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Mayhem
Mayhem on Three
Mayhem on Three
By Melissa Behrend
Mayhem hops down the hallway ahead of me. A speed demon on three legs. I race to catch up. “Hey, Hoppy! Be careful!” As if he understood the word or would listen even if he did. He zooms around the corner, sliding a little on the hardwood, but righting himself before a wipeout occurs.
I reach the living room just in time to see him flop down on his favorite blue rug. Soft and fuzzy, probably helps cradle his ungraceful dismount. For a tripod to lie down, at least ours, who lost his front left leg, he has to lean on his front right, catching all his weight, as his back half plops down. Then he stretches his front leg out in increments, slowly lowering it to the ground. The glaring red patch on his elbow tells its own story. Hopefully the paw butter I apply to his elbow a couple times a week soothes any ouchies there, but one never knows. He sure does like the taste of it, I can tell you that—and I can also tell you without a doubt a dog can lick his own elbow.
“Tired, bud?”
He settles in, nuzzling his nose next to his front paw, then drops his head so his face is lying on its side. Looks uncomfortable to me, but since his amputation, this has been his preferred posture.
Settling beside him on the floor, I rub his shoulder blade. His one shoulder blade. When he’s in motion, his right leg and shoulder have to do a lot of work, hauling around seventy pounds of dog. He must be sore, but he can’t tell me, so I give him a little massage. Smiling down at him, I still have to fight tears. So conflicted—happy, but sad. I’ve been this way since day one, since the vet gave us the news.
We’d just dropped our other dog, Chaos, off for ACL surgery (sorry, CCL in dogs). He’d torn his CCL and his patellar tendon, so he was undergoing major surgery. None of us was taking it well. Chaos was twelve, and I worried his advanced age would make him susceptible to, well, problems. The surgeon told us there was nothing to worry about, but worrying is what I do best.
Once we returned home, my husband went back to work and I scarfed down granola while catching up on the news, doomscrolling. I could hear my husband answer a call in his office, but since he was at work, I tuned him out. Didn’t concern me.
Until it did.
Minutes later, he opened the door, causing me to jump. The door sticks in an unholy way, creating a sound no one in our house could stand. I looked up and my heart stopped. His eyes were red-rimmed, his gaze direct, searching for my eyes.
He walked over to me as I stood; he grabbed me in a tight bear hug. “What happened? Is Chaos--?”
“It’s Mayhem. It’s cancer.”
“What?” I couldn’t breathe. I pushed back, needing air. Or tried to, anyway. My husband didn’t want to let go--maybe he couldn’t.
“The x-ray showed a mass. I guess our vet didn’t know what it was, so she sent it to a specialist? Or something. I didn’t really understand that part. But the specialist said the mass was osteosarcoma. Bone cancer.”
“And that’s why he’s limping?” I sat down heavily in my chair, trying to make it make sense. We’d taken Mayhem in for an x-ray earlier in the week because he’d been limping on and off for days in his front left leg. He’d get better, then he’d go right back to limping. We assumed he’d jumped off the bed and tweaked it, but since it was lingering, we decided to get it checked out. What stood out to me now, and what upset me was, “But she said she didn’t see anything? On Monday, when we were there, she said there was nothing. She said to let him rest!” I could feel, and hear, my voice rising. I was losing control a bit, but I didn’t care. I was angry. At the vet. At life. At cancer, at—wait, how did dogs get cancer? “Did she say how he got it?”
My husband shook his head. “No, but I think it’s genetics.”
“So, it’s nothing we did?” I’d started to cry, worrying I’d done something to cause my boy’s cancer. When I finally settled, I asked what was next. What we could do. It seemed our vet said, well, nothing. She’d basically told my husband we should say our goodbyes. This didn’t sit well with either of us. The two of us got busy Googling. I researched homeopathic routes, CBD, mushrooms, even acupuncture, while my husband’s research led him to a clinical trial for something dubbed ‘The Yale Vaccine’.
The Yale Vaccine was being given to dogs with osteosarcoma; it’s an immunotherapy that trains a dog’s immune system to look for cancer cells and attack them. The only problem? The vaccine was only available in eleven places around the United States. But one of them happened to be in Edmonds, Washington, about an hour’s drive from us. We contacted the facility, got an immediate appointment, and were there the next week.
We consulted with the oncologist who recommended amputation. She said coupled with the immunotherapy, it would save Mayhem’s life; in fact, it would add years to his life. If we did the immunotherapy without the amputation, it might add months. Once we’d talked with the oncologist, the decision was easy. Have Mayhem on three legs or have no Mayhem at all.
We went with the amputation. He had the surgery and began the immunotherapy the same day. He went back two weeks later for his first chemo, and then every two to three weeks after that, for a total of five sessions of chemo, and a total of three sessions of the immunotherapy.
To be honest, the first few days and nights after the amputation were horrendous. I questioned our decision. No one slept. Mayhem had dysphoria; he didn’t know where he was or who we were. He cried, he whined, he was in pain…he couldn’t settle. He was up all night.
But by day three, he was a terror on three legs. We had to keep a harness on him, one with a handle, so we could grab him as he got up and took off, to help steady him. He ran all over the place, taking off like a daredevil. The guy was crazy.
He quickly became a neighborhood celebrity, too. While I feared kids would make fun when we were out on walks, everyone loves him. Kids and adults all want to pet the tripawd. We used to go on hour-long several mile walks; and while our walks are still long, they’re long in time, not distance. Mayhem hops on three legs, and I mean hops. He has to throw his seventy pounds in the air to move along. He’ll take a few hops, rest, then do it again. It’s tough, so we bring water, no matter the temperature.
We’re seven months out and I’m so glad we went along with the doc’s advice, but I will admit, I wasn’t sure at first. Losing a front leg is tougher on a dog than a back leg, simply because it’s harder to move around. The front legs do a lot of the heavy lifting. At his age, I didn’t know how he’d adjust—or if he would. I worried his quality of life would suffer; I worried he wouldn’t be happy. I worried he’d be left out on walks, worried he wouldn’t be able to do his favorite things (and to be fair, there are things can’t do, or can’t do well. Dog beds with bumpers? Ouch, he always falls either in or out of the bed…). Chemo wasn’t always easy; there were times he threw up, there were times his white blood cell count was low. The expense has been…well, a lot, but he’s worth it.
Two weeks ago, he stood in the dining room and gave his brother a look. A look we know very well. One his brother knows very well, too. His brother assumed a defensive stance and it was on. My husband and I looked at one another, torn. Should we stop this roughhousing? Or let them play? In the end we sort of refereed like we did in the old days, let them play but stood close by, so we could step in if needed. This was the first time they’d played since Mayhem had lost his leg. Love to see it. Hope to see more of it.
Food
What Do You Call It? 10 Regional Food Wars in America
What Do You Call It? 10 Regional Food Wars in America
Have you ever traveled to another part of the country and tried to find your favorite snack—only to realize, while the snack was the same, it went by a completely different name? Or maybe you casually referred to a restaurant, only to be met with confused stares from relatives, friends, or total strangers who had no clue what you were talking about—because where they’re from, it’s called something else entirely.
If so, you’re not alone—and you’ve probably wondered why. Why can’t you find a Checkers in California or a pop to drink in Maine? The reasons are, well, varied and odd. Most boil down to simple geography.
Read on for some of the weird, wonderful ways Americans refer to the same things by totally different names. As if the English language weren’t complicated enough already, these deviations will throw you, and any visiting tourists, for a loop. Have fun and order up…
- 10) Ding Dongs
Years ago (years and years ago) we moved from Illinois to Florida. When my mother headed out to grocery shop, she asked if my brother and I had any requests. We immediately piped up, “Ding Dongs!” They were our favorite Hostess cake; chocolate cake with a cream filling and a darker chocolate covering, all wrapped up in silver foil. Heaven.
What she returned with was King Dons. What? Excuse me? King Dons? Even worse, when we opened them up, they were in white plastic sleeves. What was going on in Florida? Now that I’m older, I’ve done the research and learned the discrepancy was because there was already another product called Ding Dongs in Canada, so Hostess changed the name to sell them up there. But why in the world were they in Florida? Apparently simply because there were sometimes an oversupply and the extras went, well, to Florida (and other areas, but never Illinois, I guess). And, even stranger, on the East Coast, Ding Dongs were called Big Wheels to avoid confusion with Ring Dings made by Drake’s.
- 9) Girl Scout Cookies
Who knew even the Girl Scouts had different names for the same cookies depending upon the part of the country you live in? Turns out, Samoas aren’t Samoas everywhere. If you live in Dallas, sure, you’ll get your Samoas, but if you live in Fort Worth, the same cookies are called Caramel deLites. And Samoas aren’t the only cookie with a different name based on geography. The Tagalongs are also called Peanut Butter Patties, Do-si-dos are Peanut Butter Sandwiches in some areas, and the Trefoils are called Shortbread Cookies in some parts; and it’s like that all over the country, seemingly without rhyme or reason. But no, wait! There’s a reason.
Going right to the source, the Girl Scouts say: “Each Girl Scout council contracts with one of two licensed bakers, whose recipes and ingredients may differ slightly: ABC Bakers and Little Brownie Bakers. That's why some of our cookies look the same but have two different names.”
- 8) Edy’s and Dreyer’s
Another place you’ll find differences in product names is in the frozen food section. In one part of the country, you’ll purchase Dreyer’s ice cream, and in the other, Edy’s. Wonder why? Simply to honor the cofounder of the brand, Josephy Edy.
Originally, the founders traveled east spreading joy through the delicious taste of Dreyer’s, but when the brand’s popularity increased, and ice cream became a hit coast to coast, they decided to mix it up a bit. West of the Rockies, the brand is Dreyer’s, and east of the Rockies, it’s Edy’s. So, what’s in your freezer?
- 7) Best Foods and Hellman’s
Mayo divides a lot of people. Some love it, some can’t have it anywhere near their plates (or their eyes) when they eat, but if you are a fan, you may have noticed Best Foods and Hellman’s are never in the same room at the same time. This is another one that’s down to where you live in relation to the Rockies. East of the Rockies, you’re eating Hellman’s. To the West, Best Foods is in your fridge.
They’re the same product, both manufactured by Unilever, both have the blue label and ribbon on the jar, with nearly identical recipes. Nearly—some people say they notice a difference in taste, but this could be all in their heads.
- 6) Hardee’s and Carl’s Jr.
Hardee’s and Carl’s Jr. are two chains Americans love to argue about. Are they the same place? Yes and no. While they’re both owned by the same company, CKE Restaurant Holdings, and they both have the same logo and the same menu, there are some regional differences, specifically in their breakfast offerings.
Carl’s Jr. came to life in California, while Hardee’s sprang up in North Carolina. Eventually, CKE Holdings purchased both; instead of changing the names, they left Carl’s Jr. in the West and Southwest, and Hardee’s everywhere else.
- 5) Rally’s and Checkers
Staying aboard the fast-food train, you may be a diehard Checkers fan or you may heart Rally’s, but, despite the argument you’ve got going with your cousin on the other coast, the two are actually the same. They have the same menu (including those delicious fries), food suppliers, and support center. The only difference is the name.
You’ll find Checkers in the Southeast and Northeast, and Rally’s in the Midwest and California. Why? Simple. They were originally two separate entities, but Checkers purchased Rally’s back in 1999 and decided to keep the status quo—why confuse everyone with a name change?
- 4) Crayfish, Crawfish, and Crawdads
If you’re a seafood fan, when you check out the menu, do you see crayfish, crawfish, or crawdads listed there? Are they all the same little guy? Turns out, they are. Why so many names for such a little dude? Well, this small crustacean has a different name depending upon which area of the country you visit.
In the southeastern United States, you’ll find crawfish in the boil, while in the North and Northeastern parts of the country, it’ll be a crayfish. In the Midwest and Western United States, you’ll be catching crawdads in the stream. So, no matter what you call ‘em, roll up your jeans, catch a batch, and cook ‘em up.
- 3) Soda, Pop, and Coke
One argument you’ll hear around every table or video chat is what to call those popular sweetened, carbonated beverages you can find at every movie theater, fast-food restaurant, or ballpark. Is it a soda? A pop? Maybe a Coke? Depends upon where you grew up.
In the Northeast and on the West Coast, most people call it a soda. In the Midwest and Mountain states, you’ll need to order a pop, and in the South, it’s a ‘coke’ (although I grew up in the Midwest and we called every brand ‘coke’ no matter what it was…). One reason people believe Southerners call everything ‘coke’ is likely because Coca-Cola originated in Atlanta (and is still produced there today)—so people in the South associate any type of soda with the brand name they know and love. But as for the rest of the country and their pop and soda…your guess is as good as anyone else’s.
- 2) Hoagies, Subs , Heroes, and Grinders
A sub by any other name…is a hoagie. All four of these names are often used interchangeably, but the sandwiches do have some differences, albeit minor ones. Hoagies are generally served cold on hard Italian breads which are split along the side, while subs are served hot or cold on soft breads and are often cut fully, rather than just split.
As for heroes and grinders? A hero is really no different from a sub at all, it’s just the name you’ll find it under in New York. As for grinders, these sandwiches are generally associated with New England and are usually served hot or toasted and are full of ingredients like meatballs or sausage. The submarine sandwich is recognized nationwide; if you order one anywhere, people will understand what you’re talking about, and hoagies are most common in Philadelphia and parts of Western Pennsylvania.
- 1) Pancakes and Flapjacks and Hot Cakes (oh my!)
They’re all round, made from batter, flipped on a griddle, and served with butter and syrup, but they go by three different names depending where you order them. Pancakes are the most well-known term for this delicious breakfast item, but in the South and Southeast, you’ll order up a flapjack when you hit the diner. Hotcakes are a favorite of the Midwest and even some parts of the South.
But wherever you are, just ask for any of these and you’ll probably be fine. In this country, anyway. Head to the UK and it’s a different story. Order a flapjack over there and you may be disappointed. You’ll find a baked oat bar on the plate. Probably not as delicious with syrup and butter…but I’ve never tried one.