Malcolm took Eddie to the vet on Saturday because we noticed a pink growth under his throat. The vet is concerned and is going to remove it tomorrow morning. He thinks it's cancer, hopes it's in the first or second stages, but Malcolm said he looked grim and doubtful.

Eddie's 9th birthday is next month. He's a 100-pound chocolate Lab with a lot of puppy still in him. He's always been an outside dog. After hearing this news we wanted so badly to bring him in the house, keep him close, bring him snacks and water, let him watch football with us, pet him more than we've ever done before. When we let him in, though, he did what he always does: he ran in and out of rooms, gave them a once over and then dashed out the back door like he couldn't wait to get out of nice-people-world and back to happy-dog-world.

He has a nice yard to roam, but he usually spends the day on the porch outside the kitchen, which is as close as he can get to us and still be outside. Yesterday, I was so happy to hear him bark at the Kentwood Water man, when normally I would've shushed him and worried about the neighbors complaining. Screw the neighbors; barking's good, I thought. Barking's what you do when you feel normal and you're noticing every little thing on the block. It's not what you do when you have cancer, when you're in pain. Bark more, Eddie. It's okay.