I sat there as a single, angry tear burned down my cheek; it would be the first of many. Why did they lie to me? She’ll be fine they said. It’s really nothing to be worried about, they said.
She just needs to exercise more, and maybe a diet would help. And in answer to my biggest question they said, No, no the lumps aren’t cancer, just what we call fat sacks.

Two weeks later, after a nap she tried to stand. She collapsed. I rushed to her side. Her breathing was labored, and she was trying to vomit. I helped her to a more comfortable place, than I ran to the phone and called the doctor. He said he’d meet me at the hospital in 15 minutes.

With help from a neighbor we carried her in. The doctor examined her, and shook his head. He said he was sorry. He said there was nothing he could do. He asked if I wanted her cremated. I nodded.

He placed a form in front of me to sign. I stabbed the paper with the plastic pen and broke it. The pen spelt ink-blood onto the page. My Golden Retriever was dead.