I don’t know what cancer is.
I don’t know what chemotherapy means.
I can’t pronounce “oncology,” and I definitely can’t spell it.
But I know what pain smells like.
It’s different than sick.
Sick smells like medicine and saltines.
Pain? Pain is sharp. It smells like burning and fear and quiet.
When that smell fills the room, I go from Sleep Mode to Full Guard Mode.
I’m not a service dog.
I don’t fetch things.
I don’t open doors.
I don’t even bark — because frankly, that’s exhausting.
But I’m really good at staring.
And I’m excellent at laying my whole potato-shaped body across a human’s legs until they stop trying to pretend they’re okay.
I’m basically a four-legged emotional weighted blanket.
You’re welcome.
Some days, Mom gets up and says she’s “fine.”
She brushes her teeth, puts on her “I’m functioning” voice, and tells my dad not to worry.
Then she walks into the kitchen and leans on the counter like gravity suddenly tripled.
Humans fall for it every time.
But I know better.
She talks differently when she’s lying.
She moves differently when she’s hiding something.
And I can smell the sadness she’s trying to swallow like it’s peanut butter on a pill.
(And trust me — I know that smell.)
So I get closer.
She might want space.
She might say she’s fine.
But I stay.
I stay when she cries into the pillow because her bones hurt.
I stay when she falls asleep mid-sentence.
I stay when she throws up for the third time in an hour and still says, “It’s okay, I’m okay.”
Spoiler: she’s not.
So I sit next to the toilet like it’s my job.
And it is my job.
I don’t like it. The floor’s cold. And honestly, it smells like betrayal.
But I sit there anyway.
Because she’s my person.
And I don’t need her to be strong for me.
I just need her to be.
She jokes that I’m her shadow.
That I follow her from room to room like a little, wheezy stalker.
It’s true.
I even watch her in the shower sometimes — not because I’m weird, but because that’s when the pain sneaks in.
And yeah, sometimes she gets annoyed and says,
“Mojo, I need five minutes to myself.”
So I dramatically sigh.
Lay exactly four feet away.
And stare at the door like a war widow waiting for her soldier to return.
You know. Normal things.
I don’t understand scans.
Or tumors.
Or why her food sometimes comes back up before it even counts as a snack.
But I know what it looks like when she’s too tired to speak.
I know when she winces but pretends it was nothing.
I know when she stops talking mid-cuddle and just… goes quiet.
That’s when I press my forehead to hers.
That’s when I lie on top of her like an overcooked ham and dare anyone to tell her she’s not doing enough.
Because she’s doing everything.
Even when she thinks she isn’t.
So no, I’m not a therapy dog.
I’m not trained.
I snore like a dump truck and I shed like a threat.
But I’m here.
Always.
And while the rest of the world watches her from a distance,
I’m close enough to smell the truth.
She doesn’t have to say a word.
I already know.
And I will never leave.
— Mojo 🐾
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