When I found out my dog had cancer, I wasn't surprised. The red growth on his face was too

obvious to ignore. However, it didn't seem to have any affect on him, and we couldn't really do

anything about it, so after a while it just became invisible, ignored. Even so, it was growing, and ever  

so slowly, it crept into his throat.

     It was just my dad and I that there that night, each working on our assignments for the day, mine, of

course, being done at the last minute. After a while, as sleepiness started to encircle my eyes, he started

barking.  This being very annoying to both of us, we tried to make it stop.

    
     “Go put him outside,” my dad said.

     “But he's not even by the door,” I replied, “and we already fed him.”

     “Get him out anyway,” my dad said, obviously intent on getting back to his work.

     After reluctantly getting up from the couch that was wrinkling my t-shirt and jeans, I managed to

pick him up and put him outside, where he continued barking anyway. Then, I knew. It was the pain.

He couldn't take it anymore. My dad eventually decided to take him to the vet's to see if there was any

thing they could do, but I knew there wasn't. The cancer had gotten too far for that.As my dad and my

dog were at the vet's, I did what I always did, play video games, this time as much a tool to distract

myself from what was likely ahead as a tool for entertainment. It worked, mostly. Eventually, though,

grief found me. I went through all the stages, except one. Denial, thinking that maybe he did just need

some painkillers. Anger, that he would soon be gone. Bargaining, thinking please please please don't let

him go. Depression, despair at the thought that he might already be gone at this very moment as I sat

there, helpless. There was still one last stage I just wasn't ready to go through.

     It was when my dad gathered my family around the table that I knew he was gone. Soon enough, he

announced my dog's passing. That was when I reached the final stage of grief. Acceptance. There was

something else, though. Something that had been at the back of my head while my dog was at the vet's.

I never spent any time with him. There were no memories I had of him before the cancer's late stages,

and, though I searched my mind, trying to find them, they always seemed just out of reach.

      I suppose I could have had some grand epiphany then, some life-changing thought that was sitting

unnoticed right in front of me the whole time. I didn't. I only realized something as I was writing this

very piece. Take every opportunity now, or you might not realize it's leaving before it's too late.