Milo has cancer.
We love him, and he is only around 10 years old, and we were not ready for this one.
He is a happy dog at the moment, and when he can no longer be a happy dog, he will no longer be. We will take care of that. He is taking prednisone to reduce the tumors, for as long as that can help. That is all we are doing. He's too high-strung to tolerate regular hospital visits, even though dogs don't suffer from chemo like people do.
He has been immensely cheerful of late, even making a new friend for the first time in years--a puppy, yet, and Milo does not generally enjoy the company of youth. Our house is being renovated, and we've condensed our living space into two rooms, and I think Milo has been enjoying having his people in closer quarters. We're giving him lots of treats and attention.
And we're trying not to let on, which is pretty much taking every shred of self-control either of us possesses. I think we're doing a good job. Milo sleeps in bed with us, and if he's feeling secure and confident he sleeps at the foot of the bed. He edges up closer to us when he's nervous. If he's had a very bad day, he sleeps right up top by our faces.
He's been staying down at the foot of the bed lately. So he thinks life is going pretty well.
And it will, little man. There will always be good times for you until you fall asleep with our hands on your body and our whispers in your ears.
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