Today marks three years since Rio lost his front leg—his “ampuversary.” Back then, the vets gave him six months at best. I signed off on surgery I couldn’t afford, maxed out my credit card, and made a promise to my dog: he wasn’t done fighting.
And he wasn’t. He’s still here—missing a leg but full of life, barking at squirrels with that goofy smile, tail wagging like he’s got extras to spare.
I made him a celebratory sign this morning—big red letters, cartoon paw prints—“BUTT KICKIN’ CANCER WARRIOR.” Posted it online, and the love poured in. Comments filled with clapping emojis, hearts, and praise.
But what no one saw was me, just minutes earlier, sitting on the kitchen floor, overwhelmed by dirty dishes, unpaid bills, and an unopened email.
It was from the company I’d been chasing for months—they wanted me for a final interview. In person. Tomorrow.
The same day as Rio’s critical vet appointment—the kind where they scan for signs the cancer’s returned. I called to reschedule. No openings for two weeks.
So I emailed the recruiter. Told her I had a family emergency. Her reply was swift:
“We need someone who can prioritize the role.”
I just stared—at her email, Rio’s leash by the door, and that framed photo from after his surgery. Me, swollen-eyed but smiling, holding him like a trophy.
And for the first time in three years, I admitted what I hadn’t dared say:
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”
Then I broke.
At the vet’s, that antiseptic smell oddly comforted me. It reminded me of all our visits—miracles and maybes. Rio rested his head on my lap, eyes locked on mine like he knew how much I was struggling.
“Ms. Callahan?” Dr. Patel appeared, clipboard in hand, her expression unreadable. We entered the exam room, and she began speaking before I even sat.
“No sign of recurrence,” she said. Relief hit me like a wave.
But then came the inevitable “but.”
His liver tests showed some irregularities—maybe stress-related, maybe not. Nothing clear yet. Just something to watch.
Which meant: more monitoring. More expenses. More strength I wasn’t sure I had left.
Back home, I collapsed on the couch. Rio curled up beside me, a quiet presence anchoring me through the storm in my mind.
That night, I mindlessly scrolled through social media. Then a message popped up—from someone named Lila Harper.
“Hey! Loved your post about Rio. He’s adorable. Also noticed you mentioned work struggles—mind sharing your field? I may know someone who can help.”
I hesitated—random offers usually came with strings. But something about her felt sincere. So I responded.
“Thanks! I’m in marketing. Been applying to roles with lots of travel—tough with vet visits and emergencies.”
She replied quickly.
“No way—me too! Actually, I know someone who runs a remote-first agency. They’re hiring a content strategist and are super flexible. Want me to connect you?”
I was cautious but intrigued. Could it really be that easy?
Two weeks later, I was on a video call with Marisol Vega, the founder of BrightSpark Media. Her warmth was instant and genuine.
“We create space for our team’s personal lives,” she said. “Whatever that means for them.”
By the end of that call, I had a tentative offer—remote, flexible, and a salary that would finally help me breathe again.
When I hung up, Rio looked at me like he knew something had changed. I held him tight and let the happy tears come.
Six months later, life looked different. I worked from home, creating campaigns for global clients. Rio napped beside me as I brainstormed. If he needed a check-up, I adjusted my schedule. No panic. No guilt.
One afternoon at the park, I ran into Lila. Young, warm, kind. When I thanked her, she simply said:
“I lost my dog last year. Watching your journey with Rio reminded me what they give us. I just wanted to pay it forward.”
Her words struck something deep. That was what I’d been doing—giving everything I had to Rio because he deserved it. Because love makes us resilient.
That night, as Rio dozed beside me, I thought about all we’d endured. Yes, it was hard. Yes, I’d doubted myself. But Rio had shown me something powerful: strength isn’t about never falling—it’s about getting up again and again.
And sometimes, real strength is knowing when to ask for help.
If this touched your heart, share it. Someone out there needs the reminder: you don’t have to do it alone.
