Thank you all, so much! You know, when it’s all said and done, the thing that will surely remain is genuine, profound gratitude. Between those periods of sadness and grief, I am overwhelmed with gratitude! I’m so thankful that there are sensitive, intelligent people like you all who are so effusive in your kindness and support. And I’m thankful for ALL of it—the whole crazy package.

I know I whined a little bit about some people’s incredulousness over Max’s treatment and my sorrow, but it’s completely inaccurate to say there’s a large lack of understanding out there. For each person who thinks I’m nutty there are at least a dozen who get it. In these last six months, we have encountered countless sympathetic strangers. I can’t tell you how many people who have inquired about the beautiful three-legged dog have promised to pray for us or wish us their best or offer advice. Several have taken my email address and sent me links to certain miracle cures they’ve heard of or information they have on herbal supplements or whatever.  

A few weeks ago a group of teenage boys on skateboards stopped and actually applauded Max as he bounded past them, wet from a swim and proudly carrying a big stick. A toothless meth-head chased me down once, sobbing with sympathy and wanting to know more about the “rescue” dog, like he identified with him on some level—in need of rescue himself. I’ve seen serious-looking people melt into baby talk and smiles at the sight of him. Parents have had the chance to explain disabilities to curious children and point out how great it is that “the dog with the missing leg” is still living a pretty awesome, happy life.

I’ve once again been privileged to experience my parents’ and sisters’ love and concern. Super smart people who have dedicated their lives to veterinary surgery and oncology have suffered my relentless questions with patience and care. And the fact that there are veterinary oncologists out there at all—how amazing is that? In the WSU vet teaching hospital, I’ve encountered people with birds, turtles, horses, cats, dogs, iguanas, ferrets—all anxious over their beloved pets’ health and being served by others who have studied and trained and want to help them! It’s marvelous!

In the last six months, I’ve witnessed Max stubbornly, persistently, triumphantly return to full activity, to six or seven or eight miles a day. This creature doesn’t have any quit in him. We’ve celebrated the return to old trails and familiar stomping grounds. He taught himself how to sail off the dock all over again, to outrun four-legged dogs, to sprint after a ball like he was on wheels, to wrangle himself up a marmot or give a squirrel the scare of its life.

And then there were the three years before his cancer that completely transformed me. My three- and four-inch heels are all at the back of the closet (apologies to my boyfriend for that) and have been replaced with walking shoes, snow boots, hiking sandals. There’s a ten-mile swath of land along the river that I hardly knew existed; now I know its terrain and trails intimately, and I’ve explored the lakes and conservation areas that were only places on a map before. We’ve seen deer and moose and elk. I know the eagles’ seasonal patterns, when to expect them in the fall and when they’ll leave for the summer. I can identify all the other raptors—the red-tail hawks and the osprey and the turkey vultures. There’s a blue heron gives us interlopers a good talking-to when we get too close. (I call him Ebenezer.) We tangled with a really aggressive coyote once, and we even saw a cougar flash across the trail ahead of us. (Still spooked by that!) I know the progression of wildflowers in the spring and summer; if you could time-lapse it, it would look like a fireworks show. We’ve been outside in the woods every single day, even in sub-zero temperatures, so now I know I’m made of tougher stuff than I thought. The first time Max got a tick, this girly-girl brought out a book of matches (after freaking out a little); now I can pluck ticks like a pro. (Tip: Easy Off Oven Cleaner kills a jarful of those bastards faster and deader than anything else.)    

And Max, aka Mr. Social, has forced me into conversations with my neighbors, who were once unknown to me. I’ve met so many people living right next to me I otherwise would have never known.

In fact, one of those neighbors found me choking up in the park the other morning. He gave me a hug and reminded me that death is a meaningful experience. He encouraged me to do all I can to prepare a good death for Max. And I know he’s right. This is part of life, after all. There’s no escaping it. We have to rise to the occasion. So I’m back to focusing on making these last weeks or days or whatever we have left the best they can be, and I’ll have to buck up and get things in order so that when Max’s moment comes it can be as peaceful as possible.

I sincerely, deeply thank each of you for your thoughtful, heartfelt responses here. The tips and resources are invaluable, and your kindness is simply priceless. I feel so blessed!