I was more surprised than anyone to find myself sitting in the office of a canine oncologist today. I do not refer to Buddy as my “furbaby,” for he is my dog. I will never slap a “Who rescued who?” paw magnet to the back of my car, if for no other reason than the grammatical lapse makes me crazy. And while I confess that I identify myself as “mom” to Buddy, Chris is undeniably “Chris,” mom’s husband and (I suppose) Buddy’s stepfather.

But Chris and I carted Buddy to the oncologist today at the urging of the vet, who told me that I would regret it if I did not have all of the choices laid in front of me before I made any decisions. I almost canceled the appointment about a million times, but I didn’t. Instead, I cried in the shower this morning for good measure and applied waterproof mascara just in case.

The hardest part of lugging Buddy this morning involved the lack of breakfast, which he had been ordered to skip. We had several frantic misunderstandings about this lapse, which is to say that he managed to be underfoot with every step I took, and as I ate my cereal, I feared that he would shank me. On the bright side, he got a car ride, and as we rode over, I watched him put snout to the wind, eyes closed, sun on his face.

Three and one-half hours later and $883.71 poorer, we walked out with this news.

Buddy indeed has cancer.

It has not metastasized.

It is limited to a small tumor.

That small tumor can be surgically removed.

The wanton consumption of bacon will have to cease.

Buddy took it all in stride, falling asleep during the abdominal ultrasound and flirting with the nurses. Chris took it all in stride, for he is Chris. I did not play it cool, choosing instead to jump up and give the slightly startled oncologist a high five. And when I texted my father with the good news, he replied, “That deserves a treat!”

I looked at Buddy. I thought of his cheerfulness and kindness, my worry and my stress. I felt relief at a lesson learned without disastrous consequences. I imagined this Christmas, and maybe even next, with Buddy firmly under the tree. I heard his snoring and felt his fur and sensed the undeniable weight of a large dog leaning against me.

That deserves a treat, indeed. So I took my dad’s advice and had fried chicken for lunch.

ALC

P.S. — In case you were worried, Buddy came out just fine, too. His return to dietary austerity starts tomorrow. And thank you all so much for the many good thoughts. He is a very good dog.