My three-year-old Golden Retriever and the sweetest, most beautiful animal that ever was--Max--was diagnosed with osteosarcoma on April 8. We were very active together, hiking six to eight miles daily, playing lots of fetch, swimming in the river nearly every day, playing with other dogs once or twice a week at daycare... We've gone from sixty to zero, just like that. He suddenly started limping during a game of fetch just about a month ago, and I took him to the vet the very next day. I'd done research online and knew bone cancer was an outside possibility, but my vet didn't think it was likely because Max is so young. He suspected a ligament tear and ordered bed rest. After a week and no improvement, I asked for x-rays so we could move forward with any orthopedic referrals and necessary ligament surgery. Wouldn't you know? Osteosarcoma. Devastating. The tumor was in his tibia in the right-rear leg.

It's almost like I knew it would be that from the moment he started limping. I can't say why, but I was filled with dread from the get-go and not entirely surprised when my vet broke the news. Because I'd read so much about it, I knew that amputation was a standard procedure, so the suggestion that it might be necessary wasn't a shock. The initial x-rays didn't reveal any metastasis to Max's lungs, but my vet still seemed to lean toward "making him comfortable" more than pursuing treatment. He seemed tacitly resigned to the worst but offered a referral to the local internist.

I opted to pursue treatment at the Washington State University vet teaching hospital--an excellent decision, it turns out--but had to wait two agonizing weeks until our appointment. There were nights I wondered if we'd even make it. Max was totally lame and not bearing any weight on his affected leg. He was in pain but still wanting to play and swim and be fairly active. I spent a lot of time at the river with him, where he swam a bit and chewed on sticks. He was on pain medication, but nights were restless, and I knew he was hurting. It was miserable. But Max never complained. He never whined or cried but took it all like a champ. Everything he did and wanted to do pointed toward life and living; he never struck me as a dead dog walking. I was resolute in pursuing whatever treatment we could but promised myself I would act humanely if it were necessary.

Finally, the day of our appointment came. A more sensitive, 3D x-ray didn't detect anything in his lungs, and a biopsy confirmed cancer, either osteosarcoma (most likely) or chondrosarcoma (remote possibility). Amputation was scheduled for the next day, pending a clear CT scan. At home, Max staggered through the door (still rummy from his biopsy sedative) and brought me the first shoe he could find. He perked up a little later and wanted to play ball. It was like he was reminding me he's still very much here and will be for a while.

I was so anxious about that CT scan and cried with relief when they told me it was clear and we could proceed with the amputation. They sent me home (it's a two-hour drive to WSU from Spokane) and said I could pick him up in two or three days. They promised to be in touch twice daily. The next morning they were happy to report that he was doing exceptionally well and even wanted to chase bunny rabbits on his post-op walk. Another call a few hours later reported that he was progressing wonderfully but refusing to eat. Knowing that Max and I are inseparable, they guessed his appetite would pick up at home and invited me to get him that afternoon. He was only in the hospital for 24 hours after surgery. I was so heartened and encouraged by this.

He ate heartily at home. His appetite has never failed him in the eight days since. I haven't left his side and even sleep on the floor with him. His last day of pain meds was yesterday, and he's a little more awake and interactive now, but still sleeping a lot. When we go outside to sit in the grass and watch the world go by, he'll take a few steps and then lie down again. It's about a two-hour undertaking to get out and then back in. I let him take all the time he needs. His incision is healing marvelously, and he appears to be in excellent condition, but he does seem a little depressed. I'm keeping a positive, upbeat demeanor, but he does seem down. I suspect that once he's given the all-clear to get back into the water we'll start to see Max climb back to vigor and activity.

I have no regret. Amputation was absolutely the right thing to do. Chemo starts Tuesday. There's no point in lamenting the crap that befalls us--we just have to deal with it as best we can, and this was the course of action that had to be taken. When I think back five weeks ago when we were trotting happily along on the trail, oblivious to what lay ahead, I feel determined to do whatever I can to get us back to a happy, active life. But today? Today, honestly, I want to go hide in the bathroom and cry for a little bit. Actually, I want to weep my heart out. I love Max so much! I don't care if he's three-legged, I just want my joyful, happy baby back. A gloom is settling on me today, and I'm trying to fight it, but it's just really hard.

I'm told the amputation/chemo treatment generally buys another year of life. I'm counting on more than that.