Bella

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My poor dog is suffering from cancer.  She is not really my dog, but my parents', but when you live with your parents, the dogs become your dogs, just as the food becomes yours.  I felt utter despair for her tonight, stroking her and crying for her, as though she were a young child entering premature death. 

She is only seven years old.  Weimaraners don't live longer than ten years, the vet told my parents.  When she stops eating, and when she is in pain, there is no use, he said.  They'd need to put her down.  

Bella is a beautiful dog, full of bounce and beauty, and she is a fighter.  There is so much life left in her, and I can't believe this is the end of her line.  Surely there must be something that can be done for dogs with cancer, just like something can be done for humans with cancer.  

I prayed for her and anointed her with oil, praying over her in the name of Jesus, as a dear friend once did for our other dog.  Will she come right, Lord?  Will You heal her wounds and bind her up and let her run free in the bush once more?  I pray so.  It would break my father's heart to let her go.  

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