Two years.

That’s the average lifespan for a dog diagnosed with Cushing’s Disease. I would sob and sob after learning that piece of information. How silly I feel now for being upset over two years. I would have done anything if my English Setter Winston’s eventual Hemangiosarcoma diagnosis came with that average instead of only three months.

But I knew it then. I felt it then what all of this would eventually mean for us. There’s a horrible satisfaction about being “right” when the thing you’re correct about is the one thing you don’t want to ever happen …

It was sometime in 2021, our foster dog Brady, an English Setter, Pointer, Brittany mix, had just been returned to us. He was regressing at his adoptive mom’s place. He had made it about a year with her before someone from the rescue and later she herself phoned us to tell us it wasn’t working out. He needed to come back to Kentucky. We had already heard this once before when he left another home to come back to ours. We vowed this time, he wasn’t going anywhere ever again, and we were going to do everything to help this very fearful pup back on the right path.

I talked with a long-time Instagram friend Beth from Rehab Your Rescue and she recommended behavior modification and behavior medications. She asked if there was a local vet that may prescribe those for me.

Years prior, I had taken my Big Brothers Big Sisters Little to Owensboro, Kentucky, to shadow an old friend of mine from grade school days at her veterinary clinic. My friend Dr. Mary Rachel Dunaway gifted her with a white coat, notepad, and candy, and gave us a behind the scenes tour. She shared about how Kentuckiana Animal Clinic was a “fear-free clinic.” Knowing Mary, how kind she had been to me and my Little, and being OK with the fact this was a much further drive, I decided it would be perfect for our very nervous, scared foster. Gradually, one pet at a time, we would switch our entire family – including Winston – over to their services.

I remember waiting there for something routine and one of the vets at the clinic casually joining me in a conversation about Winston’s weight, his heavy breathing, his frequent urination, his extreme thirst, and his loss of hair on his tail.

“He may have Cushing’s Disease,” she said. “You should get him tested for it. We can get you a referral to an internal medicine specialist.” Brady’s return, the decision to move to this clinic, and this very moment would change our lives forever and save Winston’s for a long time, but I didn’t know that yet.

I had never heard of Cushing’s in dogs. I didn’t know anything about it. All I thought was: problem? Let’s solve it. Cool. At this time, I was naive thinking all of Winston’s “problems” had solutions.

We were referred to a specialist called Veterinary Specialist Partners (VSP), at the time based out of Georgetown, Kentucky, three hours away from us. But with some incredible luck, they set up in a nearby emergency clinic two days a week in Evansville, Indiana, only a short drive from us. So began my education on Winston’s eventual Cushing’s diagnosis, Vetoryl, and ACTH Stim tests. Winston started taking medication twice a day. His urination, thirst, panting, and his weight, all quickly improved. It all felt doable – expensive – but doable. I would have paid – or found a way to pay – anything for him.

A caveat still hung in the air though. What’s with the two years left though?

People tried to comfort me with the fact that it’s often not the Cushing’s that dogs succumb to in the end but other health concerns that pop up: old age, cancer, etc. But the thing is I didn’t want the other health concerns. I didn’t want any of it.

But when I look back on it all, without Brady being returned to our home, without switching vets, and the comment to get tested for Cushing’s, we never would have gone to this specialist. We never would have started doing routine ultrasounds. We never would have discovered a growing splenic tumor we started monitoring. We never would have taken it out preemptively before it burst. We never would have learned he had Hemangiosarcoma. We never would have caught it until it was too late. For all of this, I am eternally grateful.

And in case you’re wondering, Winston lived for just over two years after his Cushing’s diagnosis. Two years that we made count. And they were right, it wasn’t the Cushing’s that got him in the end.