I haven’t posted in a while—mostly because nothing dramatic has happened (a nice change), and also because I figured no one really wanted to hear me rant about Tugboat being a jerk again. Apparently I was wrong on both counts.
Because today? Today brought actual good news.
Now, I know I usually bury the headline somewhere deep in a rambling paragraph about corgi betrayals or the existential weight of chemo snacks, but I’m going to do this one right:
MD Anderson called. They’re stopping chemo.
Not because the cancer’s taken some terrifying turn or because they’ve decided to give up on me and let Tugboat start choosing a new owner, but because… it’s working. The chemo is working better than expected. Well enough that they want to move radiation up by a few months to really shrink the tumor before surgery.
To be honest, when I first heard the nurse say it, I didn’t immediately process the good part. My brain kicked into survival mode: Wait, what? No more chemo? Is this bad? Are we skipping steps? Did someone lose a chart?!
But before I could spiral too hard, she kept talking: “You’re coming in next week for new scans and evaluations. The treatment is showing more success than we anticipated.”
Still, I hung up the phone feeling… underwhelmed. It didn’t feel like fireworks or champagne-worthy news. Mostly, I just fixated on the fact that I wouldn’t have to sit through chemo on the 4th of July. Which, you know, is something.
So I called my older brother and gave him the rundown. His immediate reaction?
“You’re an idiot. This is amazing.”
And while I argue with him constantly—sometimes just for sport—this time I couldn’t. He was right. This was good news.
Hurray.
Now, moving on to less life-altering and more emotionally complex topics: Tugboat.
If you’re new here, Tugboat is my corgi. If you’re not, you already know he’s a manipulative little loaf of judgment wrapped in fur.
These days I get two questions consistently
1. How is the cancer going?
2. How is Tugboat?
And honestly? The cancer’s responding better to treatment than Tugboat is responding to my existence.
He loves that I’m sick—not because he’s evil (probably), but because it means every time I go to the hospital, he gets a vacation. While I’m hooked up to IVs and losing my taste buds, he’s lounging at someone else’s house, being hand-fed, belly-rubbed, and told how handsome he is. I am, in his eyes, a mildly disappointing manservant whose main function is to refill the food bowl and then get out of the way.
He doesn’t like to be in the same room as me. He tolerates me. But send him off to stay with literally anyone else and suddenly he’s affectionate, loyal, clingy—basically everything you hope your dog would be.
Last time I was gone, a friend stayed at my place. She’s one of his all-time favorite people (which is a long list that notably excludes me). When I came home two days later, she had already left for work, and Tugboat thought she might be returning. He heard the door open, sprinted around the corner, eyes shining—fully expecting his beloved Ryan.
And then… he saw me.
He skidded to a stop five feet away. His face fell from gleeful corgi grin to what I can only describe as emotional betrayal, followed by a dramatic pivot and a slow, deliberate walk to the closet where he naps when he needs to disassociate from my presence.
People always think I’m exaggerating these stories. I am not. That dog is playing a long game. He knows exactly what he’s doing—and he keeps getting away with it. Mostly because everyone else finds it adorable. “Aww, classic Tugboat,” they say, while he glares at me from behind their legs, smirking like the little chaos goblin he is.
But—because life likes to be complicated—there are moments that give me pause.
Lately, I’ve noticed that he’s… different. A little more attentive. It might sound ridiculous, but when I’m struggling with some of the more personal, less glamorous side effects of cancer—like difficulty using the restroom—Tugboat is always nearby. Lying on the bathroom floor like some judgmental emotional support goblin.
And when chemo hits me hard and I can’t make it out of bed? He’s there too. Sleeping at the edge of the mattress. Not curled up next to me or anything sentimental like that, but close enough that I notice.
He’s still a jerk. Don’t get it twisted. The other night, I dared to move him slightly in bed so I could lie down, and he bit my foot. Bit it. Not hard, but in a way that said, this space is mine now and you are merely a guest in it.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—he does care. That he’s keeping an eye on me. Not out of affection, per se, but possibly so he can be first in line to inherit the apartment and begin vetting new owners the moment I croak.
Classic Tugboat..
Comments
AMAZING NEWS! <3