The Canine Caregiver

Day Eleven & Twelve: The Days In Between

Apollo’s Journey — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 17:30:34 GMT

Apollo’s Journey

Day Eleven & Twelve: The Days In Between

This weekend wasn’t filled with dramatic breakthroughs.

It wasn’t filled with devastating setbacks either.

It was simply…

Life.

Life as a caregiver.

Saturday and Sunday became two days of learning how to live inside our new normal.

Some meals Apollo wanted.

Some meals he turned away from.

Some medications went smoothly.

Others had to wait because he simply hadn’t eaten enough.

Some moments he looked almost like himself.

Other moments reminded me just how much his body is still fighting.

One day he asked to go on a stroll.

Another day he decided resting was enough.

I’ve stopped trying to make every day look the same.

I’m learning to let Apollo decide what each day holds.

His body is leading this journey now.

My job is simply to listen.

One thing I continue to notice is how differently he experiences the world.

He pauses longer.

He breathes in the air more deeply.

He watches the trees.

He listens.

He leans into quiet.

Sometimes I wonder if illness teaches us to notice the things we’ve always been too busy to appreciate.

I know it’s teaching me.

This weekend also reminded me that life doesn’t pause simply because someone you love is sick.

I met a few friends for brunch to celebrate my birthday.

They wanted to celebrate me.

I’m thankful they did.

We laughed.

Shared a meal.

Spent time together.

For a little while, life felt familiar.

But if I’m honest…

My heart never really left home.

It stayed with Apollo.

Wondering if he was resting.

Wondering what the next few hours would bring.

That’s something I don’t think people understand until they become caregivers.

You can physically leave the house.

But your heart rarely goes with you.

It stays wherever the one you love happens to be.

This weekend wasn’t about finding answers.

It was about learning patience.

Learning flexibility.

Learning that progress isn’t always measured by perfect lab work or full bowls of food.

Sometimes progress is simply another quiet morning together.

Another evening sitting outside listening to nature.

Another day where love continued to outweigh fear.

Today, we begin another week.

More appointments.

Day Ten: Waiting for Answers

Apollo’s Journey — Sat, 01 Aug 2026 02:54:39 GMT

Apollo’s Journey

This morning started the way so many mornings have lately.

I woke up hoping today would be different.

Hoping Apollo would wake up hungry.

Hoping yesterday’s progress would continue.

It didn’t.

Apollo hasn’t eaten anything today.

No interest.

No excitement when I opened the refrigerator.

No curiosity when I prepared food.

Nothing.

Instead, he slowly made his way downstairs.

Back to the lower level.

Back to the corners.

Back to isolating himself.

This is how he tells me he doesn’t feel well.

He doesn’t have words.

He has behavior.

And today, his behavior broke my heart all over again.

I can only imagine how weak he must feel.

His body needs calories.

His body needs fuel to fight.

Yet every meal feels like another mountain neither of us knows how to climb.

Today was supposed to be another step forward.

Our appointment was scheduled for 2:30 p.m.

An hour had been set aside specifically because of everything that’s been happening.

I packed the car.

Loaded Apollo.

Loaded Major, too.

Major has developed something on his foot that concerns me. It resembles a growth, and it’s getting larger. I couldn’t ignore it.

So today, both of my boys needed me.

Major, our baby.

Our wild child.

True to his German Shepherd nature, he spent the drive announcing every person, every car, and every movement outside the windows.

Apollo…

He sat quietly.

The entire drive.

His back facing me.

Silent.

You could feel it.

The anxiety.

The exhaustion.

The uncertainty.

When we arrived, I checked in.

Then we waited.

2:30 came.

Then 2:45.

Then 3:00.

Now it’s after 3:00 p.m.

“We’ll let you know when a room is available.”

I have to admit…

That frustrated me.

Not because I expect perfection.

Because this wasn’t a last-minute walk-in.

This appointment was scheduled.

An hour had supposedly been reserved.

Every extra minute sitting in a waiting room matters when your dog already feels miserable.

Every minute adds stress to a dog who is already anxious.

Every minute matters to a caregiver who’s trying to hold herself together.

Then came the questions.

The same questions.

Again.

More waiting.

More explaining.

Meanwhile, Major is barking at everything moving outside.

Apollo is shutting down.

I’m sitting here trying to hold it all together while wondering if anyone truly understands how heavy this has become.

I even laughed to myself for a moment.

I had just cleaned my car.

Five minutes later…

You’d never know it.

Dog hair.

Nose prints.

Mud.

Barking.

Medical supplies.

This is my life now.

And honestly…

I wouldn’t trade the dogs.

But I’d give anything to trade this uncertainty.

I’m tired.

I’ve been up all night.

I worked this morning.

Rushed home hoping Apollo would eat.

He didn’t.

Now I’m here.

And all I want…

Are answers.

Not another week of waiting.

Not another test that leads to another test.

Not another “let’s see.”

Today I’m being told one option takes a week to come back.

So now we’re running additional tests because I can’t afford to spend another week wondering.

By the end of today, we’ll have run four different tests.

That’s why I keep coming back every few days.

Not because I enjoy spending money I don’t have.

Because I’m trying to understand what my dog is telling me before it’s too late.

I don’t expect certainty.

Medicine doesn’t work that way.

But I do expect a plan.

A direction.

Something that helps me help him.

Because leaving every appointment with more questions than answers…

That’s becoming harder than I know how to explain.

Right now, it’s just after three o’clock.

I’m sitting in a veterinary parking lot.

Apollo is waiting.

Major is barking.

I’m exhausted.

And for the first time since this journey began…

I’m asking myself a question I never wanted to ask.

If this is what caregiving is going to look like every day…

How do people do this?

Nearly two hours later, we finally were able to head home.

Both of my boys were exhausted.

Honestly…

So was I.

Major’s appointment brought another unexpected turn.

The lump on his foot concerns everyone enough that he’s now scheduled for surgery next Wednesday.

Another procedure.

Another pathology report.

Another thousand of dollars bill.

Another member of my family needing me.

I looked over at both of them in the car and just sighed.

This wasn’t how I imagined our summer.

Apollo had a tremendous amount of blood drawn today.

Some of the results should come back quickly.

His BUN.

His creatinine.

His phosphorus.

The remaining bloodwork has been sent out for more specialized testing.

More waiting.

More hoping.

Before I left, I told the team something I don’t normally

“I really don’t have it in me today to keep calling.”

I’ve spent too many days chasing results that should already be available.

I understand people get busy.

I understand veterinary medicine is overwhelmed.

I truly do.

Today, though, it felt like everyone was carrying too much.

The laboratory was behind.

People were rushing.

At one point, there was confusion about which dog needed which testing.

Someone referenced the wrong patient.

Another corrected them.

As a caregiver…

That makes your heart stop.

Not because you believe someone doesn’t care.

Because when you’re already terrified, even small moments of confusion feel enormous.

I don’t think anyone’s heart was in the wrong place today.

I think everyone is overwhelmed.

And overwhelmed people sometimes make mistakes.

That reality hurts everyone.

Before I left, one of the veterinarians said something that stayed with me the entire drive home.

She said,

“We’re trying to find a miracle for you. We’re just worried we won’t be able to give you the answers you want to hear.”

I stopped her.

As gently as I could.

I said,

“No.”

“This isn’t about hearing what I want to hear.”

“This is about making sure we’re hearing what Apollo’s body is telling us.”

I don’t need miracles.

I need careful medicine.

I need thoughtful medicine.

I need a team willing to question assumptions just as much as I am.

Apollo is still less than two weeks removed from one of the most significant medical events his body has ever experienced.

I’m asking that every possibility be explored before anyone tells me this is simply who he is now.

Because this journey has never been about denying reality.

If the day comes when Apollo tells me he’s tired…

I will hear him.

I have always promised myself that my love for him would never outweigh his quality of life.

Never.

He has had an extraordinary life.

One filled with adventure.

Freedom.

Purpose.

Love.

If our time together is shorter than I hoped, I will be forever grateful that I got to be his guardian.

But until we know…

Until we’ve done the work…

Until we’ve connected the dots…

I will continue to advocate.

And if someone cannot help us…

I simply need them to tell me.

Because then I’ll find the people who can.

That isn’t being difficult.

That’s being Apollo’s voice.

We returned home and both of the boys were depleted. We took some time to decompress.

Tonight, Apollo finally decided to eat.

Not much.

Just enough to remind me that hope sometimes comes in very small portions.

His first meal wasn’t until almost five o’clock this evening.

Then another at 6:30PM.

Then another at 10:15PM.

No medications today because there simply wasn’t enough food in his stomach.

Tomorrow we’ll begin again.

That’s what caregivers do.

We begin again.

I know today was incredibly frustrating.

But I also don’t want one thing to get lost.

After everything that happened…

Apollo ate three times tonight.

Given how today began with him refusing food that’s a meaningful win, even if it’s a small one. I think those small victories deserve to be recorded just as carefully as the hard days.

Apollo Today

July 31st, 2026

🐾 Age: 6 years old (7 on August 5)

💙 Today’s Mood
Tired, withdrawn, and carrying the weight of another long day. Even so, Apollo continued to trust me completely through every appointment, every poke, every car ride, and every uncertainty.

🏡 Today’s Victory
After refusing food all day, Apollo finally ate three small meals this evening. They weren’t large, but they were enough to remind me that sometimes the biggest victories come one bite at a time.

💭 Today’s Reflection
Hope doesn’t always look like dramatic improvement. Sometimes hope is simply choosing to begin again tomorrow.

Caregiver Notes

🩺 Veterinary Care

Follow-up appointment completed today.
Multiple additional laboratory tests submitted and are pending.
Immediate kidney values returned.
Major was also examined today and is scheduled for surgery next Wednesday to remove the growing mass on his foot and submit it for pathology.
After the clinic closed, I had to call again for Apollo’s results. I was eventually told their analyzer malfunctioned and his blood had to be rerun, adding another layer of uncertainty to an already exhausting day.

📊 Lab Snapshot

⚖️ Weight: 121.6 lbs (gained)
🧪 BUN: 43.2 from 74.1
🧪 Creatinine: 2.2 increased from 2.1
🧪 Phosphorus: 3.5 (normal)
😞 Lactate increased drastically 7.3
📋 Additional diagnostics pending.

🍽️ Nutrition

Refused food throughout most of the day.
First meal around 5:00 PM.
Additional meals around 6:30 PM and 10:15 PM.
Fresh beef was the first thing that truly interested him today.
Small, frequent meals continue to be our approach.

💊 Medications

Medications were held earlier because Apollo wasn’t eating enough.
Plan to resume as tolerated with meals.
Continuing subcutaneous fluids.

❤️ Caregiver Reflection
Today reminded me that caregivers often spend as much time advocating as they do actually caregiving. I found myself chasing lab results after hours, questioning conflicting information, and pushing for clarity because Apollo deserves that. This journey has never been about hearing what I want to hear. It’s about finding the truth and making sure every decision is based on it.

Today was heavy.

But you ate.

You trusted me.

And tonight, that’s enough.

Tomorrow we’ll wake up, take a deep breath, and begin again.

I love you, Apollo. ❤️

Day Nine: Connecting the Dots

Apollo’s Journey — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 02:45:07 GMT

Apollo’s Journey

Yesterday ended with me searching for nourishment.

Not for me.

For Apollo.

At the time, I had no idea what the rest of the day would hold.

I certainly didn’t know it would become one of the most affirming days I’ve experienced since this journey began.

More than twenty-four hours had passed since I emailed Apollo’s veterinary team.

I refreshed my inbox more times than I care to admit.

Nothing.

Eventually, I stopped waiting and picked up the phone.

The receptionist immediately apologized.

Somehow my message hadn’t been returned.

The doctor had reviewed everything and recommended starting Apollo on Entyce, an appetite stimulant, along with another anti-nausea medication.

I was relieved we finally had another step to try.

Then came another reminder of how overwhelming chronic illness can be.

Both medications required paper prescriptions.

Another drive.

Another stop.

Another expense.

When I asked how long the Entyce would last for a dog Apollo’s size, the answer caught me off guard.

About four days.

For nearly two hundred dollars.

I remember sitting there thinking…

How do families do this?

Not just financially.

Emotionally.

How do people continue making these decisions day after day while trying to hold jobs, care for families, sleep, eat, and somehow still be fully present for the dog they love?

As I pulled into one of the numbered parking spaces at the veterinary hospital and called to let them know I had arrived, I looked around.

Car after car.

Window after window.

Guardian after guardian.

Some sat staring straight ahead.

Some looked anxious.

Some looked exhausted.

Some looked completely heartbroken.

I realized something while I waited.

Every single one of us had come for a different reason.

But somehow…

We all looked the same.

You can recognize another caregiver without ever exchanging a single word.

Then something unexpected happened.

The guardian parked beside me struck up a conversation.

We talked about our dogs.

About how overwhelming it all can feel.

Then she said something I’ll never forget.

“We need someone to help us connect the dots.”

I smiled.

Because without realizing it, she had just described the very thing that’s been growing in my heart throughout this journey.

We exchanged phone numbers.

As we continued talking, I learned she’s a software engineer.

I shared a little about the vision I’ve been quietly building…

The Canine Care Navigator™.

Not to replace veterinarians.

Not to practice medicine.

But to help guardians organize information, understand recommendations, ask better questions, and connect the dots between appointments.

This morning, she sent me a message.

She told me she believed in what I was trying to build.

She didn’t know it…

But that may have been one of the greatest birthday gifts I received.

Sometimes life has a beautiful way of reminding you that you’re walking exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When I got home, I gave Apollo his first dose of Entyce.

To say he was confused would be an understatement.

He looked absolutely offended that I had squirted something into his mouth.

He wasn’t interested in swallowing it on his own, so I had to help him.

I laughed.

I apologized.

Then we waited.

About an hour later…

Something changed.

Apollo walked toward the kitchen.

He looked at me.

Then he looked at his food.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited to watch a dog become hungry.

If I still had my old cheerleading uniform and pom-poms, I probably would’ve been doing cartwheels through the house.

We started exactly the way we’ve approached this entire journey.

Slowly.

One bite.

Then another.

He wasn’t ready to devour a full meal.

But he ate.

Then he ate a little more.

Every bite felt like a victory.

That night, I woke up around 1 AM and realized Apollo wasn’t lying beside me.

For just a second…

My heart raced.

I got up to look for him.

This time…

He wasn’t in the basement.

He wasn’t hiding in the darkness.

Instead, I found him sitting quietly in the middle of the kitchen.

Looking toward where his bowl usually sits.

Looking toward me.

As if he were saying…

“More, please.”

I smiled.

I sat down right there on the kitchen floor.

One bite became another.

Then another.

Apollo has never been a dog who overeats.

Even before any of this, when he’d had enough, he’d simply walk away.

Over the years, I’ve learned something about him.

When he stays seated beside his bowl…

He’s communicating.

He’s telling me,

“I’m not finished yet.”

So I stayed there with him.

Hand-feeding him in the middle of the kitchen at one o’clock in the morning.

And honestly…

There was nowhere else I’d rather have been.

After he finished eating, we stepped outside together onto the back deck.

We sat quietly in the darkness, listening to the sounds of nature.

No words.

No expectations.

Just gratitude.

When he was ready…

We went back to bed.

A short while later, at 1:49 a.m., another surprise arrived.

An email from my primary veterinarian.

For years, she’s been the doctor I trusted most.

Lately, because appointments are scheduled with the first available veterinarian, we hadn’t seen much of one another.

I had specifically asked to have her involved again.

Her email didn’t erase everything that had happened.

But it did something equally important.

It acknowledged it.

There was accountability.

There was understanding.

There was empathy.

Reading those words didn’t magically fix Apollo.

But it reminded me how powerful it is when someone is willing to say,

“I’m sorry.”

As I sat there reading her email, another thought kept returning to me.

What if I hadn’t known to ask more questions?

What if I had simply accepted every answer without understanding it?

What if I didn’t have years of experience helping dogs and their families navigate complex situations?

Where would we be right now?

Then I thought about every guardian sitting in those parking spaces.

The ones who don’t know what questions to ask.

The ones trying to understand medical terminology while their hearts are breaking.

The ones simply wanting someone to help them make sense of it all.

That is why I can’t let go of The Canine Care Navigator™.

Not because I want to build another business.

Because I believe guardians deserve support.

Veterinarians deserve support.

And somewhere between those two…

There needs to be someone helping connect the dots.

I did go to my birthday dinner.

I almost canceled.

But I’m glad I didn’t.

There was good food.

Good conversation.

Laughter.

My son surprised me with a pair of shoes he’d remembered me admiring.

He also bought me a new wallet because, according to him, I’d carried the same worn one for years.

Everyone laughed.

Including me.

For a little while…

Life felt wonderfully ordinary.

Then I came home.

Right where my heart wanted to be.

With Apollo.

As I sit here writing tonight, it’s 10:35 p.m.

For the first time in what feels like a long time, I’m ending the day with a little more hope than I started it with.

Today was a better eating day.

This morning, I made nearly ten pounds of chicken in the crockpot so nourishing food would always be ready whenever Apollo told me he was hungry.

I turned some of it into a simple stew with butternut squash, filtered water, and regenerative rice.

Instead of focusing on one large meal, we focused on small victories.

Apollo ate four small meals today.

We were also able to start his new anti-nausea medication.

As the day went on, I noticed something else.

He had a little more energy.

Not the boundless energy of a healthy six-year-old Akita.

Just enough to remind me that he’s still fighting.

And that was enough for today.

Caregiving has taught me to stop measuring success in giant leaps.

Sometimes success is four small meals.

Sometimes it’s one tail wag.

Sometimes it’s a little more energy.

Sometimes it’s simply making it through another day together.

Tonight, we’re heading to bed early.

My hope is that we’ll both get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before Apollo wakes me again.

If he does…

We’ll get up.

We’ll feed him if he’s hungry.

We’ll sit together if he needs company.

We’ll take it one moment at a time.

Because that’s what love looks like right now.

Apollo Today

🐾 Age: 6 years old (7 on August 5)

💙 Today’s Mood
Brighter, more interested in food, and showing little glimpses of the boy I’ve been missing.

🏡 Today’s Victory
Apollo started Entyce and his additional anti-nausea medication. He ate four small meals, asked for more food overnight, enjoyed homemade chicken stew with butternut squash and regenerative rice, and had a little more energy throughout the day. Every bite felt like a victory worth celebrating.

💭 Today’s Reflection
Today reminded me that healing doesn’t always happen all at once. Sometimes it begins with one bite. Then another. Sometimes hope looks like sitting on a kitchen floor at one in the morning, hand-feeding your best friend because he’s finally asking for more.

Caregiver Notes

Today gave me something I haven’t felt in several days…

Hope.

Not certainty.

Not answers.

Just hope.

I’m deeply grateful for the accountability shown by my primary veterinarian, for the unexpected encouragement from a fellow guardian who believes in The Canine Care Navigator™, and for every single person who has walked beside us through this journey.

Most of all, I’m grateful for four small meals, a little more energy, and another day with Apollo.

Tomorrow morning at 9:30 a.m., we’ll be back at it again.

Repeat lab work.

Day Eight: Me Too, Please

Apollo’s Journey — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 16:50:11 GMT

Apollo’s Journey

Day Eight: Me Too, Please (Part Two)

Yesterday, I shared a little about our morning together.

I told you today was my birthday.

I told you Apollo had managed a few bites of breakfast before settling into what we’ve come to call his “breakfast nap.”

I promised I’d come back.

As promised… here I am.

One of the greatest gifts I received today didn’t come wrapped in paper.

It came standing quietly beside the door.

This morning, I was harnessing everyone to head out through the land when Apollo looked at me with those familiar eyes that have always been able to say so much without making a sound.

“Me too, please.”

Of course.

So Apollo, Major, Raina, and I headed outside together.

Athena decided today was for sleeping in.

She stayed curled up in bed, completely content, waiting for us to come home.

That has always been Athena.

Comfortable making her own decisions, never feeling pressured to do what everyone else is doing.

I love that about her.

One day, I’m sure you’ll get to know her a little better through these pages.

Our stroll wasn’t long.

It wasn’t supposed to be.

It wasn’t about exercise.

It was about giving Apollo another piece of normal.

The opportunity to feel the earth beneath his feet.

To stop and smell the morning breeze.

To quietly exist with the family that loves him.

What amazed me most wasn’t Apollo.

It was watching Major and Raina.

They adjusted to him without anyone asking.

They slowed their pace.

They checked on him.

They waited when he wanted to stop.

They never became impatient.

They never asked him to hurry.

They simply accepted who he was today instead of expecting him to be who he was yesterday.

I wish humans could be this way.

When someone is hurting…

Slow down.

Walk beside them.

Listen more than you speak.

Meet them where they are.

Dogs seem to understand this instinctively.

Raina has always carried a mothering spirit.

For many years, we’ve welcomed foster dogs into our home, and time after time I’ve watched her quietly help them settle into our family.

Now I see that same tenderness directed toward Apollo.

She isn’t trying to fix him.

She isn’t asking him to be stronger.

She’s simply with him.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s the greatest gift we can ever give someone.

Our presence.

As I watched them together today, tears filled my eyes.

Not because the walk was sad.

Because I caught myself wondering…

How many more strolls like this will we have?

The honest answer is…

I don’t know.

Maybe many.

Maybe fewer than I want.

None of us are promised tomorrow.

Apollo’s illness has simply made me more aware of that truth.

So today I wasn’t thinking about next month.

I was memorizing this morning.

The way Apollo stopped to smell the air.

The way Major stayed close.

The way Raina adjusted her pace.

The quiet stillness of the woods.

The sound of paws moving together.

Every second felt worth remembering.

My dogs have taught me more than I could ever put into words.

They’ve shaped me professionally.

They’ve shaped me personally.

They’ve carried me through some of the hardest seasons of my life.

They’ve reminded me to keep going when I wanted to quit.

They’ve helped me save other dogs.

But if I’m honest…

They’ve probably saved me even more.

Being their guardian has been one of the greatest privileges of my life.

It’s why it hurts me so deeply when I see dogs treated as though they’re disposable.

Left isolated.

Left without guidance.

Left without patience.

Left without someone willing to truly understand them.

Dogs don’t ask for perfect lives.

They ask for connection.

For safety.

For someone willing to listen.

Apollo’s journey is teaching me something every single day.

Not only about medicine.

Not only about advocacy.

But about perseverance.

Presence.

Patience.

Kindness.

Understanding.

Listening.

Gratitude.

Love.

Today, on my birthday, Apollo gave me the gift of saying…

“Me too, please.”

I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

After I brought everyone home, I took Athena back out for a stroll.

This walk wasn’t really for her.

It was for me.

For the first time in days, I let myself cry.

Not the quiet tears I’ve managed to hide while preparing meals, giving medications, talking with veterinarians, answering messages, and trying to hold everything together.

The kind of crying that comes when you’ve been strong for so long that your heart finally asks for permission to rest.

Apollo can’t see those tears.

He’s always been my protector.

The moment he senses something is wrong with me, he wants to make it his responsibility.

He wants to comfort me.

He wants to protect me from everything.

Right now, I don’t want him carrying that weight.

I need him to focus on healing.

Athena has always been different.

For years, she’s been the one I’ve poured my heart into.

She has this quiet way of making space for whatever I’m carrying.

She doesn’t ask me to stop crying.

She doesn’t try to distract me.

She doesn’t try to fix anything.

She simply walks beside me while the tears fall.

As we walked together today, I realized how grateful I am for the unique role each of my dogs plays in my life.

Apollo is my protector.

Raina is the nurturer.

Major is the steady companion who stays close.

And Athena…

Athena is the one who quietly holds my heart when it becomes too heavy to carry alone.

Today, I didn’t have to be the caregiver.

I didn’t have to be the advocate.

I didn’t have to be the strong one.

For a little while…

I could simply be a woman walking beside one of her best friends, letting the tears come without apology.

I’m so incredibly thankful for her.

When we made our way back home, I went looking for Apollo.

I couldn’t find him.

Immediately, my heart sank.

I walked through the house calling his name before making my way toward the basement.

There he was.

Lying in the dark.

The moment I saw him, I felt like I’d been transported back to where all of this began.

Before the bloodwork.

Before the emergency hospital.

Before specialists, medications, and sleepless nights.

This was one of the very first ways Apollo told me he didn’t feel well.

He stopped choosing the sunshine.

He started choosing the darkness.

The basement became his way of communicating with me.

He doesn’t have words.

This is how we talk.

As I sat beside him, all I could think was…

“I’m so sorry.”

“I love you so much.”

“I wish I knew how to help you.”

He looked miserable.

As someone who has dedicated her entire life to helping dogs, there is something incredibly humbling about sitting beside your own dog and realizing there are moments when all of your education, experience, and love can’t immediately make them feel better.

Caregiving has taught me that sometimes the greatest act of love isn’t fixing.

Sometimes it’s simply staying.

Sitting beside someone in their pain.

Holding space for them.

Making sure they never have to face it alone.

I kissed his head.

I told him I loved him one more time.

Then I quietly made him a promise.

“I’ll be right back.”

So now I’m heading out.

Not to celebrate my birthday.

Not to buy something for myself.

I’m heading out to search for nourishment.

If you had asked me a month ago whether I’d ever feed one of my dogs commercial canned food, I would have confidently said no.

For nearly seven years, I’ve been intentional about every ingredient that has gone into his bowl.

Today…

I’m simply trying to find something that makes my boy want to eat.

Caregiving has a way of humbling you.

It asks you to let go of the picture you had in your mind and focus instead on what your loved one needs today.

After that, I’ll head to work.

I’ll interview someone who may become part of our team.

I’ll smile.

I’ll ask questions.

I’ll do my best to be present.

But if I’m being honest…

Part of me will already be driving home.

I’ll be doing the math in my head.

“How quickly can I finish?”

“How soon can I get back to Apollo?”

My body may be in the room.

My heart won’t be.

Then tonight…

My family wants to celebrate my birthday.

Under normal circumstances, I’d probably be excited.

This year feels different.

I don’t care what I’m wearing.

I don’t care about candles.

I don’t care about presents.

If I could choose where to spend my birthday…

I’d choose the floor beside Apollo.

Because that’s where my heart feels most at home.

Yesterday, I also experienced one of the smallest acts of kindness that somehow became one of the biggest.

I had taken in one of Apollo’s prescriptions to the pharmacy.

My partner picked it up for me because I simply couldn’t wait.

When he came home, he wasn’t carrying only Apollo’s medication.

He was carrying flowers.

A pharmacy technician had bought them for me.

She had asked about Apollo.

She could tell I was having a really hard day.

Without expecting anything in return, she bought me flowers.

I don’t even know her name.

I don’t know if she’ll ever read these words.

But I hope somehow she knows what that simple act meant.

It wasn’t really about the flowers.

It was about being seen.

Throughout this journey, I’ve spoken with emergency doctors, specialists, technicians, receptionists, and countless professionals.

Yet one of the moments that touched me the most came from someone standing behind a pharmacy counter.

Sometimes healing begins with someone simply saying,

“I see how hard this is.”

I cried when I saw those flowers.

Not because I was sad.

Because kindness has a way of finding the cracks in our hearts exactly when we need it most.

Yesterday reminded me that there is still so much goodness in this world.

Sometimes it shows up in the most unexpected places.

Today, I’m carrying those flowers with me.

Not in my hands.

But in my heart.

The story isn’t finished yet.

There’s still nourishment to find.

Work to get through.

A birthday dinner I’m not sure my heart is ready for.

And hopefully…

A few more quiet moments beside my boy.

I’ll see you again soon, Apollo.

I love you. ❤️

Apollo Today

🐾 Age: 6 years old (7 on August 5)

💙 Today’s Mood
Determined, gentle, and grateful for every moment spent with his family.

🏡 Today’s Victory
He asked to join our morning stroll, enjoyed time outdoors with Major and Raina, reminded me that even the smallest adventures still matter, and gave me one of the greatest birthday gifts I could have asked for…

“Me too, please.”

💭 Today’s Reflection
Today reminded me that healing isn’t always measured by eating a full meal or having the perfect bloodwork. Sometimes it’s measured by choosing to go for a walk, smelling the morning air, resting beside the people who love you, and reminding your caregiver that even quiet moments can become unforgettable memories.

Caregiver Notes

Today was my birthday.

If someone had asked me what I wished for, I don’t think I would have said presents, cake, or even a celebration.

I would’ve wished for more time.

More walks.

More quiet mornings.

More moments sitting beside Apollo.

Today also reminded me that every dog in my family carries a different gift. Apollo protects me. Raina nurtures those around her. Major quietly stays close. Athena holds space for my heart when it becomes too heavy to carry alone.

Caregiving continues to humble me. It asks me to celebrate victories that once seemed ordinary and to find gratitude in moments I may have overlooked before this journey began.

Tonight, I’m ending my birthday exactly where I want to be…

Home.

Beside the dog who made me a guardian, a better professional, and a better human being.

Happy Birthday, Apollo’s Mom. ❤️

Day Seven: What Happens When No One Gives You a Plan

Apollo’s Journey — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 11:45:43 GMT

Apollo’s Journey

A Note Before Today’s Entry

There will be two journal entries today.

Yesterday was so emotional that I could not bring myself to write. By the time we made it home, I did not want to sit in front of a keyboard and try to turn the day into words.

I only wanted to be in Apollo’s presence.

So this morning, I am sharing Day Seven the day I could not write about while I was living it. I will return tonight with Day Eight and tell you where we are today.

Today also happens to be my birthday. Apollo’s birthday is exactly one week after mine, and if dogs had zodiac signs, he would be a Leo to my Leo.

There is nowhere I would rather spend it than beside him.

But first, I need to tell you about yesterday.

Yesterday was rough.

Yesterday was barely eating.

Yesterday was the veterinarian.

Yesterday was more weight lost.

Yesterday was unanswered questions.

Yesterday was emotional.

And yesterday, I began to understand even more clearly why some caregivers reach a point where they feel they cannot continue.

Not because they do not love their dogs enough.

Because sometimes they cannot find anyone willing or able to help them understand what comes next.

Apollo needed bloodwork.

Because he has been dehydrated, accessing his veins was difficult. They tried to draw his blood again and again.

Seven needle sticks.

Seven.

Apollo is a large dog. He has endured surgeries, rehabilitation, injections, examinations, and more than most dogs his age ever should have had to experience.

So when a dog his size lets out a shrill cry, you know it hurts.

I stood there listening to my baby cry while they continued trying to get the blood they needed.

There are moments during caregiving when you know something is necessary, but every part of you still wants to make it stop.

That was one of them.

Eventually, they were able to obtain enough blood to give us some information.

One important kidney value remained essentially unchanged, increasing by only 0.1.

Several other important numbers came down.

Those results matter. I am grateful for every indication that something may be moving in a better direction.

But numbers without interpretation do not create a plan.

I still left asking:

What does this mean?

What are we treating now?

What are we doing next?

How much fluid should he receive?

How often?

What happens if he continues refusing food?

How much more weight can he lose before someone becomes concerned?

How do we support his nutrition?

Does he need an appetite stimulant?

How long should he remain on the antibiotic for the E. coli?

When should the urine culture be repeated?

Who is coordinating all of this?

I did not need another piece of paper.

I needed someone to help me understand the whole clinical picture.

Apollo is now under 120 pounds.

I have not seen him at this weight since he was still growing.

I can see him getting smaller.

I can see the change in his body.

I can see how tired he is.

I can see that food no longer brings him the joy it once did.

And every pound feels personal, even though I know I am trying everything I can.

Yesterday, I felt like a short-order cook running a tiny restaurant with only one customer.

I prepared one thing.

He turned away.

I offered another.

He took a bite and stopped.

Then I tried something else.

And something else.

There was no breakfast, lunch, or dinner anymore. There were only attempts.

A bite here.

A lick there.

A brief moment of interest that disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

Apollo has eaten a prey-model raw diet since a puppy. Food has always been familiar, natural, and joyful to him.

Now I am repeatedly placing unfamiliar meals in front of him while he looks at me as though he is asking:

Why do you keep feeding me this?

I understand his confusion.

I gave in yesterday and he received one turkey gizzard, small piece of rabbit and tripe. He needed it.

He is asking for what his body recognizes. He has shown interest in green tripe. He stole Major’s rabbit. Those moments tell me that his appetite has not disappeared completely he wants the food he has known his entire life.

But without a clear understanding of what is happening inside his body, I do not feel that I can simply return him to everything he ate before and pretend none of this has happened.

So I am caught between what he wants, what he knows, and what I am still waiting for someone to help me understand.

Yesterday, I asked about nutrition.

I asked about his continued weight loss.

I asked about an appetite stimulant.

I asked for a refill of his anti-nausea medication.

I asked what we were supposed to do next.

I went home without those answers.

No one asked me what I had been doing with him at home.

That may have been one of the saddest parts of the entire visit.

No one asked how he responded to the subcutaneous fluids I have been administering.

No one asked what foods he had accepted.

No one asked what happened after his antibiotic.

No one asked how much he was drinking.

No one asked about the nausea, the pacing, the drooling, the diarrhea, the sleep, the moments outside, or the changes I had observed in his behavior.

No one asked whether he seemed brighter after fluids.

No one asked what Apollo had been telling me.

A clinical picture cannot be created from one number.

It cannot be created from one blood draw, one ultrasound, one urine sample, or one examination.

The clinical picture is all of it.

The laboratory values.

The imaging.

The medication history.

The food.

The weight loss.

The hydration.

The behavior.

The caregiver’s observations.

The dog standing or lying right in front of you.

Apollo’s health story does not live on one sheet of paper.

It lives in every part of him.

When I asked about his E. coli infection and how we would know when it was appropriate to stop the antibiotic, I was asked did the er tell you and whether I planned to return to the emergency hospital for another urine culture.

But why would I continue returning to the emergency hospital for ongoing care when I was sitting at his primary veterinarian?

The emergency hospital stabilized him.

They hospitalized him.

They performed the initial diagnostics.

But now we are home.

Someone has to help us move from emergency care into an actual plan.

I am not asking anyone to promise me an outcome.

I am asking someone to coordinate the next steps.

I had also asked for more anti-nausea and antibiotic medication.

It was not brought out.

I went back inside.

It was lunchtime, and it felt as though everyone had disappeared.

Eventually, someone gave me four pills of cernia.

Then I was handed a paper prescription for his antibiotic, even though they knew he needed it sooner rather than later.

So after leaving an already exhausting appointment, I had another task: find somewhere that could fill it quickly enough to prevent another delay.

That is what caregiving can become.

You are not simply sitting beside your sick dog.

You are managing prescriptions.

Tracking fluid volumes.

Calling pharmacies.

Requesting medical records.

Scheduling bloodwork.

Following up on urine cultures.

Watching every bite.

Monitoring every bathroom trip.

Counting pills.

Watching the clock.

And trying to understand how all of these separate pieces are supposed to fit together.

By the end of yesterday, I believe I had called eight primary veterinary practices and seven specialty hospitals.

Fifteen calls.

I wanted to hang up on nearly half of them.

Not because every person was unkind.

I simply could not keep having the same conversation.

Four weeks.

Six weeks.

No availability.

Go back to the emergency room if he declines.

Keep calling.

Try somewhere else.

I was not calling because I wanted to talk.

I was calling because my dog is losing weight, barely eating, and still does not have a clear plan.

During one conversation, I asked a specialty coordinator a question.

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

I asked her whether this was part of the reason euthanasia rates are what they are.

She asked what I meant.

I explained:

A chronically ill dog may have to wait four to six weeks to see a specialist.

What is the caregiver supposed to do during that time?

They are told to keep returning to the emergency hospital, where each visit may cost hundreds or thousands of dollars.

Who can continue doing that indefinitely?

What happens to the families who cannot?

She acknowledged that I was right.

Many people cannot keep up.

And sometimes those dogs are euthanized before they ever make it to the specialist.

That conversation broke my heart.

How many dogs still had a chance?

How many caregivers were willing to keep fighting but ran out of money, time, access, or guidance?

How many people went home believing they had failed their dog when, in reality, they had been left without a bridge between emergency stabilization and specialty care?

Yesterday, I understood why some people give up.

That is not in my DNA.

I have never been someone who gives up, and I will not start now.

But most people are not me.

Most people do not have my education, my professional background, or decades spent observing dogs.

And even with all of that, I am overwhelmed.

So what happens to the person whose only qualification is how deeply they love their dog?

I kept wondering why veterinary telehealth is not more widely available for situations like this.

Not as a replacement for an examination.

Not as a way to diagnose a dog without seeing them.

But as a bridge.

Apollo has been examined by his primary veterinarian.

He has been hospitalized in an emergency facility.

He has laboratory results, imaging, urinalysis findings, medication records, and discharge instructions.

Why could a specialist not review those records with me while we wait for the in-person appointment?

Why could someone not say:

Based on what I can see, here are the next tests I would ask your primary veterinarian to perform.

Here are the values I would monitor.

Here are the nutritional concerns I would address.

Here are the signs that mean you should return to the emergency room.

Here are the things that can reasonably be managed at home.

Here is how we keep your dog stable until I can examine him.

It may not provide every answer.

But it would provide direction.

Dogs are suffering while families wait.

Some dogs are dying while families wait.

And caregivers are being asked to make life-and-death decisions while feeling confused, financially depleted, and completely alone.

Sometimes people do not need another diagnosis.

They need a map.

Eventually, I sent an email to both Apollo’s emergency hospital and his primary veterinary team.

I explained my concerns.

I explained where I felt communication and coordination had broken down.

I explained the questions that remained unanswered.

I did not send it because I wanted to attack anyone.

I sent it because my dog cannot advocate for himself.

That is my responsibility.

I do not like disclosing my education.

I do not like leading with credentials.

When I walk into a veterinary hospital with Apollo, I am not trying to be treated differently because of letters behind my name or because dogs have been my profession for decades.

I am there as his guardian.

His mom.

But I sometimes wonder whether people see “dog owner” and expect me to accept the piece of paper I am handed, go home, and wait quietly.

I will not do that.

I will ask what comes next.

I will ask why.

I will ask what the numbers mean.

I will ask how the medication affects the rest of the clinical picture.

I will ask what we are doing about his nutrition.

I will ask who is responsible for follow-up.

I will keep asking until I understand what we are dealing with.

That is not being difficult.

That is advocacy.

Some people may read this and believe I am coming down on veterinary medicine.

I am not.

There are compassionate veterinarians.

There are extraordinary technicians.

There are people inside this profession working through exhaustion, staffing shortages, emotional strain, and impossible caseloads.

I understand that.

But this is my truth.

My dog is suffering.

He is losing weight.

He does not feel well.

No one has yet helped me understand why all of this is happening or what our complete plan is.

I feel as though labels are being offered more readily than explanations.

I feel as though conclusions are sometimes being drawn before every part of Apollo’s story is considered.

Medicine should be grounded in facts, science, patterns, and the complete patient not fear, assumptions, or a single abnormal value.

I am not asking anyone to tell me what I want to hear.

I am asking them to look at all of him.

Yesterday, I felt like I had let Apollo down.

I know, rationally, that I have not stopped fighting for him for one moment.

But caregiving does not always listen to reason.

You can do everything within your power and still lie beside your dog wondering whether you missed something.

You can spend the day making calls, giving fluids, offering food, filling prescriptions, and demanding answers and still feel helpless when he looks tired.

You can know you are doing your best and still feel as though your best is not enough.

There were moments yesterday when I wished I had continued on the path to becoming a veterinarian instead of choosing behavior.

Maybe then I would understand more.

Maybe then I could do more.

Maybe then I would not have to keep asking someone else to help me make my dog feel better.

But I chose behavior.

And right now, that choice feels painful because I cannot interpret every number or prescribe what he needs.

Still, behavior is also how Apollo speaks to me.

It is how I know when he wants to go outside.

How I know when he needs stillness.

How I know when food makes him feel worse.

How I know when he wants his pack.

How I know when he is tired but still present.

How I know he has not told me to stop.

I do not believe this is Apollo’s time.

I believe he is being overlooked.

And until he tells me that he no longer wants to fight, I will continue advocating for him.

I will continue asking questions.

I will continue searching for nourishment he can tolerate.

I will continue working so I can pay for his care, even when every part of me wants to stay home beside him.

I will continue learning.

I will continue connecting the pieces.

And through all of this, I am beginning to see more clearly how Apollo and I may help other guardians and their dogs.

The Canine Care Navigator is not becoming clearer to me because I sat down and created a business concept.

It is becoming clearer because we are living the problem it is meant to address.

No guardian should have to become their dog’s care coordinator in the middle of a medical crisis.

No guardian should leave an appointment with more paper but no plan.

No guardian should feel that asking, “What comes next?” makes them difficult.

No guardian should have to navigate emergency hospitals, primary veterinarians, specialists, pharmacies, nutrition, medications, laboratory values, and their own fear entirely alone.

Apollo and I are learning this together.

Painfully.

One unanswered question at a time.

Apollo — Day Seven

Weight: Now under 120 pounds.

Appetite: Very limited. We spent much of the day trying different foods and celebrating any bite he would accept.

Veterinary care: Follow-up appointment and bloodwork after seven attempts to access a vein.

Laboratory update: One important kidney value remained essentially stable, increasing by 0.1, while several other important values decreased. The results offered information, but not a clear plan.

Medication: Continuing treatment for the E. coli infection while seeking clearer guidance on duration, follow-up testing, nausea control, and nutritional support.

Care at home: Repeated attempts to find food he could tolerate then no clue 😞

The unanswered question: What do we do next?

Caregivers Notes:

Yesterday, I could not write.

I was too emotional.

I just wanted to sit near him, watch him breathe, and be present with the dog I love.

Today, you will hear from me twice.

This was Day Seven.

Sorry if today’s words seem jumbled, like one big run on sentence.

I will talk to you again tonight and tell you about Day Eight my birthday, another day beside Apollo, and whatever this unpredictable new normal brings us.

For now, my boy, I am right here.

Enjoy your breakfast nap.

I love you, Apollo. ❤️

Days Five & Six: The Weight We Carry.

Apollo’s Journey — Mon, 27 Jul 2026 16:19:20 GMT

Apollo’s Journey

Sometimes the days begin to blend together.

The nights become short.

The mornings come too quickly.

And before you realize it, you can’t remember the last time you slept through the night.

That’s where I found myself this weekend.

Sunday was quieter.

Not easier.

Just… quieter.

Apollo wasn’t interested in much, but I finally found something that brought a little excitement back into his day.

I made him lean turkey meatballs with rice.

Watching him eat them felt like a victory.

It’s amazing how something so ordinary can suddenly become something worth celebrating.

The rest of the day was slow.

Lots of sleep.

Lots of watching.

Lots of simply sitting outside together.

I’ve always believed dogs communicate through behavior.

Lately, I feel like Apollo is telling me something without ever making a sound.

The way he slowly sniffs the breeze.

The way he pauses to look into the sky.

The way he watches me.

The way he leans into his pack.

Nothing feels rushed anymore.

Almost as if he isn’t taking a single moment for granted.

Maybe I’m projecting.

Maybe I’m not.

Either way…

I notice everything now.

Sunday night wasn’t much different.

Up several times.

Checking on him.

Watching him breathe.

Making sure he was comfortable.

I’ll be honest.

I’m exhausted.

I don’t think I’ve truly slept since last Sunday.

Every day has become another appointment.

Another medication.

Another meal to encourage.

Another decision.

Another worry.

Monday morning arrived much sooner than I was ready for.

I was supposed to be working.

Instead…

I stayed home.

Apollo was no longer interested in eating.

He wanted the foods he knew.

The foods that felt familiar.

So once again I found myself trying to balance nutrition, medications, nausea, and timing.

It’s become a hamster wheel.

If he doesn’t eat…

I can’t comfortably give the medication.

If I delay the medication…

I worry about what that means.

Then the medication itself sometimes makes him feel worse.

Round and round we go.

Something else has been weighing heavily on me.

I feel like I’m letting my own clients down.

The families who trust me with their dogs have been incredibly understanding.

Their kindness has meant more than they probably realize.

But dogs don’t understand schedule changes.

They don’t understand medical emergencies.

They simply know their routine changed.

Every delayed visit…

Every rearranged schedule…

Every missed phone call…

I carry it with me.

Eventually I had to leave.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I had to.

Before I pulled out of the driveway, I set a timer.

Three hours.

That has quietly become my limit.

Realistically…

I’d rather be home in two and a half.

That’s what caregiving has become.

Not just planning my day.

Planning how long I can emotionally tolerate being away from Apollo.

As I drove, my mind wasn’t on work.

It was on tomorrow’s blood work.

Then Friday’s.

Calling and making sure the veterinary team didn’t accidentally miss another scheduled lab draw after what had happened before.

I hate that my mind has become a checklist.

Did they remember?

Did I remember?

Who is following up?

What did I forget?

Caregiving isn’t just caring for your dog.

Sometimes it feels like becoming the project manager of an unfolding medical crisis.

Somewhere during that drive…

I started crying.

Not because I had received bad news.

Not because anything dramatic had happened.

Because I was tired.

Because I was overwhelmed.

Because I was trying so hard to hold everything together.

Then I realized something.

If this feels overwhelming for me…

Someone whose entire career has revolved around understanding dogs…

What must this feel like for someone whose only qualification is loving them?

That thought hasn’t left me.

It reminds me why I started writing.

This journal has never been about creating perfect stories.

It’s about telling the truth.

The truth about loving a dog through uncertainty.

The truth about advocating when you’re exhausted.

The truth about trying to be strong while quietly falling apart in your car.

Maybe that’s why Apollo’s journey matters.

Because somewhere…

Someone else is sitting in another parking lot.

Wondering if they’re doing enough.

Wondering if they’re missing something.

Wondering if they’re the only one who feels this overwhelmed.

They’re not.

And neither am I.

I’ve realized these entries may not always come every single night anymore.

Some days life simply won’t allow it.

Some days two days will become one.

But I promise this:

I’ll keep telling Apollo’s story.

Because one day…

When we’re on the other side of this…

I hope another caregiver finds these words.

And instead of feeling alone…

They’ll feel understood.

Today…

Apollo is resting.

His pack is close beside him.

I’m still watching.

Still learning.

Still hoping.

Tomorrow brings another blood draw.

Another chance for answers.

Another opportunity to advocate.

One more day.

One more step.

One more reason to keep believing.

Apollo Today

Today’s Mood: Tired, unsettled, and confused by how different everything has become.

Today’s Victory: He successfully took his Clavamox this morning. He also showed me that his appetite is still there but for the foods his body recognizes.

Today’s Challenge: The meatballs he enjoyed yesterday held no interest today. He ate green tripe and stole Major’s rabbit, which tells me he is craving his familiar prey-model raw diet more than anything else.

Today’s Reflection: Healing isn’t measured only by lab values. Sometimes it’s measured by a few bites of food, a quiet moment outside, or simply making it through another day together.

Caregiver Notes

Today: Subcutaneous fluids at home.
Medication: Successfully took Clavamox this morning, but feels a little yucky afterward.
Weight: Another pound lost.
Food: No interest in yesterday’s meatballs. Ate green tripe and stole Major’s rabbit.
Goal: Keep getting enough food into him to safely give medication while we wait for clearer guidance.
Tomorrow: Bloodwork and a veterinary conversation. I’ll share the next journal entry tomorrow afternoon or evening.

Apollo’s Thoughts as if the could talk:

Apollo has been raw-fed since he was three weeks old. This abrupt change in everything he knows his food, his routine, his body, his medications, is affecting him. He looks at me with confusion, almost as if he is asking, Why do you keep feeding me this?

And the difficult truth is that I understand why.

He knows what food is to him. He knows what has nourished him his entire life. But without all the answers yet, I do not feel comfortable simply returning to his full prey-model diet as though nothing has changed.

So I am caught between what he wants, what he recognizes, and what I am still trying to understand.

A Note Before I Go…

I’m sharing this update a little earlier today because life and caregiving doesn’t always fit neatly into a schedule.

Tomorrow is another important day. We’ll be back at the veterinarian for bloodwork, and I’ll share another update tomorrow evening after we have more answers.

Until then…

I’ll see you soon, my boy. I love you, Apollo. ❤️

Day Four: Uncertainty

Apollo’s Journey — Sun, 26 Jul 2026 01:18:23 GMT

I don’t know what Apollo’s kidney values are today.

And that’s the hardest part.

All weekend long I’ll wonder.

Is his BUN higher?

Has his creatinine improved?

What about his phosphorus?

Are we moving in the right direction, or are we losing ground without even knowing it?

That’s what caregiving feels like.

You become consumed by numbers you can’t see.

So you watch your dog instead.

Every drink of water.

Every meal.

Every trip outside.

Every nap.

Every little spark that reminds you they’re still in there.

Or every little change that makes your heart sink.

Today, Apollo just wasn’t himself.

Not dramatically.

Just… quieter.

Yesterday, the Amazon driver pulled in and Apollo proudly let everyone know someone had arrived. That’s who he is. He’s always announcing visitors before anyone else notices.

Today, there was none of that.

No bark.

No alert.

No rushing to the door.

Just a quiet dog who simply didn’t feel well.

It’s amazing how quickly your definition of a “good day” changes.

A few weeks ago, I would have measured our day by how far we walked, how much we played, or whether he stole someone’s toy.

Now, I celebrate a meal.

A peaceful nap.

A wag of his tail.

A quiet afternoon beside me.

His appetite has become one of the biggest challenges.

The food recommended for him simply isn’t what he wants.

The one thing he still seems interested in is his Primal food, and today I realized something important.

Sometimes the “perfect” plan isn’t the right plan.

The right plan is making sure your dog actually eats.

Because food isn’t just food anymore.

It’s nutrition.

It’s medication.

It’s energy.

It’s healing.

When they don’t eat, medications get delayed, schedules fall apart, and your mind starts racing.

Today I had to leave him home with his dad while I went to work.

I told myself not to micromanage.

Not to constantly check the cameras.

Not to send a dozen text messages asking how he was doing.

I knew he was in good hands.

Still, Apollo has always been my shadow.

Knowing he spent much of the day lying near the door waiting for me broke my heart.

Sometimes I wonder if dogs hold it together until their person comes home.

As if they’re waiting until they feel safe enough to let you see how badly they really feel.

I don’t know if that’s true.

But today, it certainly felt that way.

When I walked through the door around 3:30 this afternoon, I knew something had changed.

He didn’t want to eat.

Not even foods that usually tempt him.

His eyes looked tired.

His body looked tired.

He just didn’t look like Apollo.

Tonight was another first.

For the first time, I administered Apollo’s 500 mL of subcutaneous fluids at home.

I was nervous.

He wasn’t.

He stood quietly beside me from beginning to end, trusting me completely.

At 4:35 p.m., I gave him his first dose of Cerenia at home, hoping it would settle his stomach enough for him to eat.

Instead, I watched him continue pacing.

Drinking large amounts of water.

Eating grass.

Drooling.

Looking for relief that never seemed to come.

His temperature was 101.5.

Normal.

But everything else about him told me he didn’t feel well.

After several conversations with multiple veterinarians, we decided the safest plan was to continue monitoring him closely while watching for any changes that meant another emergency visit was needed.

There were moments when I truly thought we were headed back to the ER.

So I sat with him.

I rested my forehead against his.

I looked into his eyes and kept repeating the same words.

“I love you.”

“You can do this.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Sometimes, when medicine reaches its limits, presence becomes its own kind of treatment.

As the evening went on, the drooling slowly eased.

The pacing became less frequent.

I continued watching his breathing, counting his respiratory rate, and letting him tell me what he needed instead of forcing him into a routine.

Then it was time for our evening walk.

This is Athena’s ritual.

Out of all of my dogs, she is the one who truly lives for our evening stroll together. It’s our special time.

I wasn’t planning to take Apollo.

In fact, I assumed he’d stay home and rest.

But when Athena and I started getting ready, Apollo walked to the door.

Then he changed his mind and went back inside.

A few moments later…

he came back.

It was his decision.

Not mine.

Before we left, he had another bout of diarrhea, then looked at me as if to say,

“I’m ready.”

So we kept our promise.

Everything would happen on his terms.

No expectations.

No pressure.

If he wanted to turn around after a few steps, we would.

If he wanted to stop and sniff, we’d wait.

If he wanted to rest, we’d rest.

Instead…

Apollo led the way.

He sniffed.

He marked.

He explored.

At one point, he spotted a squirrel, ran a short distance up the hill, then stopped and looked back at me.

The same look he’s given me a thousand times before.

“Is it okay?”

I smiled.

“Go ahead, buddy.”

For just a moment…

I wasn’t looking at a dog in the middle of a medical crisis.

I was looking at Apollo.

The same Apollo who loves his neighborhood.

The same Apollo who believes every squirrel deserves an investigation.

The same Apollo who still wanted to experience the world.

One thing I’ve promised myself through all of this is that I won’t define him by his illness.

As long as it’s safe…

As long as he’s choosing…

As long as he’s telling me he’s willing…

I want him to keep being a dog.

Not because I’m pretending he isn’t sick.

But because living matters just as much as healing.

Our walk was much shorter than Athena would have preferred.

She usually loves covering ground.

Tonight, she seemed to understand.

She stayed with us.

The mission wasn’t distance.

The mission was togetherness.

As we walked home, I realized something.

This walk wasn’t just good for Apollo.

It was good for me.

For a few precious minutes, I wasn’t thinking about BUN, creatinine, phosphorus, medications, or the unknowns waiting for us on Monday morning.

I was simply walking with my dogs.

I’ve realized something over the last few days.

Being a caregiver isn’t just giving medications.

It isn’t learning how to administer fluids.

It isn’t memorizing lab values.

It’s learning to live with uncertainty.

It’s advocating when the path isn’t clear.

It’s resisting the urge to define your dog by a single diagnosis before the whole story has been told.

Apollo is teaching me to look beyond one number.

Beyond one lab report.

Beyond one moment in a medical crisis.

He’s teaching me to keep asking questions.

To keep connecting the dots.

To keep seeing the whole dog.

Maybe that’s the lesson at the heart of The Canine Care Navigator™.

Not having all the answers.

But helping families find their way through the questions.

The fight isn’t over.

In many ways, it’s only just beginning.

Apollo still isn’t eating.

We’ll continue monitoring him closely throughout the night, and we’ll be back at the veterinarian Monday morning.

Tonight, though, I’ll hold onto this.

A walk he chose.

A squirrel worth chasing.

A quiet reminder that beneath all the uncertainty…

Apollo is still Apollo.

And that’s the dog I’ll continue fighting for.

Just before I sat down to finish writing tonight, I looked over and smiled.

There was Apollo.

Lying quietly on the rug.

Content.

Working on one of his favorite things in the world, a sheep horn.

To anyone else, it might look like an ordinary moment.

To me, it was anything but ordinary.

A few hours earlier, I wasn’t sure where the night was headed.

Now I was watching him choose something that brought him joy.

Maybe that’s what hope looks like.

Not a miracle.

Not perfect blood work.

Not all the answers.

Just one dog, doing one of his favorite things, reminding me that there is still a little room for normal in the middle of all of this.

Tonight, that’s enough.

Good night, buddy.

I love you❤️

Apollo Today

Age: 6 (7 on August 5)

Today’s Mood: Quiet, determined, and still choosing to be part of his family.

Today’s Victory: His first subcutaneous fluid treatment at home, followed by choosing to join Athena and me on our evening stroll and ending the night with one of his favorite sheep horns.

Today’s Reflection: Sometimes the greatest victories aren’t found in a blood test. Sometimes they’re found in a dog who chooses to get up, walk beside the people he loves, sniff the world, and remind you that hope can still exist in the middle of uncertainty.

Caregiver Notes

First 500 mL subcutaneous fluid treatment administered at home.
First at-home dose of Cerenia.
Continued nausea, drooling, pacing, grass eating, and diarrhea monitored throughout the afternoon.
Temperature: 101.5°F.
Appetite remains poor.
Multiple conversations with veterinarians regarding monitoring versus returning to the emergency hospital.
Returned to the neighborhood for a short, guardian-led walk completely on Apollo’s terms.
Follow-up with the veterinary team Monday morning.

I’m sharing today’s entry a little earlier than usual so I can spend the rest of the evening focused on Apollo.

Let’s hope tomorrow is a calmer Sunday.

Day Three: One Step at a Time

Apollo’s Journey — Sat, 25 Jul 2026 04:01:26 GMT

I’m At 2:12 a.m., Apollo woke me to go outside.

Sleep has become fragmented since bringing him home from the hospital. Every time he moves, I wake up. Every trip outside feels like another small victory because it means he’s still here.

We came back inside and settled in for what little sleep remained before morning.

When we woke, I made Apollo breakfast.

Beef. Rice. Egg whites. Green tripe. Extra moisture.

Every ingredient had a purpose now. I wasn’t simply feeding my dog anymore. I was trying to support a body that was working hard to heal.

After breakfast, we did what we’ve always done.

We rested.

That routine didn’t begin because Apollo became sick. Breakfast has always been followed by quiet time before the day begins. It has been our rhythm for years, and I wasn’t about to change it now.

When we got up, I poured myself a cup of coffee and stepped outside.

Apollo wandered the property while I watched him.

Not casually.

Intentionally.

I found myself studying everything, his gait, his posture, his expression, the way he carried himself across the land. Every movement seemed to mean something now.

Then I looked beyond Apollo.

The entire pack was together.

Raina stayed close beside him.

Athena wandered nearby.

Major of course was close but in the woods waiting for something to Chase.

Everyone quietly walked the property together.

I just stood there in awe of them.

It made my heart sing.

A little while later, Apollo and Athena climbed into the SUV.

She came for support. ❤️

I love this photo.

Not because it’s perfect, but because it tells the truth.

Apollo is sitting proudly, ears forward, bright-eyed, tongue hanging out as if we’re simply heading off on another adventure. Behind him, Athena quietly watches the world.

It looks like an ordinary car ride.

But nothing about this morning felt ordinary.

We were heading back to the veterinarian for Apollo’s follow-up blood work. Depending on those numbers, he might also need his first subcutaneous fluids since coming home from the hospital.

I’ll admit it.

My stomach was in knots.

Every follow-up appointment now feels like we’re waiting to hear whether we’re moving forward, standing still, or taking a step backward.

Apollo, on the other hand, climbed into the SUV then taking in the wind like it was just another adventure.

Since everything happened with Apollo, I’ve realized I’ve become a little hypervigilant.

Maybe some people would say I’m overreacting.

I don’t really care.

Apollo had normal blood work on June 1.

Less than one month later, our lives were turned upside down.

So while we were at the clinic, I asked them to repeat Athena’s blood work too, even though she’d already had it done in June.

The rest of the pack will go next week.

I’m making sure I don’t miss something I’d never forgive myself for missing.

We walked into the clinic, and just like always, Apollo wore his Muzzle Movement muzzle.

I know people sometimes see a muzzle and immediately assume the worst.

I see communication.

Apollo has been carefully conditioned to wear it. It tells him we’re about to do something uncomfortable together while keeping everyone safe.

That morning, he did exactly what he always does.

He talked a little.

I stood beside him, adjusted his muzzle, held him through the blood draw, and reminded him he wasn’t doing it alone.

Before leaving, I explained exactly what I wanted.

The blood work would take about forty-five minutes to an hour.

Rather than leaving Athena at the hospital waiting, I wanted to take her home where she could rest.

I asked them to call me as soon as the results were available.

I also asked them to email me the blood work immediately even if a doctor hadn’t reviewed it yet.

I know how to read blood work.

I simply wanted to know where my dog stood.

Then we headed home to wait.

An hour passed.

Nothing.

Around 11:00 a.m., I called.

Nothing.

By 12:30 p.m., I called again.

Still nothing.

I sent an email.

Still nothing.

This wasn’t routine blood work.

Apollo had only been home from the hospital a short time, and we needed to know whether his kidneys were continuing to recover without intravenous fluids.

Every hour mattered.

Life, however, doesn’t stop because you’re a caregiver.

The bills don’t stop.

The responsibilities don’t stop.

If I don’t work, I can’t continue taking care of Apollo.

So after getting them safely home, I went to work for a few hours.

My team stepped in to carry what they could.

I’ll never forget that.

Today was my first day back with a few of my clients.

I carried Apollo with me all day.

Every quiet moment.

Every glance at my phone.

Every notification from the cameras at home.

My mind never really left him.

Some of my clients’ guardians asked how Apollo was doing.

Others didn’t have to.

I could see the question in their eyes.

I answered the same way each time with a smile, a picture from that morning, and a little more hope than I’d had yesterday.

But it wasn’t just the people.

It was the dogs.

During Apollo’s hospitalization, I discovered something I’ll never forget.

The dogs knew.

When tears found me, they came closer.

They leaned into me.

Rested their heads against me.

Stayed beside me until I was okay again.

I’ve spent my life helping dogs feel safe.

This week…

They helped me.

Even while I was working, my attention never left home.

I checked my phone.

I checked the cameras.

And then I saw something that immediately made me smile.

Everyone was slumpin’.

That’s what we call it in our house when one of the dogs is so deeply asleep that nothing else matters.

Sounds.

Smells.

The world could keep moving around them, and they’d never know.

Major has always been the king of slumpin’. Once he’s asleep, he’s asleep.

Seeing the entire pack resting peacefully including Apollo gave me a moment of peace I didn’t realize I needed.

For just a little while, I wasn’t looking at a sick dog through a camera.

I was simply looking at my family.

Finally, around 3:33 p.m., I reached someone at the clinic.

Apollo’s blood work had been completed hours earlier.

His BUN had climbed from 29 to 74.

He had also lost 6.2 pounds in just four and a half days.

I immediately returned to the clinic.

Apollo needed subcutaneous fluids.

A technician met me outside and taught me how to administer them right there in the parking lot.

It had been more than twenty years since I’d given subcutaneous fluids.

I listened carefully.

I asked questions.

Then together, we administered 500 milliliters.

As I watched the fluids slowly flow beneath his skin, it hit me that this wasn’t just something we’d be doing today.

This was becoming part of our life.

Later that evening, around seven o’clock, the veterinarian called.

We reviewed the blood work and the plan moving forward.

Then came another piece of the puzzle.

Apollo’s urine culture had grown E. coli.

Another diagnosis.

Another medication.

Another layer added to an already complicated picture.

Blood work and fluids would now become part of our routine every twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

As soon as we hung up, I ordered an IV stand.

I ordered a sharps container.

I looked around the house.

Medical supplies were beginning to replace ordinary household items.

My calendar now revolved around medications, fluids, blood work, appointments, and watching every little thing Apollo did.

Just days ago, I was simply his guardian.

Today, I learned how to administer subcutaneous fluids to my own dog.

Today, I became his nurse.

I still can’t believe we’re here.

Goodnight, Apollo. ❤️

Apollo Today

🐾 Age: 6 years old (7 on August 5)

💙 Today’s Mood
Bright, engaged, and trusting—even when the day asked a lot of him.

🏡 Today’s Victory
He calmly rode to his appointment, tolerated his blood work, accepted his first subcutaneous fluids, and came home to rest with his family.

💭 Today’s Reflection
Sometimes progress isn’t measured by better blood work. Sometimes it’s measured by learning how to care for the one you love in ways you never imagined. Today reminded me that courage doesn’t always look fearless. Sometimes it looks like showing up, learning something new, and doing it anyway.

Caregiver Notes

BUN increased from 29 to 74.
Weight decreased 6.2 pounds in 4½ days.
Received 500 mL of subcutaneous fluids.
Urine culture positive for E. coli; second antibiotic added.
Blood work to be repeated every 24–48 hours.
Ordered an IV stand and sharps container to begin home medical care.
Thanks for reading, and thank you for following our journey.

Day Two: R&R

Apollo’s Journey — Fri, 24 Jul 2026 03:51:42 GMT

Yesterday was about getting Apollo home.

Today was about simply letting him be home.

This morning, I opened my eyes expecting to see Apollo standing beside the bed, staring at me, letting me know it was time for breakfast.

Instead, he was still asleep.

I reached for my phone to check the time.

7:00 a.m.

I actually had to wake him.

I honestly can’t remember the last time that happened.

Our house usually starts moving around 5:00 every morning. Someone always needs to go outside. Someone is reminding me breakfast is overdue. Mornings have always belonged to the dogs.

But not today.

The house was quiet.

Apollo was sleeping so peacefully that I just laid there watching him for a while.

After everything his body had been through these last few days, sleep felt like medicine.

Even more amazing was the rest of the pack.

It’s almost like they knew.

No one was wrestling.

No one was bouncing around the bedroom.

No one was demanding breakfast.

Everyone seemed content to let Apollo rest just a little longer.

As crazy as it sounds, I really think they knew he needed it.

When I finally woke him, he slowly stretched, looked up at me with those sleepy eyes, and followed me into the kitchen.

Home.

That word means something completely different this week.

Breakfast looked a little different this morning.

Two egg whites.

A quarter cup of white rice.

One-third cup of lean beef.

His new normal…

At least for now.

He walked over to his bowl, sniffed it, took a few bites, then stopped.

He looked at the bowl.

Then looked at me.

Then back at the bowl.

Then back at me again.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

His face said everything.

“Mom…what is this?”

“I’m sorry, buddy,” I told him. “Just a little while.”

He took a few more bites before deciding he had enough.

Normally I probably would’ve focused on everything he didn’t eat.

Today…

I celebrated every bite he did.

After breakfast, Apollo went outside, did his business, and came back inside for what we’ve always called our breakfast nap.

People probably think that’s just a cute name.

It isn’t.

Apollo is a deep-chested breed, and because dogs like him are at a greater risk for gastric dilatation-volvulus (GDV), we’ve always made post-meal rest part of our routine. After breakfast, there is no running, no wrestling, no excitement. Just quiet.

For years it’s simply been our breakfast nap.

Today, though, it felt different.

Today it wasn’t just about preventing bloat.

It was about healing.

Apollo climbed back into bed beside me, and before I knew it, we had both fallen asleep.

I never imagined that hearing him snore would make me smile.

But after everything we’d been through, it was the most comforting sound in the world.

When we finally woke up again, it was almost ten o’clock.

Neither of us had planned on sleeping that long.

I guess we both needed it.

There was another moment today that most people probably wouldn’t even think twice about.

Last night, I took a shower.

When I opened the bathroom door…

There he was.

Waiting.

Apollo has always waited outside the bathroom door for me.

It’s just one of those little things we’ve always done.

While he was in the hospital, I realized how much I missed even the smallest parts of our routine.

Seeing his silhouette sitting there again made me smile.

It was so nice to have that back.

Funny how something so ordinary suddenly becomes so extraordinary when you’re afraid you might lose it.

Recovery is such a strange thing.

People expect big moments.

Big milestones.

Huge improvements.

Today wasn’t any of that.

Today was quiet.

Today was sleep.

A few bites of breakfast.

A breakfast nap.

The sound of snoring.

A familiar silhouette waiting outside the bathroom door.

Tiny moments.

But today they felt enormous.

Tomorrow we head back for another recheck.

Blood work.

His first round of subcutaneous fluid therapy since coming home.

Part of me is nervous.

Part of me is hopeful.

Tonight, though, I’m choosing not to think about tomorrow.

Tonight I’m simply grateful for today.

Goodnight, Apollo. ❤️

Thank you for sleeping.

Thank you for eating a few bites, even if you looked at me like I had completely lost my mind.

Thank you for our breakfast nap.

Thank you for waiting outside the bathroom door like you’ve done a thousand times before.

Those little pieces of normal reminded me that healing doesn’t always happen in dramatic moments.

Sometimes it comes quietly.

One peaceful day at a time.

Sleep well, my sweet boy.

Tomorrow, we’ll take the next step together.

Apollo Today

🐾 Age: 6 years old (7 on August 5)

💙 Today’s Mood:

Peacefully exhausted.

🏡 Today’s Victory:

He rested.

💭 Today’s Reflection:

Healing isn’t always measured by dramatic breakthroughs. Sometimes it looks like a full night’s sleep, a few bites of breakfast, a familiar routine, and the comfort of being home. Today reminded us that rest is part of recovery.

Caregiver Notes

Appetite improved
Water intake slightly decreased
Follow-up scheduled for blood work and first fluid therapy tomorrow 6/24/26 9:30AM.

Day One: Heading Home

Apollo’s Journey — Thu, 23 Jul 2026 00:39:06 GMT

I already missed the first photograph.

I was so overwhelmed that I forgot to take the one I wanted most.

The moment Apollo walked out of the emergency hospital.

The beginning of this new chapter.

Instead…

This is the first picture I have.

Apollo quietly climbed into the truck and settled between the seats.

For a few moments, neither of us moved.

I just kept looking at him.

Three days earlier, I had walked him into the emergency hospital terrified.

Now he was beside me again.

Different.

Tired.

His front legs shaved.

His belly shaved.

His body carrying the evidence of everything it had endured over the last few days.

Then something happened I’ll never forget.

He took the deepest breath.

Not a restless breath.

Not an anxious breath.

A deep…

Slow…

Peaceful breath.

As if his body finally recognized where it was.

Home.

I reached over and rested my hand on him.

I had spent the last four days wondering who was comforting him when I couldn’t.

Who rubbed his ears.

Who whispered that he was a good boy.

Who stayed with him when he was scared.

Now…

It was me again.

The drive home was almost silent.

Usually Apollo is looking out the windows, taking in the world around him.

This time he simply stayed between the seats, breathing quietly beside me.

I found myself watching every breath.

Almost afraid to look away.

Not because I thought something terrible would happen…

But because I realized how much those four days had changed me.

Before bringing him home, I had stopped to buy the food that would become part of our new routine.

I remember standing in the aisle thinking how strange it was that something as ordinary as buying food suddenly carried so much weight.

Every item felt like a reminder.

Life wasn’t going back to the way it had been.

When we pulled into the driveway, I wasn’t the only one waiting.

The pack had spent days trying to understand where Apollo had gone.

The house had been quieter.

Different.

Incomplete.

Watching everyone realize he was finally home is a moment I’ll carry with me forever.

There wasn’t chaos.

There wasn’t wild excitement.

There was recognition.

Relief.

As though the missing piece of our family had returned.

That evening, after everyone settled, I found myself sitting beside Apollo.

My hand drifted over the shaved places on his body.

The bruises from IVs.

The catheter sites.

The bare places where fur would eventually grow back.

They weren’t just shaved patches.

They were reminders that this had really happened.

That my superhero wasn’t invincible.

For almost seven years, I’ve looked at Apollo as if nothing could ever bring him down.

He’s always been larger than life.

Steady.

Strong.

The dog I quietly believed would somehow outrun time.

The last few days shattered that illusion.

For the first time, I found myself understanding what every caregiver eventually learns.

Love doesn’t make them invincible.

It simply makes every moment more precious.

We still don’t have all of our answers.

We have appointments ahead.

An internal medicine consultation.

Weekly blood work and fluids.

New routines.

New questions.

And a future we can’t yet see.

But tonight…

None of that mattered.

Tonight, my boy was home.

Lying between the seats on the drive home…

Then curled up in his own house…

Taking the first truly peaceful breaths I’d seen in days.

And for tonight…

That was enough.

❤️

— Adia & Apollo

Apollo Today

🐾 Age: 6 years old (7 on August 5)

🩵 Today’s Mood: Peacefully exhausted.

🏡 Today’s Victory: Home.

💭 Today’s Reflection:
Sometimes healing doesn’t begin with answers.
Sometimes it begins with finally being able to exhale.

Meet Apollo

Apollo’s Journey — Thu, 23 Jul 2026 00:07:47 GMT

If you’ve found your way here, I’d like you to meet someone very special.

This is Apollo.

He’s my heart dog.

Everything you’re about to read began the day our lives changed.

For nearly three decades, I’ve dedicated my life to helping dogs and the people who love them.

I never imagined the hardest fight of my life would be my own dog .

A few days ago, everything changed.

What began with excessive drinking and urination quickly became an emergency.

Within hours, Apollo was hospitalized.

Over the next three days, he would require around-the-clock care.

While he fought to stabilize…

Our entire world stood still.

I can still see the way he looked at me as I walked out of the emergency hospital.

Confused.

Exhausted.

Watching me leave.

Wondering why he wasn’t coming with me, I cried all the way to my car.

There are moments in life you know you’ll never forget.

That was one of them.

The days that followed became a blur.

He barely slept.

I barely slept.

Our pack without their leader, didn’t understand where he had gone.

The house became painfully quiet.

Then…Phone calls.

Bloodwork.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Searching for answers.

Hanging on every update.

“He’s stable.”

“He’s calmer today.”

“He ate a little.”

“His numbers are coming down.”

Every sentence felt like another breath.

Even before he came home, I was already preparing for what came next.

Requesting referrals.

Scheduling an Internal Medicine consultation.

Learning everything I could.

Shopping for a completely different way of feeding him.

Trying to prepare for a future I couldn’t yet see.

And then…

The call came.

He could come home.

I thought I’d remember taking a picture of us leaving the hospital.

I didn’t.

I was simply too grateful to have him back.

The first picture I have is of him curled quietly between the seats on the drive home.

Exhausted.

Safe.

Finally heading back to the life we both knew.

When we pulled into the driveway, he stepped out slowly.

He stood in the grass.

He sniffed the air.

He smelled home.

He smelled his family.

He walked through the front door as though he never believed he’d see it again.

I watched his packmates greet him.

I watched him slowly settle.

I ran my hands over every part of his body.

The shaved patches where IVs and catheters had been.

The bruises.

His bare stomach.

I wasn’t checking him.

I was reminding both of us…

“You’re home.”

For the first time in four days…

His body relaxed.

For the first time in four days…

Mine did too.

He slept.

I slept.

He ate his first meal.

And yes…

He finally pooped.

Funny how the smallest victories suddenly become the biggest ones.

Now we wait.

We wait for the answers we think we have but don’t fully know yet.

We know his illness involves his kidneys.

We know our lives have changed.

We know there will be appointments.

Daily cooking.

Medications.

Monitoring.

Questions.

More waiting.

What we don’t know is the answer every caregiver silently fears asking.

Do we have months?

Or do we have years?

Apollo turns seven on August 5th.

Before this week, it was simply another birthday I was looking forward to celebrating.

Now…

I have a feeling it will become the most important birthday of both of our lives.

If you’ve chosen to walk beside us…

Thank you.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for caring.

Most of all…

Thank you for helping ensure that no one has to walk this road alone.

If you’ve found your way here because you’re facing something similar with a dog you love…

I’m so sorry.

I hope this space reminds you that you are not walking this road alone.

Tomorrow, our story truly begins.

Continue to Day One: Heading Home.

Thank you for being here.

Welcome to our journey

— Adia & Apollo ❤️