My Dog Beat Cancer Today

I didn’t cry when the vet first said the word “cancer.”

I didn’t cry when he told me my dog had maybe three months left.

But I cried today—because my dog beat cancer.

Her name is Luna. A German shepherd with a heart far bigger than her paws and eyes that always looked like they understood more than most humans. She came into my life six years ago when I was fresh out of college, broke, and convinced that success meant overworking myself into anxiety. Luna was my calm. My reason to come home. My reminder to breathe.

Two months ago, I found a lump on her belly. I told myself it was nothing. A cyst. A fatty deposit. But something in her eyes had changed. The energy was there, but dimmed. She wasn’t jumping up to greet me anymore. She’d still wag her tail, but from her bed. Still smiled that open-mouthed, tongue-lolling smile—but she wasn’t chasing the birds she used to pretend she could catch.

The vet’s words cut like glass: “It’s hemangiosarcoma. Aggressive. We caught it late.”

Options? Surgery. Chemo. Uncertainty.

What was certain? Pain. Expense. Time.

And the clock was ticking.

People told me I should “let her go peacefully.” That putting her through treatment might be selfish. “She’s a dog,” one friend whispered. “They don’t understand what’s happening. She might just think she’s being punished.”

But I knew my Luna.

I knew the way she sat beside me the night my mom passed away. I knew how she pressed her head into my lap every time I had a panic attack. I knew the way she’d lick my tears, then place her paw gently on my arm as if to say, I’m here. Keep going.

So I fought.

For her. With her.

We did the surgery. We did the chemo. We did the terrifying, sleepless nights.

There were days I regretted it. When she threw up for the third time in a row and refused food. When she looked at me like she didn’t recognise me. When I felt like I had broken our bond in trying to save her.

But then there were days like the morning she walked across the yard to bark at the neighbour's cat. Or when she pawed at her leash again, demanding a walk. Or the first time in weeks she picked up her chew toy and dropped it at my feet.

Every small thing was a victory.

Until today.

Today was the big one.

We sat in the waiting room, my heart in my throat, my fingers tangled in her newly-regrown fur. She was still thinner than before. Her face had grayed more around the muzzle. But her tail was wagging.

The vet stepped into the room, holding a clipboard, a smile creeping across his face before he even said the words.

“She’s in remission.”

It felt surreal. Like I was dreaming. I kept waiting for the but.

But it might come back.

But she still has complications.

But… something.

But all he said was, “She’s a fighter. I’ve rarely seen a case this aggressive turn around like this.”

I didn’t hold it together after that. I dropped to my knees, buried my face in her fur, and cried. Not the quiet kind. The messy, snot-filled, gasping sobs that only years of fear and relief can bring out.

Luna just licked my cheek, like always.

That night, I made her a dinner of grilled chicken and rice, lit a candle, and put on the same music I always played when we used to dance around the apartment.

Yes—dance.

When she was younger, Luna loved to hop around on her back legs while I held her front paws and twirled us both in circles to whatever cheesy pop song was on. I hadn’t done that since she got sick.

But tonight, she stood up on her own, nudged my hand, and waited.

So I took her paws. And we danced.

It was clumsy. She got tired quickly. My own legs shook from the emotion of it all. But for a few glorious moments, it was just us again.

Me and my girl.

The fighter.

The miracle.

The reminder that sometimes, life gives you back what you thought you’d already lost.