Cooper’s Fight.

Cooper’s Fight

Cooper has been my rock for a decade. He’s the first to greet me at the door after a long shift, the quiet presence during late-night weather updates, and the steady heartbeat at my feet when life’s storms roll in. For the last week, though, my strong boy hasn’t been himself. His energy dipped. His breathing sounded off. And while some might brush it off as “just getting older,” I know my corgi clan well enough to sense when something isn’t right.

Today we went to the vet. His vitals were surprisingly strong—heart still solid, eyes bright, spirit undimmed. But the x-ray told a different story: something in his right lung. Infection. Cancer. Blood clotting. Questions with no clear answers. He’s ten years old, and though that’s considered a senior for a corgi, Cooper has always seemed ageless to me. The one who could herd chaos, wag through hardships, and keep pace with every chapter of my life.

We’ve started antibiotics, hoping this is just a bump in the road—a battle his body can win with a little help. But I’ve already made a promise: I won’t put him through invasive tests or grueling cancer treatments for the slim chance of buying time. Corgis teach us loyalty, and loyalty means knowing when to fight hard and when to simply hold close.

So here’s what I will do: I’ll love harder. I’ll slip him the extra treats. I’ll let him nap on the good blanket. I’ll scratch behind his ears a little longer and speak softer when I tell him he’s a good boy—because he always has been. Cooper has earned every ounce of joy I can give him.

Cooper has been there through my own storms—through job changes, late-night study sessions, weather chasing, and even the moments I felt worn thin. He has watched me grow, falter, laugh, and grieve. He’s judged me with those classic corgi side-eyes, but he’s never once left my side. Dogs have this way of reflecting back to us the kind of person we hope we are. When I look at Cooper, I see patience, trust, and unconditional love.

Tonight, he’s curled against me on the couch, his breathing a little heavier than I’d like, but his head rests on my leg like it always has. He doesn’t know the words “infection” or “cancer.” He just knows he’s safe. That’s the magic of dogs—they don’t carry the weight of what-ifs. They live right now. And maybe that’s the lesson for me, too.

Cooper needs your good vibes and prayers. And I’ll admit, I need them, too. These little herders wiggle their way into our lives and take up more space in our hearts than we ever expect. If you’ve ever loved a dog, you know the ache of uncertainty mixed with the fierce desire to make every day count.

So tonight, hug your pets a little closer. Share your fries. Sit outside with them and watch the sunset. Let them remind you that life isn’t measured in years or vet reports—it’s measured in tail wags, shared silences, and the way love fills a room, even on the hard days.

Here’s to Cooper—the strong boy who still makes me laugh even when my heart is heavy. We’re in this together, buddy. Always.

—Dr. Nick