As I was starting to say…..the second opinion doctor phoned just as I was about to hop a train into the city. This was the call from the oncologist who as a first step, had his team of laboratory specialists retest Pugsley’s biopsy results because his initial review indicated inconsistencies with a Grade 3 diagnosis, which is the worst kind of Mast cell tumor.

Remember I said it would be a miracle if it came back as a Grade 2 because they might not even recommend chemo for a 2. And even though I had already made up my mind against chemo for Sausage, of course it would still be better if it wasn’t even a decision I had to make.

I prayed, you prayed, I rub my grandmothers rosaries on Pugsley’s pink belly before bed and I go to church to light candles on my way home from work. Saint Francis of Assisi knows us well. The doctor also reported the ultrasound and radiograph results. He actually used the word “remarkable” to describe how good and clean Pugsley’s stomach and chest area look.

Out of four pathologists, three of them consider it a Grade 2 MCT. In the end, I realize it’s all a numbers game, 2’s or 3’s or varying degrees of aggressiveness of the grades. It’s not a dramatic difference, but the prognosis for a 2 is better than a 3. Another piece of good news.

The important thing is that the Sausage is happy and more vibrant and exuberant than I have seen him in months. He is tolerating all of his herbal medications, capsules, and powders. He hops around the living room like a bunny at mealtime waiting, sometimes tripping me to get to his feeding station before me in great anticipation of his special organic baby food and fresh veggies mixed with his new potions. He prances and struts down the road with his paws pointed upward, trotting in a royal gait like a show dog performing at Westminster. He thinks he’s the shit. And he is.