Gus and his megaesophagus have settled into a routine of sorts, a kind of rhythm we are still working to get used to. Almost all of the cliches about megaesophagus have turned out to be mostly true. There are good days and bad days, no one can really say why one day is better than the next.

One day, he starts spitting up or vomiting his food, the next two days might go without incident. I took him to the Pompanuck refugee retreat knowing full well it might not be good for him, but he loves to be around kids and I don’t want him to live the life of a recluse dog.

Already, I am living the kind of life with him that I don’t really believe in. Our vet prescribes pill and holistic medicines, we feet him four times a day, then hold him upright for 15 to 20 minutes, he spits up regularly, and we clean it up regularly. One pill is three times a day, one herb table is one/half a pill once a day, anti-acid pill in a syringe 30 minutes before every meal.

Food is gastroenteric, high-calorie recovery supplement, mixed with pumpkin for fiber, sprinkled with a few drops of olive oil for lubricant. Nice, mushy stuff fed to Gus while he is on his hind legs, we hope it slides right down.

I did not imagine we would get so comfortable with vomit, or become so adept at the 30 second clean up (it was a minute two weeks ago.)

He has special foods laced with high-calorie supplements braced by different pills. I think if I’d gotten one of those Bailey Chairs it would have pushed me over the edge, and I a close to the edge.

At Pompanuck, Gus trawled under the dining room table scarfing up crumbs and leavings – I imagine one or two of the refugee kids slipped him some food. He started regurgitating the food almost instantly, but he had a blast there, and ran around like the demon he can be. The kids love him.

Today, a good day until just before noon, he spit up once, then a second, much more expansive time. We should put him in the crate more when that happens, but we are reluctant to do that. The vet has added some herbs to his diet, the kitchen counter looks like a nutrition research facility – cans, pill bottles.

Away from his illness, Gus is his old self. Affectionate, energetic, curious, playful. He spends most of the night in bed, curled up against me or Maria. So far, no spit-ups in bed, it is mostly a morning and mid-day thing. He and I wrestle several times a day, and once in awhile, I might take a nap, and he will, at some point, hop up onto my chest and shower me with kisses.

Disconcerting but neat. Like his mother, he is a very loving creature.

Gus fits quite well into our lives. He is happy playing with Fate, hanging our in Maria’s studio, sleeping in my study while I work.

Tomorrow, a soft muzzle will be arriving and we will see if he can get easy with it and join us for walks outside and treks to the pasture.

I have been busy and haven’t had time to do much research on the disease, I have this growing feeling that I know all I need or want to know,  this is where we will be, this is what life with Gus will be like, up and down, good and bad, sad and fun.

Some days you forget about it, some days you are reminded very powerfully of the disease.

We have adjusted our routines and schedules to care for Gus as best we can, and our work and time together and outside travels have not really been affected.

If it stays here, where it is now, we can live with it. If it changes, we’ll have to figure it out. We look at Gus all of the time, and say to one another, it would be very difficult to imagine life without him, or Red, or Fate. Sometimes you just have to pay a price for the things you want and love.

And do it with grace, and without lament, self-pity or complaint. Life happens to everyone.

How big a price we can pay – the medical costs are rising and are weekly –  is an individual decision, no one else can tell me or Maria how to make it. For now, we’re good and I think he is too. He keeping his weight, eliminating his food in a healthy way, full of fun and himself. We are handling it.

Next week, another visit to the vet, another acupuncture session, but no more pills. We’re doing enough pills. By then, we hope he will be acclimated to his muzzle – we have to persuade him it will be fun – and racing around like a farm dog again.

I’m not sure there is anything more to learn, or anywhere else to go.