"Just don't tell her."

That's what the vet. oncologist said to me after she gave a prognosis of 1-2 months this morning. After she showed me the x-ray of Cassidy's chest. The tumor taking up all of her left lung and pushing up her heart.

I sat at the vet hospital this morning rubbing her shoulders and fighting back tears while we waited to be seen. Well meaning receptionists kept petting her and commenting on how young she looks. One tried to convince me that it's not too late to microchip her. It is. It really is too late.

I had to bite my lip until it bled. I had to think of shark week on animal planet. Anything horrifying or pain/anger inducing to overpower the sad just to get me from waiting room to private exam room.

I'd like to not tell her. But she already knows. I think my sobbing and clinging to her neck while wiping snot on her long curly ear might have given it away today. We drove home in doggie/human silence. I attempted to make a few "it will be ok" promises but she had very doubtful eyes coupled with low hanging ears. She knows.

1-2 months is far short of my hopeful self-prognosis of 4-6 months. 1-2 months passes in a blink of an eye in our household.

I read somewhere online that it helps to tell your dog her life story, chapter by chapter, before the end.
Her life story is our first 13 years as a couple.
I am having trouble getting past the part where I tell her about the sunny summer evening and her bounding leaps across the yard to meet us. So I think I'll write the story. It's more for me anyway. I might post pieces here. We'll see.

Thank you for all of the kind and loving comments. Knowing there are many people who care or who have gone through the same thing helps. It really does. The first thing I did when I got home today (after feeding Cassidy large quantities of happy-inducing peanut butter and drugs) was log on to read comments.

~A

We are losing our first love

How to say what I have to say?

It is nearing the time when we have to say goodbye to our first baby, Cassidy.

I can look back and see some of the signs now, in hindsight.
In August we took her on an easy hike. Before we even got started I had to go back to the car for something. She clawed her way up into the front seat and didn't want to come back out.

We took her to the Platte this fall, on a warm day, to paddle in the shallow areas. She stepped in, stumbled a bit, and looked to us to see if she (our water dog) could get out and sit quietly by the side of the river.

She growled at Ariam this fall when she came too close to her dog bed.

I've been finding little last bites of food uneaten in her dog dish.

Over Christmas she began to gag and cough. It didn't go away. I pretended she had a cold and was clearing her throat while quietly googling and denying.

This is Cassidy. This is our special girl.
http://at-the-watershed.blogspot.com/2009/08/great-dog.html

Yesterday the vet confirmed that she has a large tumor growing in her chest and pressing on her bronchii. Thus the coughing/gagging.

I feel like we are stepping off the road of happiness and onto this awful little detour. We know where it will take us but not quite when we'll get there or how to navigate the way.

I am waffling between grief and denial.
Cassidy's bed is moving into our room. Dinners are being served with sides of homecooked goodies. Jeremy, the vegetarian, bought her a Wen.dy's double stack burger yesterday.

A future life without Cassidy. I can't imagine it. She's been quieter and quieter but she's still a huge presence in our lives and whenever I need to feel young or need a reminder of our best days I just put my arm around her and it all comes rushing back. Where will I find that? Where will she go? Where will our memories be?

I'm choking on the pit in my stomach. The knowing. The not knowing. It is terrible. When she is gone she will take a part of me with her.

~A