Day 26 of CCAM: Sometimes the Best Medicine Has Four Paws!

During Ryan’s main treatment for the first 10 years, we had three dogs; Wally, Lucky, and Lucy (not all at the same time, though). Wally first, then we added Lucky, and when Wally passed on, we adopted Lucy. And no, our dogs couldn't cure cancer. But they had other duties to keep all of us smiling when we were around.

You know doggone (pun intended) well that they couldn't raise Ryan's blood counts, make a transfusion go faster, take away the side effects of chemotherapy, or make any of our worries disappear.

But they could make him, and all of us, laugh. That’s the blessing, amiright?

I loved it when they curled up beside him and cuddled with not only Ryan, but Olivia too. They greeted him when he came home - practically jumping out of their fur because they were so happy to see him. At different times, all of them gave both Ryan and Olivia someone to play with who didn't care one bit about cancer, hospitals, medications, school activities, soccer practice, or what kind of day we had just endured.

Perhaps, while reading this, you may be silently asking the question; Weren’t they more work? Absolutely they were! There were plently of days when taking care of a dog, or two, was one more thing on an already “impossible” list. We added Lucky after Ryan finished his second relapse protocol, but had to wait to pick him up (an extra two months) since his blood counts were so low to take him home immediately. Apparently, we weren’t thinking clearly enough to add another mouth to feed…ahem. 😊

But… they all gave back far more than they required, paws down.

Frankly, they gave Olivia and Ryan something childhood cancer kept trying to steal from them: ordinary childhood moments. Bill and I took on that extra work, and those who helped us in the house, so they could have those special memories. A huge THANK YOU to those who took care of our puppies all those years!

I do want to add this wild woo-woo story about our Wally, a Shepherd/Collie mix, who was already part of our family when Ryan was diagnosed. While I knew dogs could be wonderfully intuitive, there was one time when Wally seemed to know something before we did.

It was Memorial Day Weekend, and Ryan wasn't feeling well. Wally suddenly would not leave his side, and wanted to sleep in Ryan’s bedroom. This was not something Wally normally did. He never hung out in Ryan's bedroom. They snuggled and cuddled on the sofas. But that weekend, there he was, staying close to his buddy on the sofas, and in Ryan’s bedroom.

Bill and I noticed.

We wondered, what the heck? We started to worry a bit after Wally would not budge from the side of Ryan’s bed. I tried to move him, and so did Bill. He might have even growled a bit, just saying. He was never going to budge from his sentry position.

After this, we worried in earnest, if that is even possible.

We were hoping against hope that Wally's strange behavior didn't mean what somewhere deep inside us we feared it might mean.

Two days later, Ryan had indeed relapsed.

Uncanny? Yes! Explainable? I don't know.

But after that, nobody could convince me that Wally didn't know something was wrong with his boy.

I’m convinced that certain dogs have special powers. Think Police K-9s, or Seeing Eye Dogs.

Apparently, some dogs don't need blood counts or scan results. They don't understand chemotherapy protocols or medical terminology. But somehow, they understand us even before the test results are in.

Wally knew when his buddy needed him. And during years when childhood cancer demanded so much attention from our family, our dogs gave both Ryan and Olivia companionship, entertainment, comfort, laughter, and the kind of unconditional love only a dog can give.

Yes, they were more work during an already overwhelming time. We had to feed them, walk them, care for them, and eventually we even added one more dog to the chaos (Lucy)!

Reflecting on those dog days, I wouldn't change it for anything. They weren't simply our pets. They were part of our village. Sometimes, when words weren't enough, four paws, a wagging tail, and a dog who refused to leave his buddy's side said everything. That was their superpower.

Nearly 30 years later, I'm incredibly thankful those four paws—or, eventually, twelve— who were a part of our village, too.

The takeaway, sometimes the members of your cancer village don't need to say a single word. 🐾💛🎗️

Day 26. Going Gold for the four-legged helpers, too. 🐾💛🎗️

Terri

Ryan & Wally 1997

Ryan, Wally, Olivia 2000