught me the procedure for removing sutures, which I would do on several subsequent occasions.

"Breast cancer rarely occurs in a bitch spayed before her first heat", he stated. "Each heat increases the dog’s chances of developing this disease, because of the surge and drop in hormonal activity". There is indeed statistical evidence to support that early spaying significantly decreases the risk of developing mammary tumors.

As predicted Ginger recovered quickly from surgery, her chest soon sprouting new luxurious fur. I performed the routine examination each month, and it was about a year before I felt a few suspicious bumps. Ginger’s quality of life was in no way diminished by the second or subsequent surgeries, and she continued to escort me on my frequent business trips. I was fortunate to work for companies that paid for Ginger’s air travel as well as mine. I bought a book called Imagery and Healing by Jeanne Achterberg and began using the visualization techniques practiced with remarkable success by the cancer patients of Dr. O. Carl Simonton.

My routine examinations sometimes produced false alarms, as when I mistook fatty cysts for mammary tumors. On one such occasion Dr. Shaw detected a change in the tissue of her lower lip. "It's melanoma, a far more serious condition, and must be removed immediately," he informed me without hesitation. Biopsy confirmed his diagnosis, and a subsequent lab report indicated a "fair" prognosis. There was no subsequent recurrence of melanoma.

We celebrated Ginger’s fourteenth birthday with an event catered for six human guests. Bothered only by minor arthritis pain, to be expected at that age, Ginger eagerly accompanied me on mile-long daily walks to her favorite bakery. Her hearing and vision were unimpaired.

One day I felt a new group of very small bumps near her right armpit. A visit to Dr. Shaw confirmed my suspicion. Moreover, this time the location of the tumors suggested a surgery that might require amputating her right leg. Neither Ginger nor I could tolerate the thought of such a mutilation. "She has led a rich life filled with dignity. Let her go in dignity," he suggested. A biopsy of some affected tissue confirmed our worst fears. I asked about alternative treatments, hoping for a holistic approach. While Dr. Shaw did not recommend for or against chemotherapy, he did mention it as a possible option.

It was thus that I contacted Dr. Debra Rackear, a young veterinary internist well-known for her work with cancer patients. "This dog should not be alive," proclaimed Dr. Rackear after reading Dr. Shaw’s twenty-page handwritten clinical history. It was only then I saw the "grave prognosis" attached to the first lab report, for even then the cancer had already invaded the lymphatic system.

"Ginger has an incredible will to live, that old trouper," Dr. Rackear had exclaimed. Now unfortunately x-rays showed many snowball-like ghost images that confirmed a diagnosis of metastasis into the lungs. Even the cleverest surgery was no longer an option, and only chemotherapy might prolong her life.

What an agonizing decision I was being forced to make! Let the disease take its natural course and allow her to die in dignity when the time came -- or try to prolong her life, knowing that side-effects of the treatment could also decrease her quality of life. No, there would not be any hair loss as always experienced by women undergoing chemotherapy. The dosage was not expected to cure, only to keep the disease temporarily in check. Nausea and vomiting could follow each treatment.

Ultimately I decided in favor of starting the chemotherapy. The plan was to try one treatment, and if the results were encouraging, to continue. I believe my feeling that I had not done enough to save Peaches when she was found to have a large malignant tumor in her rectal area influenced this decision. With Ginger thus I chose to err on the side of doing every thing I could. The first treatment went well and she recovered from mild nausea on a diet of home-cooked chicken breasts. The blood and urine tests following were normal and both doctors were amazed by how well she had responded and by the apparent shrinkage of visible tumors.

About a week after the second treatment Ginger accompanied me on a short business trip for which I had a long-standing commitment. Although we traveled only a few hours by car, the time spent in a different surrounding definitely took their toll on Ginger. She was so much more tired, and reluctant to walk, even to relieve herself. On her last walk to Alice Keck Park she stumbled and fell, and two young women helped me to form a human hammock to carry her home.

On Halloween night I knew the inevitable time had arrived. Dr. Rackear had told me that subsequent treatments were out of the question, because of her weakened condition. I now spent not only the nights lying on the floor next to her, but also the days, giving her ice cubes to suck on, since even water would cause her to vomit. Here was my gorgeous snow-faced Ginger bereft of all her dignity, being comforted by Jasmine, my Himalayan cat. Jasmine, who had always shown a certain aloofness toward Ginger, now lavished all her maternal nursing instincts upon Ginger, hovering over her ravaged body, kneading with her paws and caressing with her tongue.

That was an agonizing night, punctuated by ringing doorbells and little children masquerading, blissfully unaware of the life and death battle going on inside. A friend called to whine about her problems, but I could not commiserate, and somehow did not want sympathy. I was keeping Ginger's body temperature up by swaddling her corpselike in a blanket and placing her on a heating pad. A friend had brought me some wine so that I could get a little rest.

In the morning Dr. Shaw arrived. "Her lungs are filling with fluid. There can be no waiting," he told me. We had tried everything humanly possible, including crystal therapy. There was no choice but to liberate her from her devastated body. I embraced her for one last farewell as she was peacefully, without resistance, released by lethal injection. I held her for a long time, knowing that her spirit would live on, that Old Trouper. Dr. Shaw helped me settle her into her final resting place beneath the orange tree. She was two months shy of her fifteenth birthday.