Support Puppy Skunk's Healing Journey

As I lit a cigarette on the back deck at my Paxton home on Saturday evening, all the pain I held in my heart spilled out from within.

I collapsed to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably as my head sank to the ground with my hands clutched tightly together, praying over and over: “Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God.”

One of the most terrifying, worrisome times in my life was not yet over, but, for a moment anyway, there was some sense of relief, even if only temporary.

Just seconds earlier, I had spoken over the phone with a veterinarian at the University of Illinois Veterinary Teaching Hospital, where my beloved Puppy Skunk has been in critical condition since Thursday. The news shared by the vet provided a glimmer of hope for her survival when all had seemed lost: My 12 1/2-year-old cocker spaniel was now stabilizing after a cancerous mass discovered in her small intestine had been successfully removed through surgery.

While Puppy Skunk — which is just one of her many names — is not out of the woods yet, her condition is improving slightly day-by-day, which has been promising news to myself and my fiance, Kathleen, as we continue to hope and pray for her eventual return home. Her sister Poof Floof — widely known as “the most beautiful kitty in the world” — misses and loves her just as much as we humans do, too, and still looks for her around the house every day.

We are all taking this one day at a time, holding on dearly to every moment we still get to be with Puppy Skunk. Every single second with her is cherished. Every kiss. Every pet. Every hug. Everything.

Losing her would devastate our family. I would say that I can’t even imagine how I’d feel, but after these past six days I actually think I do. I’m more prepared anyway, for sure, than I was.

It was late Thursday morning when I brought Puppy Skunk into the Paxton Veterinary Clinic for an appointment we scheduled Tuesday after we noticed she was increasingly lethargic for the previous few days and had diarrhea. The vet there did blood work and immediately knew there was an extremely serious medical problem, advising that there were indicators of cancer. She said we should either have her put down or rushed to the emergency vet clinic at the University of Illinois. I chose the latter.

After a quick stop home to inform Kathleen of the emergency situation, Puppy Skunk laid in my lap as I drove my Toyota Camry to the UI veterinary hospital’s emergency department, where Puppy Skunk was quickly placed in intensive care. Doctors soon determined that she was anemic — bleeding internally somewhere — and would require a blood transfusion. The next day, it was determined that she had a cancerous mass in her intestine that was likely the source of the bleeding and needed to be removed. The cost of the surgery would be $12,000 to $15,000, we were told.

After maxing out every credit card in my name to pay for it, surgery was completed Saturday. The hours leading up to it were gruelingly stressful, as I spent most of the time pacing anxiously around the house, praying that she would make it.

When the phone finally rang with good news Saturday evening, some of the pressure was released. It’s definitely still there — the worry, the crying — but it’s getting better. We now have hope.

I remember praying prior to Puppy Skunk’s surgery that if she makes it, this would be the best Christmas ever. I cannot imagine a better gift than another day with Puppy Skunk. That is one blessing I will never take for granted. I promise I will do the best I can to make the rest of her life the best life, no matter how short or long.

Amid this whirlwind of emotions, Kathleen and I feel like we failed our dog — like we should have seen the signs earlier that this was a more serious matter than we had realized. Although we both have regrets for not knowing what was happening and not doing something about it earlier, we have learned from this. We are going to do better to care for her and her needs. We both love our Smeagol Baby — another of her names — with all of our hearts.

On Tuesday, Puppy Skunk turned 12 1/2 years old. I got her when she was eight weeks old — in late August 2012. She was born June 24, 2012, north of Mahomet. She was the only white puppy in the litter of five or six.

I immediately fell in love with this little baby I now call Puppy Skunk. She was laying on her back with her belly exposed, rolling around. She was the only one awake, as her siblings all were sleeping. She wanted to go, so I was like, “OK, I want the white one.”

She was the cutest anyway. After saying goodbye to her mom, we hopped into the car and drove to Paxton, where she has lived ever since. On the way, she was walking all over me and trying to look out the window. She always has loved car rides.

When we arrived home, she fell asleep in my arms. I named her Pig Nose at first, since that was one of the first things I noticed — her pig nose. Her name grew over time, though, to include a series of names, in sequence, all based on things I noticed about her appearance: Pig Nose, Poodle Eyes, Elephant Ears, Alligator Mouth, Bunny Butt, Lizard Tongue.

Over the years, the list of names kept growing, too. Her names now also include Shmuckle Skins and Pooh Skunk, among others.

This dog has meant so much to me. I could go on and on about her love for General Tso’s chicken (her favorite) or Just Hamburgers or tuna or “kitty cat breakfast.” Or her love for going to Bixby Park or watching her “Animal Planet” television show.

If you can’t tell yet, I love this animal with all my heart. She is my joy, my happiness. With her still here today, this Christmas will be the best ever.

Kathleen and I are grateful for your continued prayers and support for our little baby — no matter what we may call her.

Merry Christmas to all of you, and thank you from the bottom of my heart.