It’s only a dog.

My dog, Boots, has spent the best part of this entire week in hospital. She’s seemingly had every test under the sun, her stomach is shaven, her paw is raw from the daily intravenous line that’s been bandaged in place all week and she now has to be carried into the veterinary practice because she’s loathed to be poked and prodded again. After days of inconclusive tests, the word we’ve been dreading has started to circulate. Cancer. 

We still don’t know. But, what I do know is, to most other people, she’s ‘only a dog’. With the exception of close friends giving daily check-ins, my amazing colleagues who have written notes and cards, and my incomparable parents who have spent the last week ferrying her to and from appointments whilst I went to work in the city (and offering to delay their flights home to care for her), most people I’ve told have simply given me a feigned look of sympathy and moved on. Except, she’s not just a dog, she’s my entire world. 

Akin to my friends who post their babies and children all over Instagram, I too have always been a proud ‘mom’. Dog-mom. Ok, I didn’t birth her, but she has my unconditional love, her needs come before mine, I give her shelter and security, I am her comfort, I keep her alive. Where I have chosen not to have a human child of my own, I have transplanted every innate, maternal instinct to my dog - and you know what, I’m good at being a mom. Where those who talk about not ever knowing love until that of being a mother, I too have never before felt this love of being Boots’ mother. I have nothing to compare it to. 

I’ve found myself being ‘brave’ this week - and I hate myself for it. I went to work and left my parents to care for Boots. I was wearing a black tie dress at a work event whilst on the phone to the doctor when they uttered the word lymphoma. I was reading an email when the vet called me with some test results and I wasn’t listening properly. I still haven’t read the full article my own mum sent me about a potential diagnosis due to my inbox. What kind of a mother does that? A dog-mom. Because, after all, she’s just a dog. Right? 

The truth is, I’ve carried on because I’m embarrassed. Am I ridiculous for even suggesting the love for my dog is comparable to a love for a child? Are my expectations of people, my rights, my options, my beliefs just ludicrous? Is prioritizing my dog over my work acceptable? If a mother was told their child might have cancer, how would people react? They probably wouldn’t need to feign sympathy, they’d actually sympathise. 

Well, as I sit here at 10pm at night on the last train ride home after a crazy week at work to finally reunite with Boots because I thought no one would understand, I feel guilt. Mom guilt.

To Bootsy, my baby. My chestnut pie, my silly sausage, my little piglet, my hungry hippo. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t hold you when they stuck all those needles in you. I’m sorry I didn’t stroke your head when you were feeling unwell. I’m sorry I didn’t collect you at the end of every day of treatment. I’m sorry you didn’t sleep in the bed like you do on special occasions - if there was ever a ‘special’ moment, it’s now. I’m sorry I couldn’t be your mom this week. 

But know this, I AM your mom and I’ve never been more proud.