Hi.
It’s me. Mojo.
I know it’s chemo day before anyone says it out loud. The morning feels wrong. My human moves slower, sighs heavier, and triple-checks her bag like it might grow legs and run away. I supervise from the floor, because clearly she needs oversight.
We get in the car. I hop up. I am buckled in like a professional adult. (I hate the seatbelt, but I understand lawsuits.)
When the hospital doors open, I switch into work mode. This means no sniffing strangers, no wagging at compliments, and absolutely no accepting bribes from nurses who smell like pocket snacks. I walk so close to her leg that we are basically one creature with four legs, anxiety, and a shared emotional support system.
She sits in the chair.
You know the one. The chair that advertises itself as comfortable but is clearly lying for insurance purposes.
Machines start beeping. Tubes appear. I do not like the tubes. I stare at them intensely so they know I am watching. If they make one wrong move, I will report them. To whom? I don’t know. But they don’t need to know that.
When the needle happens, she flinches. I don’t. I press into her leg like, It’s okay. I’ve survived nail trims. We can do hard things.
People say things like, “He’s such a good dog.”
Correct.
What they don’t see is that I am actively monitoring her breathing, heart rate, emotional stability, and the overall vibes of the room. I am a medical professional. I do not have a license, but I do have instincts and strong opinions.
Hours pass. The medicine drips. My human gets quiet in that way that means she’s tired beyond words. She rests her hand on my back, and I do not move even a millimeter—even though my nose itches—because this is my purpose on this earth.
Eventually the machines stop. The beeping fades. People smile and say, “You did great today,” like that explains literally anything.
My human didn’t do chemo.
Chemo did her.
She stands up carefully, like gravity has suddenly decided to beef with her personally. I brace. We do not rush. Rushing has been cancelled. Permanently.
The car ride home is silent. I stretch my head onto her knee even though I am technically not supposed to. She scratches behind my ears and sighs. This is therapy. This is cheaper than therapy.
When we get home, I take over completely.
Shoes off.
Bag down.
Straight to the couch or bed — dealer’s choice.
I jump up and arrange myself into the exact shape of comfort. I become a weighted blanket with a face. My head goes near her chest so I can hear her heart. My body presses against her stomach because I know that spot is always mad. My paws are tucked because I am polite and because I once accidentally kicked her port and learned my lesson.
She sighs. The big sigh. The one she’s been holding all day.
This is the part people don’t see.
If she sleeps, I don’t.
If she shifts, I adjust.
If she gets nauseous, I escort her to the bathroom and sit guard like a tiny bouncer. No bad vibes allowed. Absolutely no throwing up without supervision.
Sometimes she cries a little after chemo. Quiet tears. The sneaky kind. I lick them even though I’ve been told no licking. Rules are flexible on chemo days. Also, I am helpful.
Later there are crackers. Or toast. Or something that smells like it might stay down. I sit nearby in case of emergencies. Also in case gravity does its thing.
We watch something she’s already seen a hundred times because new things require emotional effort. She doesn’t really watch it. I do. I judge the plot. I do not like plot holes or commercials.
Her body feels different after chemo — hot, heavy, tired in a way naps don’t fix. I stay alert. Extra alert. I notice everything. I am not dramatic. I am thorough.
By nighttime, she smells like medicine, exhaustion, and home. She apologizes for being boring or snappy or not herself. I ignore that. She is exactly herself. Just tired. Also, I love her even when she steals my blanket.
When the lights go out, I stay half-awake. One ear on her breathing. One eye open. Always. If the ceiling fan looks suspicious, I will handle it.
I can’t fix cancer.
I can’t make chemo kinder.
I can’t stop the side effects from showing up tomorrow like uninvited guests who stay too long.
But I can stay.
And tomorrow — when she feels worse before she feels better — I’ll still be right here. Same spot. Same job. Same love.
Best service dog ever?
Probably.
But mostly, I’m just hers.
And that’s everything.
If You Want to Stay
If this story made you laugh, cry, or quietly exhale — whether you’re living this, loving someone who is, or just needed to feel less alone — you’re always welcome here.
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— Izzy & Mojo 🐾
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