When It Rains, It Pours

It's been a really tough week here at the House of All Sports, All the Time. Our really good friend, Chicster, might have to move away and that makes us sad. I never get tired of her great sense of humor or her keen sympathy when Life kicks me in the teeth. I appreciate her help in negotiating the slings and arrows of everyday living. The Sports Fan will miss their conversations about football and having one more Donkey fan to taunt. Nana will miss her company and their outings to local restaurants. And the boys will miss their favorite auntie. The one who somehow thinks they are gentlemen instead of the heathen Golden Retrievers they are. That was the Sunday/Monday revelation.

On Tuesday, we found out that our younger dog, Chance, has cancer.

On Wednesday morning, very early, the Senior Sports Fan died. I can't even say how much we loved him and will miss him. He was a great guy and we're pretty sorry for ourselves that he isn't going to be an active element of our lives anymore.

Then later on Wednesday, the canine oncologist's office called and explained that there's nothing they can do about this particular cancer except make our sweet boy comfortable while it sucks the life out of his body. He's still strong, goofy, and playful and the same loving boy we've had for two years. He's outside as I type, participating in the neighborhood bark-a-thon. I don't know how I'm going to deal with it when he starts to lose his energy and starts to become a cancer dog. Isn't that awful? That's what they call dogs who have cancer. I read these websites about "caring for your cancer dog," "cooking for your cancer dog." He isn't a cancer dog. He's my dog! He's my puppy and he's sick and I can't do anything to help him except make him comfortable and not let him suffer. Isn't it bad enough that he had to go through losing a leg because his first owners didn't get him the vet care he needed? He should have had a good ten or twelve years of being spoiled rotten to look forward to. Not being called a cancer dog. Not having his body ravaged by a horrible disease. Not dying at four years old (always supposing that he makes it to his birthday in March) from a disease that we should know how to cure by now!

Sometimes what life hands you just sucks. And sometimes it sucks in spades. This is one of those times. (Don't feel the need to comment. It's really hard to think of anything to say, I know.)