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“Are you sitting down?” the veterinarian asked when I answered the phone. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but Teddy has osteosarcoma.” My chest tightened as I recalled the first day I saw my puppy limp, March 12. The radiologist finally confirmed my worst fears.
After I hung up, I wrestled with the facts. What could I do to help my 17-month-old puppy? I couldn’t afford chemo, and I didn’t want him to suffer anymore. I called a former vet who said, “He’s so young, you’ve got to give him a chance.” I’d already spent too much money in the past seven weeks trying to uncover the reason for my pup’s sudden limp with repeated X-rays, but I had to give him a chance.
On Thursday morning, I drove Teddy to the vet. He walked to the door with a severe limp. He had worsened in just a few days. His right front leg was amputated at the shoulder because chest X-rays detected no visible metastases. Chances of recurrence are high.
Then I started to make a bucket list for Sweet T. Long walks are no longer possible. Not even short ones. But he loves cheeseburgers. He enjoyed some long rides. I filled his buffalo horn with peanut butter and gave him 20 kisses on his nose each night. I envisioned him walking on the beach, eating ice cubes on the porch.
He lay in the grass the night before his surgery and looked longingly at the horizon. I knew he wanted to chase bunnies or take a long walk, but pain had overtaken his life. Small things were all he could muster. Things like holding the bone he loves, a bone he was now too tired to chew.
My daughter rescued my black golden doodle when he was 3 months old at a kill shelter. His collar was embedded in his neck. He was dirty and suffered from anxiety. But he came to my house where I loved him with all I had. He was a big, floppy baby, but we went to obedience classes and he learned to be strong and confidant.
On Friday after final exams were completed, I drove to the vet’s office to pick up my little boy. He walked cautiously on three legs to the car, his body wrapped in a large bandage. He struggled into the car and noshed on a cheeseburger when he got home. And by my bed, the little boy slept, his stricken leg gone.
As I watched Teddy’s belly go up and down as he breathed, finally at peace, I remembered him lying in the grass, listening to the birds, watching the cars and neighbors go by. My giant baby dog is teaching me how to live. Right now. Just now. For only now.
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