Jeffrey Gentry

The News Journal

Tuesday morning I took Toby, our Jack Russell terrier, to the vet for an ultrasound on his abdomen.

Our regular vet said she believed there was fluid in his little piggy stomach and she wanted to get a better look at what was going on inside.

We had noticed recently he was having trouble jumping up on beds and wasn't eating like normal – except for cheese. He can hear the deli drawer and a cheese wrapper crinkling all the way from the back upstairs bathroom.

Toby likes going to the vet about as much as I like going to the doctor. And I didn't feel very good about taking him there. But not because I knew he didn't like it. Because I knew I was probably going to hear something I didn't want to.

And I did.

Cancer. The same thing my mom has battled, my mother-in-law has battled and the same thing that took my Mammy and Papa.

The vet told me she saw some pretty large masses and suspected cancer of the lower intestine. The lymph nodes were enlarged and there was fluid. She talked about surgery and possibly chemo.

Toby sat there stoically, listening and watching the treat I held tightly in my hand.

The vet said the animal hospital would be sending the results to our regular vet so we could determine the best treatment – or other steps to take – going forward.

I stared at Toby as she talked. The words after cancer pretty much a blur.

She said she was sorry and knew it wasn't the news we would want to hear. She asked if I had any questions.

I mumbled something like maybe later and that we needed to talk to our regular vet. Toby stood up, shook some of the loose hair off where they shaved his piggy belly to do the ultrasound, and looked up at me.

He'd heard enough.

We opened the door and out he trotted, marking a light pole in the parking lot on the way to the truck.

"Toby is here," that mark said. "Toby is here."

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