Hey everyone,
I’m kind of at a loss right now, and I just need to get this off my chest in a space where I can hope for a bit of understanding. I never imagined I’d be writing something like this, but here we are. My dog—let’s call him Buddy—is basically my entire world. Yes, I know that sounds dramatic, but I swear it’s the truth. The problem is, lately, Buddy’s been looking so skinny and sick that people have started avoiding us altogether. Some even cross the street when they see us coming, probably thinking I’m a terrible owner or that Buddy’s contagious or something.
I can’t even blame them too much. When I step outside and watch him trotting along, ribs showing, his eyes cloudy with that chronic illness we’ve been fighting, I can see how people might get the wrong idea. But it still hurts. It hurts more than I can put into words. I’ve loved Buddy from the moment I laid eyes on him, and to see him physically deteriorate like this has been devastating. What makes it worse is how people act like he’s invisible or, worse, like a monster. Sometimes I feel invisible in the process too—like I’m just this incompetent person who can’t take care of her dog.
But let me back up a bit.
Buddy wasn’t always like this. He used to be such a vibrant and playful dog. There was a time when he’d run across the yard so fast that I swore he had wings. He’d leap into my lap and knock me backward when I sat on the couch, and I’d laugh so hard I’d nearly cry. We had this routine where we’d go on a “victory lap” around the block every morning after he finished his breakfast. I called it a victory lap because Buddy always had that triumphant look in his eyes, like he’d just conquered the world one kibble at a time.
Things changed a few months ago.
It all started with Buddy losing interest in his food. At first, I assumed he was just being a picky eater. I tried switching brands, mixing in some wet food, adding gravy—anything to entice him. He’d sniff it, maybe take a few bites, then wander off as though he didn’t even notice that he was eating less than usual. That’s when I got worried. I took him to the vet, who ran a bunch of tests. The results were inconclusive at first, but they suspected some kind of chronic illness, something that might not ever fully go away.
I remember when they told me. My heart dropped. I could feel tears welling up, but I tried so hard to keep it together, at least until I got back in my car. When I sat in the driver’s seat, Buddy next to me whimpering softly, I just kind of lost it. It felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me. All the standard “pet parent” nightmares started swirling in my head: chemotherapy, special diets, endless vet bills, euthanasia. I was overwhelmed and completely terrified.
I decided I wouldn’t give up, though. If there was any chance of saving Buddy—no matter how small—I was determined to fight for it. That’s when the real journey began. Within weeks, the vet bills started piling up. Buddy needed medication to stabilize his condition. Some days he responded to it, and other days he didn’t. His weight continued to plummet, and as it did, the stares and pity from strangers became almost unbearable. The worst part was the shift in attitude from some of my friends and neighbors. They’d say things like, “Maybe it’s kinder to let him go,” or, “Are you sure you can handle this?” or, “You shouldn’t let him suffer, you know.”
I know they mean well. I do. But hearing that over and over again makes me feel like I’m failing somehow. Like I’m not giving Buddy the love and help he needs just because I’m not taking the easy way out and putting him down.
That’s where the isolation really started. I used to post photos of Buddy on social media all the time. Now, I rarely share anything about him. People made hurtful comments. They’d suggest I was abusing him or that I was only keeping him around for my own emotional comfort. The judgments cut deep. Sometimes I’d see people on the street, and they’d either pretend we weren’t there or cross the road to avoid us. Some even whispered things like, “Look at that dog. So skinny,” “Poor dog,” or “She should do something about that.”
I am doing something! I’m doing everything I can. And yet, it feels like no matter how hard I try, I’m not doing enough.
I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve spent lying in bed, unable to sleep, just listening to Buddy’s breathing. Sometimes it’s uneven, like he’s struggling a bit. When I hear that, I get this sharp pang in my chest and think, “Is it time? Do I have the right to keep pushing him if his body can’t keep up?” It’s a question that haunts me. But every time I start to think maybe it’s time to let go, Buddy does something that reminds me of that old spark he used to have. He’ll wag his tail excitedly when I walk in the room or try to jump up and give me kisses. It’s weaker than before, but it’s definitely there. He still wants to live, and I can see it in his eyes.
These glimpses of hope keep me going.
Recently, I switched vets, seeking a second opinion. The new vet was extremely compassionate, took Buddy’s vitals, ran some more tests, and suggested a different medication. She also recommended a new feeding regimen—a special type of easily digestible food, plus some supplements to help build up his strength. It’s been a rollercoaster since then. One week, Buddy might seem to do better, almost filling out a little, and then the next week, he’s backsliding. He’s got more energy overall, though, and that means the world to me. We’ve even gone on a few short walks where he seemed genuinely excited, sniffing around the neighborhood like old times.
Still, there’s a long way to go. He’s nowhere near what he used to be. Part of me feels guilty even remembering how robust he was, like I’m mourning a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore. But another part of me is grateful that he’s still here, that he still gets a chance to wag his tail and enjoy a bit of sunshine now and then.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, it’s exhausting—both emotionally and financially. And it’s lonely. I feel like my life has become centered around making sure Buddy’s okay, and everything else is secondary. My friends have started drifting away because I can’t always go out or hang with them. My family, well, they’re supportive but worried about me. They keep urging me to think about “quality of life,” for both Buddy and me. They say they’re scared to see me so stressed out all the time.
The hardest part is not knowing how this story will end. Will Buddy pull through, miraculously recover his old energy, gain weight, and be the playful dog I once knew? Or will I have to make the hardest decision of my life in a few weeks or months? I don’t have the answers, and that uncertainty is tearing me apart inside.
But here’s something a lot of people don’t understand: If Buddy still has fight in him, so do I. Every morning, I wake up, see him curled up at my feet, and think, “We’re still here. We’re still in this together.” Maybe he’s not the life of the party anymore, but he’s my companion, my constant, and I owe it to him to give him every chance I can. I’ve watched him perk up when I come home, even if it’s just because I’m rattling the treat bag. I’ve watched him try to play with an old squeaky toy he used to love. Sure, it’s more of a gentle nudge than the frantic biting and tossing he used to do, but the interest is there. That means the world to me.
Of course, I’m realistic enough to know we might not get the outcome I dream about. The vet told me that some conditions just don’t have cures—they can only be managed. And sometimes, even “management” isn’t enough to save them. But I guess a big part of me is holding onto hope. Because if I don’t hold onto hope, who will?
This post isn’t really about seeking advice—though if you have any, I’m all ears. It’s more about telling our story. I want people to understand that just because a dog looks skinny or sick doesn’t mean their owner is neglectful. Sometimes, we’re fighting battles that are so, so hard behind the scenes. Sometimes, the dog is receiving top-notch care, but their body just isn’t cooperating. Sometimes, the decisions we face are more complicated than you can imagine.
So, why am I sharing this? Because I’m tired of feeling alone in this fight, and I’m tired of pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. Buddy deserves to be seen—not pitied from a distance or ignored like he doesn’t exist. Maybe someone out there reading this has gone through something similar and can share a ray of hope or a story about how things turned out okay for them. Or maybe I just need to release this pent-up emotion so I can keep pushing forward for Buddy.
Either way, thank you for reading this far. Seriously, thank you.
I want to end on a note that’s both happy and dramatic—if such a thing is possible—because Buddy and I are still in the thick of it, and we’re not giving up. Just last night, I caught him sniffing around his new food bowl, and for the first time in weeks, he ate with something resembling enthusiasm. He didn’t finish the whole bowl, but it was the biggest meal he’s had in a while, and seeing that glimmer of appetite lit a spark in me. I realized that as long as he’s willing to try, I have to be willing to keep going. Even if people think I’m insane for hoping, even if it costs me every spare minute and cent I have, I won’t walk away from him.
I know some of you might say I’m only delaying the inevitable, that maybe it’s selfish, or that it might end badly. And you could be right—there’s a real chance it might. But until then, Buddy and I are holding onto whatever life throws our way. Maybe next week will bring better test results, or maybe it’ll bring another challenge we’ll have to fight through together. I don’t know. All I know is that he’s still here, tail wagging, giving me that look that says, “I’m trying, Mom.” And so I’ll try too.
So, yeah, that’s our story—for now. It’s not neatly wrapped up, and I can’t promise it’ll ever reach the fairytale ending I’m praying for. But Buddy hasn’t given up on me, and I’m sure as hell not giving up on him. If there’s even the smallest chance that he can beat this or at least live a comfortable life for a bit longer, I’m going to chase it. Because sometimes, all we have is hope…and that can be enough to keep us going a little while longer.
Thanks again for reading and letting me pour my heart out. And please, if you’re walking down the street and see a skinny, sick-looking dog, remember: you don’t always know the full story.