One More Writer

Jack has cancer.

I knew dogs could get cancer, but why mine?

It started with a loss of appetite. He stopped eating his food -- although he still had no problem begging for scraps. Two weeks ago we noticed some lumps hanging off his neck. Adams apple? We weren't sure, so we took him in to the vet. The vet took a biopsy and prepared us for the worst.

Sure enough, today I got the call. Lymphoma. He has 1 to 6 months to live, maybe a little longer with steroids or perhaps even a year or more with chemotherapy.

He went hiking with me and Val over the weekend. We trekked to a spot below Broken Top in the Sisters Wilderness and met up with Noah, Ryan, Jenni and Mary on Saturday morning, after hiking for hours in the dark on Friday night and failing to find anything but rain, rain and more rain. Jack took a backpack too, proudly carrying his blue dog pack 15 miles.

He was exhausted after the hike and Val and I wondered if we overdid it. He didn't even get up this morning when Val left for work. But when I got home, Jack was at the door, tail a-wagging.

I'm told that dogs hide illness. As pack animals, they want to keep their place, and feel needed. And sure enough, when I got home today, Jack acted like a puppy, eager to see what I might have brought home for him, eager to run in the front yard, do somersaults on the lawn and act like an idiot.

I'm going to miss him.