Our vet was brutally honest about Winter's chances when we spoke that night. She said we'd be lucky to get 6 months and I said, I'll take it. Lucky-Smucky. Winter was a fighter and if he was up for it, we were with him all the way. If we only had six months, they would be a fantastic six months. We scheduled his surgery.
Winter's recovery was surprisingly smooth. We put him on a strict raw diet to inhibit the cancer and he flourished. He gained back all of the weight he'd lost, got glossy and shiny, and turned out to be a happy, sweet boy. When Winter's foster family adopted him a whole lot of people shed tears of joy.
We had our six months. And then another six. And another year. It was a beautiful run.
Last night Winter went for a check up and we heard the words we knew would come someday. And it totally sucked. Remember when I said we'd take six months? Well, screw that. Apparently I lied. Two years wasn't long enough. Ten years wouldn't have been long enough. Cancer SUCKS!
It was worth it.