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OK...so you may be wondering what this headline means. Suffice to say my little dog, the amazing 11-year old diaper-dog named Max, had very invasive colon surgery last week (see him pictured here... 9 pound Yorkie).
They removed a "structure" from his colon that has turned out to be cancerous. They felt like they got good margins, but this type of cancer can metastasize, so it may have traveled to other parts of his body, maybe not. It's a day by day watch to see if he shows any signs of other types of issue. The vet says I have bought him months, maybe years.
The issue that led us (meaning me and Max) to the need for surgery was the lack of ability in the pooping department. He was straining and being ever so good about it.
The last few days have seen me playing better nursemaid then I ever have for any human being. It has found the little dog sleeping in a dog bed ON my desk...so not to be too far away; and me on POOP PATROL. What he poops, when he poops, and the consistency of his poop has become my daily life. Yesterday I was informed I would need to rub ointment on his sore bum. I didn't even flinch. That is love Internet, real love.
On a serious note...this whole episode has made me realize how NOT OK I am about death. I've been hashing that around my brain for a bit, but from a human level, not canine. I realized that the thought of losing this sweet creature has been more than I've known how to handle. Maybe it's because he's the real constant in my life these days. It sucks being alone, but at least my little diaper-dog is around for company and unconditional love.
I'm not a pray-er, not even a little bit, but even I have been trying to make deals with God on this one.
