Chapter 11 - ONE MORE SUMMERThe mass was cancer.
Hemangiosarcoma.
Dr. Grant explained the diagnosis carefully.
I heard maybe half of it.
Aggressive.
Internal bleeding risk.
Surgery possible.
Chemotherapy might extend time.
No guarantees.
Months, perhaps.
Not years.
I stared at Titan through the window.
“How long?”
“No one can tell you exactly.”
“Best case?”
“Cole…”
“I need numbers.”
“With surgery and treatment, some dogs get several additional months. Occasionally longer.”
“And without?”
“Potentially much less.”
I hated choices where every option ended in the same place.
We did the surgery.
Some people later asked whether I did it because I couldn’t let go.
Maybe partly.
But Titan was still Titan.
He wanted food.
Wanted walks.
Wanted Lily.
Wanted to bark at mail carriers.
He wasn’t finished living.
So we bought time.
And then we used it.
That became the rule.
No saving days for later.
Titan ate steak.
Actual steak.
Lily considered this proof that her retirement plan had finally been implemented.
We went to the beach.
Titan hated waves and attacked foam.
We visited the K9 training field.
He supervised Ranger.
We sat in Centennial Park.
Not at the snake site.
Near the playground.
Children recognized him.
Parents asked for photographs.
Titan tolerated fame as long as treats were involved.
Rachel and I became friends through all of it.
Not because of tragedy.
Because eventually you have to talk about ordinary things.
School.
Work.
Coffee.
Bills.
Lily’s obsession with astronomy.
My inability to cook anything beyond eggs.
Ordinary life became valuable.
One evening, Lily asked whether Titan knew he had cancer.
“I don’t think he knows the word.”
“But does he know he’s sick?”
“Probably knows he gets tired.”
She nodded.
“Maybe that’s better.”
Maybe it was.
Humans live inside tomorrow.
Dogs don’t.
Titan didn’t know his prognosis.
He knew dinner was at six.
He knew Lily came on Thursdays.
He knew the leash meant outside.
He knew my truck.
He knew home.
Maybe that was enough.
Three months passed.
Then four.
At five months, Dr. Grant looked surprised by his bloodwork.
“He keeps doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Outlasting my expectations.”
I smiled.
“He’s terrible at following instructions.”
“I’ve heard.”
At six months, Titan attended the first anniversary of the Centennial Park incident.
I didn’t want a ceremony.
The city created one anyway.
Lily stood beside the oak trees.
A small plaque had been installed near the path.
Not where the snake had been.
I refused that.
I didn’t want Titan’s story reduced to the place he was hurt.
The plaque read:
COURAGE IS SOMETIMES UNDERSTOOD ONLY AFTER THE DANGER HAS PASSED.
No dramatic title.
No exaggerated claim.
Just that.
Lily placed her yellow frisbee beneath it.
I looked at her.
“You keeping that there?”
“I have another one.”
“Of course.”
Titan sniffed the plaque.
Then urinated beside it.
Marcus laughed so hard he had to turn away.
“Perfect review.”
“Titan!”
Titan looked extremely pleased.
The crowd loved it.
That clip went viral too.
For once, I didn’t mind.
Two weeks later, Caleb Voss received his sentence.
I didn’t attend.
Neither did Rachel.
We had already given him enough space in our lives.
Mercer was convicted separately.
I didn’t attend that either.
Some endings don’t require an audience.
Winter came.
Titan slowed.
The cancer spread.
We adjusted medication.
Reduced walks.
Added rugs to the hardwood floor so he wouldn’t slip.
Lily decorated his food bowl for Christmas.
He received approximately forty toys from police officers.
He preferred the cardboard box.
Of course.
On Christmas Eve, snow fell.
Rare enough to feel special.
Titan stood at the back door.
I opened it.
He stepped into the yard.
Snow landed on his nose.
He sneezed.
Then started biting at flakes.
For thirty seconds, he looked two years old.
I filmed it.
Not for the internet.
For me.
In January, he stopped eating breakfast.
That frightened me.
Titan had once stolen an entire rotisserie chicken from Marcus.
Food refusal was not in his personality.
Dr. Grant adjusted medication.
He improved.
Then declined.
Improved.
Declined.
We entered the part nobody wants to discuss.
The part where love becomes measurement.
Did he eat?
Did he sleep comfortably?
Could he stand?
Was he interested in people?
Did good days still outnumber bad ones?
I kept a calendar.
Green for good.
Yellow for difficult.
Red for bad.
At first, mostly green.
Then yellow spread.
Then red.
One Thursday, Lily came over.
Titan didn’t get up.
She sat beside him.
“Hey, hero.”
His tail moved.
That was all.
She stroked his head for almost an hour.
Then she came into the kitchen.
“Is it soon?”
I knew what she meant.
“Yes.”
She cried.
So did I.
There was no reason to pretend otherwise.
“What happens?”
I explained as gently as I could.
Dr. Grant could come to the house.
Titan wouldn’t be scared.
He could be surrounded by people he knew.
He would fall asleep.
Lily wiped her face.
“Can I be there?”
Rachel and I exchanged looks.
“That’s your mom’s decision.”
Rachel knelt beside her.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he was there when I was scared.”
No one had an argument against that.
But Titan gave us one more surprise.
The next morning, he ate breakfast.
Then brought me the yellow tennis ball.
“Seriously?”
Tail wag.
“You’re impossible.”
We postponed nothing because nothing had been scheduled.
That mattered.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t choose the day because I was afraid of the next one.
Titan still had something left.
So we took him to Centennial Park.
Lily came.
Rachel.
Marcus.
Dr. Grant, off duty.
Even Ranger and his handler.
No uniforms.
No cameras.
No ceremony.
Just people.
Titan walked slowly.
We reached the open field.
Lily held the yellow frisbee.
She looked at me.
“Can I?”
I nodded.
She threw it.
Not far.
Maybe fifteen feet.
Titan watched it land.
Ranger started forward.
His handler stopped him.
Titan stood.
Slowly.
He walked toward the frisbee.
One step.
Another.
Another.
Nobody spoke.
He reached it.
Picked it up.
Turned.
And carried it back to Lily.
She dropped to her knees.
Titan placed it in her hands.
Then leaned against her.
Lily hugged him.
“You saved me.”
Titan licked her cheek.
She laughed through tears.
Then whispered:
“Now you can rest.”
Titan lay down in the grass.
Sunlight moved through the oak branches.
May you like
For once, Centennial Park didn’t feel like the place where everything went wrong.
It felt like the place where everything had somehow begun.
