My Citibank credit card balance is just a few cents shy of hitting $17,000. The majority of the balance, $11,000’s worth to be exact, is expenses from X-rays, CT scans, echocardiograms, and chemotherapy drips. But none of it’s for me — it’s all for my dog.

I first noticed the strawberry-red growth in Pearl’s mouth over Labor Day weekend. She performed a particularly big yawn and there it was: a menacing red mass that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago at her last checkup, but clearly meant business. I spiraled into a fit of tears on my kitchen floor, picturing the next few months of her life, fighting the growth with tubes, needles, and the dreaded cone of shame. She was blissfully unaware that life was about to suck, which made me feel both at ease and profoundly sad.

My visions weren’t far off, but I’d have to wait for an official diagnosis to know that. Because it was a holiday weekend, the vet was closed until Tuesday. It was also my boyfriend’s birthday, and the celebration was overshadowed by the impending bad news. I spent those three days alternating between trying not to think about it and obsessively googling all the things you’re not supposed to google when you suspect your 10-year-old pet has cancer. He assured me it could be nothing, but I knew the second I saw the mass: My dog was dying.