Nugget & Buddy: two-syllable, easy-to-say names for my two animals.

Nugget & Buddy: two-syllable, easy-to-say names for my two animals. One cat, one dog. Both ripe with character, both I love so much, both a big-ole pain in my ass, and pocket book.

First, Nugget, also known as 'beef stick' or 'Noooget' or 'Nugsie', bless her soul, is a 12 pound, 1/2 blind, diabetic, Chi-weinee (chihuahua/dachshund mix) who likes to chase anything that runs and throw herself off of high places even though she doesn't have the spine to support that impact. She was only two of these things, 12 pounds and a Chiweinee, when I got her off Craigslist with my former partner (ex is such a dirty word) from a clean-and-sober woman who was in the middle of divorce and selling everything (including her two dogs) so that she could live and drive her RV where ever the hell she wanted to go. We, knowingly, were getting Nugget to save our relationship in the same way that straight people have a baby to save a marriage.

A year after we got Nugget, after me and my "let's-get-a-dog-to-save-our-relationship" partner broke up and got together for the umpteenth time, on a weekend at the beach to revisit our relationship under more romantic conditions, Nugget came in after an afternoon pee only to turn around and pee again, and again. And then head for her water bowl with a voracious and unquenchable thirst and pee again, inside. Perplexed, we thought she'd got into a tide pool and ate some bad shellfish. But the peeing didn't stop, so we took her into the boutique-priced-vet that all vets are in Portland, when we got back into town and after several hundred dollars of testing found that, at the age of 3, she was diabetic, an illness that is expensive and hard to regulate. Even more expensive and hard to regulate for a 29-year-old, single woman, who likes to drink and go dancing, and is surviving on student loans and a server's income. Diabetes means a special diet and keeping a regular schedule and shooting your dog up with insulin every 12 hours (9 and 9).

Just so we're clear: Nugget isn't diabetic because I fed her twinkees and the fat off my steak every night, the diabetes came down through her genetic line.

At first I considered a rescue, or putting her back up on Craigslist because I didn't think I'd have the money to give her a good life, but after careful consideration and because I knew Nugget had been in three homes in her first year of life, I decided to give it a go and do my best to give her a stable home and a good life.

Needless to say, our first year was rough. Finding the right diet, not skipping shots, getting me trained to meet her needs was difficult. In May of 2008 she weighed 8 pounds and was practically a walking skeleton. Family and friends were split, as was I, on whether to put her down or try to help her recover. I decided to take the summer to try and get her regulated and make the decision after a more consistent regimen. Thankfully, we found something that worked: never missing shots, prescriptive food, lots of water, lots of money. Nugget is back at her normal weight and is doing fairly well, until lately when she's started having seizures.

This is the second episode this summer and it's gone the same way both times. In the middle of the night she pushes herself out from under the covers and falls on the floor without attempting to catch herself. Then she wakes up early and starts licking and pushing herself into my face, looking all around the room, her round body pulsing with muscle spasms. Then, for a few days afterward her muscles are weak and her balance unsteady. After this mornings episode I took her to the reasonably-priced-not-in-the-big-city vet for an exam and lab work. Our total expenditures for today: $201 and 3 lost hours of sleep. They gave me diazepam for her seizures (now you can be on the same medication as mommy!) and an anti-inflammatory (Metacam) and told me lab answers are to come by the end of the day...

Answers? Maybe...

Now, Buddy, the other break up based pet. Buddy, a short-haired, black and white who has also been known as 'Snake' and 'Budinski' and 'Fat bastard', came to me from the Oregon City projects shortly after my first major break up in 1998 with my first major boyfriend. I got him as a kitten and often slept with him in the nook of my collar bone, and since then he's thought it okay to still sleep there whether of not he weighed 9 or 15 pounds.

Today, Buddy is eleven years old (in his sixties in human years) and has lived with me in seventeen different home in three different states. He's been rather durable and accommodating, living with a variety of animals, in a variety of conditions and regions, with a variety of lovers and roommates. He's been the most reliable long-term relationship (which sounds like I've turned into that creepy cat person) up until recently.

About three years ago I took Buddy into the boutique-priced-Portland-vet for an exam for wheezing episodes. The vet blamed it on anxiety and I took his diagnosis as golden. But this year, when the wheezing episodes got more intense and were accompanied by a dilated pupil and raised third-eyelid, I took him into the reasonably-priced-small-town vet who found a lump in his throat and diagnosed him with Horner's Syndrome.

Since then, Buddy's appetite has decreased, his purrs and breathing have become more labored, he's lost weight, about three pounds, and sleeps all the time. I've tried changing his diet, giving him a variety of food, consulting the vet for treatments and what I've gotten is a shrug, following the offer to do an MRI to find answers, and another prescription for Metacam (at least both my animals are on the same drug).

Maybe I've always had a thing for differently-abled animals, after all, my first pet was a gray, one-eyed, long-haired, bladder-problem-ridden feline named Toke. But I've come to realize that at this point in my life of pet ownership, I am essentially running a convalescence/geriatric/hospice home for my pets. And that's okay. I love them both, and I am committed to them both, pain in the ass or not.

Not only is pet ownership expensive, it's fun, joyful, time-consuming, sleep-losing, awesome, heart-breaking, terrifying, and quite a commitment; a life-long commitment. I don't remember it being this way as a child. Was it that it wasn't as expensive, or that it wasn't my money being spent?

Regardless, I've come to understand that one should not take on the responsibility of pet ownership unless they are ready to spend the money, whether boutique-fees or reasonable-vet-fees, to maintain the health of their animal(s). And when my current pets pass I will likely take a break from ownership so that I can leave for the weekend without paying someone to come feed them, or without consideration of how to travel with them. But because I've been raised in a home that has always had pets as part of the family, I have a feeling it wont be long before I invite another animal into my home.

Then too, I'll be there to hold their paw through whatever health issues come their way, and hopefully my income can support providing them with the best treatment I can afford, and that is possible.