Borrowed Time

Our Leonberger has cancer

We are waiting second by second 
for the call from the surgeon—
not dramatically, not with sirens—
just quietly,
as if the universe might whisper
the answer into the space between heartbeats.
.
Day before yesterday,
he had a blood test before routine dental work—
we joked about it,
how undramatic our old boy had been,
never sick, never fussy,
just a giant couch of devotion.
.
Then yesterday, the vet called
with a voice that changed everything.
.
Blood loss.
Get him to the emergency clinic.
Now.
.
We sat in stunned silence—
the kind where your ears ring
like the universe has tilted
and you can’t quite find the floor.
.
Suddenly we were in an upside-down world,
where normal hours turned to fog,
and hope became a feather you couldn’t quite grasp.
.
Shelby, our miracle runt,
our gentle lion with paws like pillows
and eyes like weathered amber,
was no longer safe
inside the body we thought we had years left to love.
.
Now we are measuring time
not in months or milestones
but in tail wags,
in breaths,
in how long his head rests on Crystal’s lap
before sleep takes him under.
.
The surgery was not successful.
The cancer had rewritten every page
before we even saw the story.
.
Still, we hope—
hope that the call will come
and say he can come home tomorrow,
back to the corner of the kitchen
where he waits for toast,
back to the rug where sunlight touches his fur
like a benediction.
.
Our hearts are sore from aching,
bruised in places we didn’t know existed,
but still
they beat with hope—
that Time, fickle god that it is,
might grant us one more ordinary afternoon.
.
Just one more.
.
And if that’s too much,
then we will take one hour.
Or a minute.
We are not greedy.
Just in love.

Please keep us in your prayers. Always forward, Gloria