The vet cut her bloody bandage off the back of Molly's leg and found big oozing clots and a tumor on her leg. The site of the needle poke from yesterday on the front of her leg was also bleeding.
Immediately he said, "Oh, no. We're going to have to talk about bad stuff today."
A blood specimen pretty well confirms either cancer or an autoimmune disease. The red blood cells are clumping. To do any more labwork would mean more needle pokes, more blood. Transfusions, therefore, would mean "blood in, blood out" because she's not clotting.
She probably has two days to live.
We are all a mess. Molly is such a good, good dog. I'm staying by her side. I know she'd be by mine if I were dying .
She is home and resting. She's on steroids to see if that helps the clotting factor. Also drinking Gatorade per vet's orders, and ate Ben's leftover egg whites with gusto. We have to confine her to the kitchen floor because of the bleeding, and we're taking turns lying next to her, comforting herself and our own souls with every stroke. That soft reddish gold hair and ears like mini throw rugs are irresistible. Always have been.
I am shaking like a leaf, feeling nauseous with grief, listening to her breathe too fast, but reaching that bandaged paw toward me. I love, love, love my dog. I hate, hate , hate to watch her suffer.