Rod Stewart Song Title Pun Here

My grandmother made chicken soup for our dog shortly after we left the vet and discovered she was in stage three of canine lymphoma.

Her rationale has always been that everyone who is sick deserves, or a step further, NEEDS, chicken soup to help them get better. She ladled it into Maggie's bowl and told her to get well soon. Cancer's an interesting battle in that it makes everyone try every possible option to cure one little part of it, especially when your family member walks on four legs. There are people who sympathize and those who consider her "just a dog" and it doesn't matter much to me either way. Trying to talk about a pet relationship is different- it's not at all like one shared with a person. Hollywood latches onto tons of dog movies and Marley & Me stays on the bestseller list, but even so, trying to show how much the cliched "unconditional love" factors into all of the stories is impossible because it is such a personal bond.

Maggie is constantly playing, drooling, barking, shedding, digging, chewing, yes- all of that- but constantly beside me. She's prone to dreaming out loud, weighing upwards of 70 pounds, nearly breaking leashes and getting a glazed-over-at-bliss look when she's poking her head out of my truck window and her cheeks are flapping in the breeze. She's excited to see and sniff everyone who enters or even gets within two miles of our house but this is only if she decides to get off one of her many beds. I've learned to share my mattress (or rather, surrender 3/4 of it) and spell out "W-A-L-K" instead of saying it. She is my family's first dog after a childhood of cats and we all became suckers from that first day when she worked her puppy charms and also her way into my mom's suburban. We turned into "those people who bring their dog everywhere'- restaurants had to have patios, there were always multiple food bowls and water bottles marked "DOG ONLY" in our cars and Maggie lounged at home, vacationed at the lakehouse and even enrolled at Texas A&M for a few semesters. She is really the third child in the family and very much so the baby, eager to please and more than ready to snuggle up next to anyone who will sit still for two seconds. She is constantly and consistently by our sides 24/7, always has been.

It's hard to elaborate on her state and well-being now. We were given the time to expect in months and her medication has prolonged the number, but every new day is different, good and bad. The cancer has manifested in her eyes so she's not really able to see things anymore and is nervous about running into objects. She takes her time on the stairs now instead of zipping up, two at a time. She is part greyhound but her strength and stamina, even on small walks, is severely reduced. She sleeps a lot more and her breathing is often labored and significantly louder. However, the funny thing is, her tail is working overtime. She hears one movement and she is there, a little slower than before, but constantly bumping your hand with her head, wanting to be petted and excitedly wiggling her whole back end. She's still sitting by her leash every morning and goes to her pillow every night after she hears the television turned off. Cancer is supposed to weaken everything but it hasn't reached her constancy; it hasn't kept her away from always poking her nose quite literally into every part of our lives.

I'm not sure what I'm trying to say with this. It's not a plea for sympathy or something I am drawing a "this is the lesson we can all learn" sort-of conclusion from. I can't end this with anything deep or meaningful or bright-sided. Sometimes I think I write things publicly in an aim to be widely read or analyzed but this is not one of those times. No matter how miniscule or ridiculous it may seem to say, the absence of that love and constancy scares me. Or simply, I'll soak up all the time we have now, but you know, I'll miss my dog a whole whole lot.