[fasteddie]

Moose was dying.

This much Mandy Corliss knew.

It was a mild spring day in 2005 and her Yorkie poodle, still puppy-cute at 15 even with the white film of a cataract covering one eye, had just been diagnosed with an aggressive form of bladder cancer.

He likely had only a few months to live.

Standing in an exam room at the Iowa State Veterinary Hospital, Corliss numbly considered her options.

Chemotherapy might prolong Moose's life.

Euthanasia might spare him months of pain.

She gathered Moose in her arms and drove home.

Moose was her first pet.

She'd always tried to do what was best for him.

She could accept - almost - that their time together was nearing its end.

But she couldn't bear to decide how he would die.

WE ARE NOT the first people to share a deep bond with our pets.

Archeologists have found graves dating back 14,000 years where dogs were carefully buried next to their owners.

What's unusual today are the lengths we are willing to go to in order to extend that bond.

From glucosamine supplements to dog diapers, acupuncture to chemotherapy, hip surgery to hospice, the care of geriatric pets has become a booming business.

And walking through the front door with both hope and trepidation are pet owners like Mandy Corliss.

The director of physician relations at Iowa Heart Center, Corliss grew up in a New York City building that didn't allow dogs.

In 1990, out for dinner with friends, she stopped in the pet store at Merle Hay Mall and emerged with a timid little ball of fluff.

If you threw a ball to the puppy, he'd cower, Corliss said. To boost his self-esteem, she named him Moose.

It didn't take long for the floppy-eared pooch that snorted like a pig, slept at the head of the bed and loved Popsicles to become an important part of Corliss' life.

But it wasn't until later - after Moose was diagnosed with cancer - that she understood how much that connection, that "fabulous friendship," had become part of who she was.

"It's something so special to get that," she said. "I love the attention, love being able to give back to him, to have another avenue to give my love."

When Moose was diagnosed with bladder cancer, Corliss was devastated.

Left untreated, she was told, the tumor would grow until it blocked Moose's urethra. He would become incontinent and then his kidneys would fail.

Humans with this condition were usually treated with chemotherapy. Today, the same drugs are available for dogs.

It is part of an entire arsenal of emerging treatments for old-age ailments in dogs, from anti-inflammatories to kidney transplants, all modeled on human geriatric care.

"People are very intent on saving their pets," said Dr. Leslie Fox, a specialist in internal medicine and oncology at the Iowa State University College of Veterinary Medicine.

"They look up the treatment Grandma got for cancer, and that's what they want for their dogs. In many cases, that's what we can provide."

For Corliss, a big factor in her decision about Moose was the expense, approximately $1,000. She was afraid people would think it horrible that anyone would consider spending that much on a dog.

Corliss was also concerned with how Moose would react to the chemotherapy. How far was she willing to go down that road?

"My dad was on dialysis," Corliss said. "I don't want to see my dog on it."

Corliss turned to Moose's regular vet, Gary VanEngelenburg - better known as Dr. Van.

As the owner of Iowa Veterinary Acupuncture Clinic, VanEngelenburg has a high percentage of geriatric patients. He suggested treating Moose's cancer using acupuncture, anti-inflammatories, herbs and diet.

It wouldn't be a cure (nor would it be cheap), but VanEngelenburg was confident his approach would improve Moose's quality of life during the time he had left.

Corliss decided to give it a chance, willing herself to accept whatever was ahead.

"I have never in my life known how to let go, how to say goodbye," she said. "Pets teach you that, too."

ACCORDING TO THE American Veterinary Medical Association, an estimated 33 percent of the nation's cats and dogs have reached "senior" status.

This means an awful lot of pet owners are facing the same painful decisions as Corliss.

Many walk into VanEngelenburg's clinic on the northwest side of Des Moines, cradling a beloved dog or cat, with a single mandate: "Euthanasia is not an option."

It's nearly the polar opposite of what VanEngelenburg encountered 30 years ago, as a young country vet in Sumner, Ia. Then, people usually dropped their sick pets off to be euthanized.

Today, VanEngelenburg offers clients a grieving room with a rocking chair, a love seat upholstered in roses and lace curtains at the window. The owners of pets needing to be euthanized are welcome to sit with their dog or cat as long as they like.

"We hardly ever put clients' pets to sleep with dry eyes," he said.

VanEngelenburg's transformation as a vet began in the spring of 1991 when he attended his first acupuncture training. Eight years later, he and his wife Vicki opened a small animal referral practice that specialized in acupuncture in Des Moines.

He said our society has undergone an equally drastic change in the way it views pets.

"When I started my practice, pets were pets, they were companions," he said, sounding a little bemused. "Now to a lot of my patients, their pets are their kids - or their substitute for kids."

The most obvious sign of that elevated status is the "phenomenal" amount, VanEngelenburg said, that many owners are willing to spend on pet care.

Thirty years ago, he said, a procedure that cost $100 was considered expensive. Now, in an age of veterinary CAT scans, diagnostic work alone can run more than four figures.

VanEngelenburg hopes pet end-of-life care doesn't imitate human geriatric care, where an extend-life-at-all-costs attitude often prevails.

He's a strong advocate for a more holistic approach. In addition to cancer treatments, he said he's had success treating hip dysplasia patients with acupuncture, gold bead implants, supplements and anti-inflammatories.

Among his prize patients for years has been Bailey, a sweet-natured, 12-year-old golden retriever owned by Deb Sulzbach.

Sulzbach, a librarian at Drake University law school, brought Bailey to VanEngelenburg in November 2000. The dog weighed 101 pounds, was on Prednisone and had the most severely deformed hips the vet had ever seen.

He injected gold bead implants into Bailey's joints to serve as a kind of permanent acupuncture relief. He also put her on a diet that included lots of vegetables.

On a sunny afternoon in December, Sulzbach carefully helped Bailey off the back deck of her Urbandale home, then watched as the big retriever, her honey-blond hair gone white on the haunches, rolled in the snow like a puppy.

Sulzbach, who has Bailey's baby picture displayed on her refrigerator, has a theory about why we've become such a pet-centered society.

The nuclear family, she said, has been "spread to the wind." Pets are the replacement.

"I'm sure there are a lot of people who look at me and what I've done for these stinkin' dogs" - she looks at Bailey and Zoey, a 9-year-old hyperactive Maltese mix, affectionately - "and think, 'Oh, my God.' But these are my babies."

Caring for Bailey in her old age has required some changes in her life, Sulzbach admitted. She comes home every day for lunch. She purchased a Green Machine to help clean up after Bailey's accidents.