A Man s Best Friend

Middle-aged men are not supposed to cry, but I did. The phone call only confirmed what I already knew, that the lumps I felt would be diagnosed as lymphoma. I hung up the phone and immediately buried my head in my arms. I had not cried like that since I was a little boy.

The cancer didn't strike me, or my partner, or any of our immediate relatives. It struck my friend, my best friend, a ten-year-old Welsh Corgi named Mr. Fred.

I'd discovered the lumps beneath his front legs, all but hidden beneath his thick coat of tawny fur, after he'd strolled into our bedroom and lay down beside the bed, waiting as he usually did for the first tummy rub of the day.

It may seem presumptuous of me to talk about Mr. Fred's cancer as if it were on a par with, say, a child's, a parent's, or a sibling's, but just as there are many types of cancer so are there many types of families. Not having any children, our dog is every bit a child to us, his doting parents.

Our two-legged friends know we are taken with Mr. Fred, that he travels with us when he can, and misses us when he can't. We miss him, too, so we don't travel much.

They also know Mr. Fred is a very well cared-for dog. He visits the vet regularly, gets all his shots, and takes his various medicines and supplements according to a strict schedule. Corgis are prone to disorders such as epilepsy, and Mr. Fred is no exception. He had one seizure when he was four, and he's been on Phenobarbital ever since. For the last six years his health has been excellent--until I found those lumps.

We took him to his regular vet right away, and within days she told us that he had lymphoma, but the prognosis was good because there were many treatment options, if we chose to pursue them. A specialist in canine oncology outlined a six-month program of oral and intravenous chemotherapy that would necessitate weekly drives across town.

The oncologist told us how much it would cost, but for my partner and I cost was not an issue that would prevent Mr. Fred from receiving treatment. If need be, we would have taken out another mortgage on the house. Thankfully, that wasn't needed, but the expense was a hardship we hadn't planned for.

For the most part, everyone understood. People who know us know we love our dog and would do just about anything to give him the happy and healthy life he deserves.

But one person didn't get it. She could not see the situation from our point of view, no matter how hard she tried, and we're not sure she even did. To her, Mr. Fred was a pet, plain and simple, and as such, as expendable as a stuffed toy, or perhaps a yard ornament.

"Why waste all that money? How could you?" Her voice was as upsetting as the original conversation with the vet. "There are so many more important ways to spend money! Why not give it to charity instead?"

Okay, charity is good, no question about that. But why would supporting Mr. Fred in his time of need preclude our usual charitable donations? We give generously to the causes of our choice. We would like to continue to do so, with Mr. Fred at our feet.

I wish we could have easily brushed off this person's insensitive comments, but it was harder than that. Not everyone has our view of animals, or knows how we feel about our dog, and that's okay. We wouldn't force anyone to share our way of thinking, and get along just fine with those who don't.

But this was different. She was family, and fairly close. She knew of our relationship with Mr. Fred. Her comments cut like a knife and hurt us both at a time when we needed to be as strong as we possibly could be, physically and emotionally.

I have to admit, I cried a little more, in secret. Dealing with cancer does that to you.
And, Mr. Fred could tell. Dogs behave in unique ways, especially when someone they know is hurting. And I was hurting. Maybe not as much as Mr. Fred, but enough that he knew. After that last phone call, he got up from his favorite corner where he'd been sleeping off a dose of Adriamycin and slowly walked across the room, his head bowed, eyes up, asking me what was wrong.

I couldn't answer, of course, because he's just a dog and they don't understand the things you want to tell them, about how you know he's scared when he goes to the oncologist every week, and you know the drugs make him feel bad, and you're sorry you're doing this to him but he'll feel so much better very soon.

You want to tell him these things and you try, but words fail, and you wish there was another way. Then his nose is against your knee and his warm little tongue is kissing your toes, and those big brown eyes are looking up at you from his furry face.

And you cry some more, but this time it's okay, because your arms are wrapped around him and your face is pressed against his muzzle and your hands instinctively scratch that one spot right behind his ear and he offers an appreciative little "woof" and wags his butt and you know that words don't matter because love is what it's all about.

And cancer does not weaken love one little bit.