Good news, bad news, good news, bad...

So, I have good news: I got a dog.

His name is Sam. I adopted him from the Oregon Humane Society ten days ago, and they estimated he's about seven years old. He is a German Shepherd mix, although I can't figure out what he might be crossed with--he's almost all German Shepherd in temperament and looks. He's very sweet-natured and quiet (so far), which is also good news. Living as I do in a condo with close neighbors, I can't have a dog that barks all the time while I'm at work. And my parents love him: good news.

He's good company, and he makes me feel safe at home and outside (it's easy to tell who likes big dogs and who doesn't), and although I had a little freak-out 24 hours after adopting him that this was a completely insane idea, I'm really glad I have him.

My cats, however, do not consider a new dog in their little kingdom to be good news. They've been spending most of their time under my bed this week, coming out only when Sam is closed up in the office. I did a little research on introducing a dog to resident cats (what did we do before Google? I honestly can't remember), and learned that patience and vigilant supervision are key. I don't let Sam in the same room with the cats unless I'm with him, and he wears his leash while he walks around the house so I can grab him if he gets too close to them. Flora, who is usually meek and silent as a rabbit, growls constantly every time Sam is near her, but I've read that that is a normal reaction and doesn't necessarily mean their relationship is doomed. I hope. Louie growls too, but I'm less surprised by that, seeing as he's the alpha-cat in this house.

Sam loves to go for walks, and he does not seem afraid of people (even men) or other dogs, which leads me to believe he's never been abused, so that's good news. And I have found him to be the most reliable workout partner I've ever had; he has not once called me to say that he doesn't feel like going out because it's rainy and dark. I've even lost some weight already. Since I put on several stress-pounds while I was out of work this year, that's also good news.

I took Sam to the vet yesterday for his new-dog checkup, for which I had a coupon from the Humane Society. The vet said that, despite the terrible state of his teeth, Sam might be younger than seven. He might even be as young as four years old, based on the condition of his coat and his pristine back teeth. That was good news, since I might get to have him longer than I was counting on.

But then, the bad news. (You knew we were leading up to something, right?) After Sam had his rabies shot and his exam, and everything was great, the vet did a heartworm test just as a precaution. He went away to check the results, and my mom and I sat in cartoon-dog-patterned chairs in the exam room and petted Sam and chatted.

And then the vet came back in, and he wasn't smiling anymore. This test is positive for heartworm, he said. This is pretty serious. He showed me the turquoise control color, and the blood-red strong positive Sam had turned up.

Somehow I found myself standing up, listening but not-listening to him, as he explained that we would do a second and more conclusive test that had to go out to a lab, and then if it came back positive, we could treat him for heartworm if that's what I wanted to do. He also suggested gently that I could probably return him to the Humane Society, although there was a good chance he would be euthanized.

No, I said, and it came out louder in the echoey room than in my head. No, I'm keeping him.

So he did the second test, and the results come back Monday from the lab. I will await a phone call, but since the first test is 94% accurate, and since Sam exhibits some of the symptoms I read about online for heartworm-infected dogs (lethargy, tiring after moderate exercise), I think we all know what this test will say.

And then he will be treated for heartworm, an expensive and potentially fatal endeavor that he has a 70% chance of surviving. The vet told me that he's only ever had to put one dog down when it didn't respond to the treatment. But I still don't like those odds. Sam will have to be closely confined for 24 hours after each treatment, to prevent his heart from pumping the worms into his lungs and bloodstream, which probably means an overnight stay at the vet's office. It's not going to be cheap. But I wasn't even thinking about the money.

I was thinking about how I could already love a dog so much that I'd known for only nine days, and how I didn't really want to cry in front of the vet and my mother. Peppery tears pricked the back of my nose.

Later, after a good cry and a nap at home, I thought about why it was so much easier for me to cry for an animal than a human. I thought about when one of our two kittens died in China, after we rescued them from the most depressing outdoor pet market I've ever seen, and about how I sobbed with tiny orange-and-white Kito in my hands, wailing like one of those professional mourner-ladies in the Middle East. I didn't even recognize myself in the weeping; it came from some deeper place inside me.

It's not that I don't cry when someone I love passes away, but it's a more complicated grief. With an animal, it's a very clean pain that cuts right down to the nerve, and there's no guilt for not having been a better granddaughter or friend or neighbor. I think it's because it's so much easier to love and trust a pet than another person. I know what Sam wants, what he likes, what he thinks of me, because he has no reason to hide those things from me. I know what Flora and Louie think, too, because they're not afraid to tell me with a purr or a scratch. But a person is a hidden hand of cards.

I wondered if everyone felt this way, if they had to cover their ears and change the channel when a story came on the news about neglected dogs, if they wondered why it was so much harder to read about one dog breaking another's neck on a bus than about an actual person's death. All I know is, although I feel sadness and may cry for a human being, I don't get that same physical pain in my heart that I do for an animal.

So, now we proceed to treatment. I look at this way: we just have to assume that Sam's going to be okay. There's no point in dwelling on the alternative, because there's nothing I can do about it, and because Sam will pick up on any anxiety I feel. Seven out of ten dogs are successfully treated. And his odds are already better than the average dog, because I'm keeping him and not taking him back to a place where he probably wouldn't get treatment at all. That's in our favor, right?

If you are a praying person, and you don't object to praying for a dog, please think of Sam this week. All we can do is hope for good news.