I have a tendency to mis- and over-diagnose myself and others.

Once, finding a lump behind my ear, I deduced gravely, that I had brain cancer. Another time, though much younger, I managed to nibble my way through a peach pit. When I asked my mom what would happen if someone ate a peach pit, she (unaware that I had just been snacking on a summer peach and chewing on its pit) casually replied that they might die from cyanide poisoning. Not wanting to alarm her or to get in trouble, I refrained from telling her that I had just consumed a peach pit myself. I knew for sure that I was in for it, and didn’t want to be in trouble in my final moments. What could she do at this point, anyway? Death was about to knock on my door.

It didn’t right away. But I knew the painful convulsions could come on at any minute. I retreated to my room and sobbed as I waited for the inevitable. Once my parents understood the severity of my fear, my dad calmly assured me that I would be just fine, and over a period of days and weeks I began to believe him.

But my fear that grave illness or death was just around the corner never really went away. Over the years I have diagnosed myself (more recently with the help of Google) with HIV, breast cancer, Avian Flu, and Alien Hand Syndrome.

Which is why I have a hard time understanding how I mistook cancer for a urinary tract infection in Tabasco.

Cancer.

In my small, young, yappy, wonderful, beautiful, springy, perfect dog. Cancer.

I hate cancer.

For a few weeks now, maybe a few months, Tabasco has taken a long time to pee. He would pee a bit on this spot of grass, a bit on that. More over here and then walk a few feet and whiz a little more over there. I assumed that, like most dogs, he was merely establishing his territory. But more recently he has also taken longer to do his other business. Squatting here, moving a little, squatting there, moving a little, squatting again. Again, I assumed he was just doing normal dog things. I tapped my foot impatiently and urged him to hurry up.

The day I brought him into the office and he was peeing every five feet, I started to pay attention. I took him into the vet and we came out with an unclear diagnosis of some kind of kidney infection. We got him on a series of antibiotics and were confident that things would be just fine. He’s only seven, after all. The vet wanted a follow up, so we brought him back a week or two later. The antibiotics weren’t doing the trick, anyway, so I wanted to see what else we could do for him.

It was during that appointment that the doctor zeroed in on Tabasco’s prostate. Usually the size of a pencil eraser, it was now about the size of a golf ball. Unclear what the cause could be, but concerned, the vet switched him to another antibiotic and ordered up an ultrasound.

Yesterday, I got the chilling call. They found a malignant tumor growing on his prostate. And there is very little they, or anyone, can do.

Fucking cancer.

Removing the prostate is not really an option. It can be done at a very steep price, but won’t guarantee that we won’t see the cancer emerge someplace else. Removing the prostate would also mean Tabasco would permanently lose all control of his bowels, meaning that for the rest of his life, he would have continual accidents. Chemo treatments would be costly, fairly uncharted territory, and would severely affect his quality of life. There may be some cutting edge techniques being experimented with at the University, our vet explained, but none that are widely recommended or used for this situation. In essence, we have very little in the way of options. At this point it becomes a quality of life issue.

Fucking cancer.

There are dogs, and then there are dogs. Tabasco is neither. Owing to the fact that he is small and cute, he has always enjoyed a life that was different from the life of a normal dog. He sleeps in our bed, comes to work with me, goes on vacation with us. Before I had kids, I carried him around in a special sling, and rode him to work in the basket on my bike. He kept me company on long drives from North Carolina to Miami and he always, always has given me boundless love and affection. He nuzzles his way into my sweatshirt and curls up contentedly against my stomach in the warm space between my sweatshirt and my belly. He is a regular at staff meetings and board meetings. He is on our organization’s website. I named my blog in honor of him. He was my first puppy and my stability through moves over three states. Tabasco is not just a dog. He is something so much more. A companion, a partner, a friend.

The vet can’t give us a prognosis. Weeks? Months? Years? No one knows for sure. So as I look into the future, I am not sure what I see. I hope that we can curb his pain, give him an enjoyable life and show him the boundless love and affection that he has so generously bestowed on us over the years. I see many salty besos and many lap sessions. I see cheeseburgers and hotdogs and unfettered access to my sweatshirt.

I see love in its purest form.