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Today, I decided to contribute $100 to a dog’s cancer treatment. The dog, Cuki, has lymphoma. She looks older in her photos, and I know that graying face; Howard has one and it scares me to death. Other than that, I could only gather that the Cuki and her human have been thick, thick as thieves, for a long time. I don’t know the owner at all.

I also don’t know if I would have made the same decision: if Howard were to have lymphoma, would I put him through the trials of treatment? I say this not as someone who doesn’t believe a dog can withstand it. I say it as someone who’s had cancer herself. Treatment done. Everything’s fine. But I don’t know if I can withstand it. I skipped a mammogram today because it feels like yesterday. It’s been a year-and-a-half.

So a dual sorrow deep as oceans is what I feel for this dog and her human who I don’t know at all. I don’t know how cancer changes a dog. I don’t know if it rewires neural pathways. I’m pretty sure radiation coming in close to the face does. I don’t know if this dog will be scared and feel alone or maybe even be alone sometimes. Maybe cancer is a hard word to hear, one that causes humans to run from it even if it’s in another body. It’s not a deadly disease. It’s a lonely disease.

However ‘Cuki’ is pronounced, I’m glad I gave. I’ll never be around the dog, but I don’t need to be. That Cuki has a human who cares so deeply for her is all I need to know about her chances. I hope I can be that good of a human one day.

To give toward Cuki’s lymphoma treatment, and her human who I don’t know, just check out her GoFundMe page here.