Kabhi alvida naa kehna

The veterinarian running his fingers through my coat straightened up and cleared his throat.

“Ahem, let’s see now, it could be one of a few possibilities,” he said, fingering the bulbous mass on my leg that I had licked until bloody.

Mom’s heart sank to her stomach as she listened to him list medical terms the average person can neither spell nor pronounce. The prognosis sounded grim, especially since the only word she understood was “carcinoma.”

“I recommend immediate lumpectomy," continued the doctor, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Here’s the estimate,” he said, handing mom an itemized list as long as her grocery receipt before a party.

“Is Terri going to die?” asked Anu quietly, as we walked to the car.

“Where’s Terri going?” asked his curious sister. “Can we go with him?”

The 'immediate' surgery recommended by the vet was scheduled three weeks later when there was an opening in his busy calendar.

Meanwhile, bracing herself for the worst, mom treated me the way a first-born should be treated before younger siblings usurp his rightful place in the household.

Lots of cuddling, followed by teary talks, unhurried walks, treats and even the occasional ice cream followed.

“Here, kiss Terri,” mom would encourage dad, as soon as he returned home from work each day. Needless to say, she had to pucker up and lavish dad’s share of kisses on me so I wouldn’t take the rejection personally.

Now I know why they call this an Elizabethan collar

Post-op:

I’m happy to report that grandma’s prayers to the Hindu pantheon worked. The magic word, “benign” was left on our answering machine this morning.

Relieved, mom called to thank the vet and discuss the results of the biopsy, but he had already left on vacation.

I hope he’s enjoying himself. After all, we funded part of his trip.