Soldiering On

Zachary and Xena. My dogs. My kids.

Both are fighting cancer.

Zach has lymphoma — stage three. His hind legs are slowly failing him now. He can’t stand up on his own anymore, but when I lift him, he still walks. He still wants to.

Zena has aggressive mast cell carcinomas. Most are calm, except two on her chest that flare because of daily friction. They’re dressed, monitored, and she isn’t in pain — the doctors have been clear about that.

They are both on high-dose prednisone. This is palliative care.

Surgery is an option — but not one I’m choosing.

General anaesthesia. A long recovery. A month of inactivity.

When the prognosis is months, not years, I won’t trade living for procedures. I want their time to be time, not convalescence.

There will come a moment — as it always does — when I’ll have to make the hardest decision. Anyone who has loved animals knows this. These are never easy calls. I’ve made them before. With Zoe. And they stay with you forever.

Caretaking is not new to us.

My sister, Anand, and I cared for our mum through cancer for two years.

Then Rolf. Diana. Zoe.

Now Zach and Xena.

Caretaking isn’t heroic.

It’s repetitive. Exhausting. Quiet.

It’s lifting, cleaning, medicating, watching, waiting — and taking each day as it comes.

And this is why I cannot stay silent when I see what’s happening outside these walls.

When animals are culled. Discarded. Dehumanised.

When compassion is mocked with lazy arguments — why don’t you take them home, why do you eat meat, why bother at all.

None of those arguments survive when you are face to face with another living being’s vulnerability.

Care is not conditional.