Hello.I'm Miah.

Hello again.

Before hospitals, scans and all the strange words the humans suddenly started using, life was wonderfully simple.

I'm obsessed with ball.

Not a ball.

Ball.

If there's one nearby, I'll find it. If there isn't... I'll keep looking until somebody realises the mistake they've made.

I love long walks. Swimming. Getting muddy. Generally making sure I come home looking absolutely nothing like the blonde Labrador who left.

There is one contradiction.

Apparently I'm supposed to like baths because I like water.

Absolutely not.

A bath? A shower?

I suddenly have very important business elsewhere.

A lake? A river? A muddy puddle? A swamp that smells appalling?

Stand back.

I'm going in.

My humans also have this mobile human kennel they call a caravan.

I think it's brilliant.

New places. New smells. New people. Usually some water nearby.

Perfect.

But for a huge part of my life, adventures meant something else too.

They meant Hush.

For a long time, I shared lots of my adventures with my best friend.

Well...

My girlfriend, really.

Her name was Hush.

We understood each other.

We chased. We played. We explored.

And every now and then, we simply sat together and watched the world go by.

Hush wasn't just another dog in my life.

She was part of how my life with Mum and Dad began.

If Hush had never come into their lives, I would never have come home with them.

One day Hush went on what my humans call a very special holiday.

Apparently it's somewhere called Doggy Paradise.

They say I won't see her again for a very long time.

I still think she just got there first so she could find the best tennis balls.

Sometimes...

I still look for her.

Just in case.

The funny thing about dogs is that we don't really count years.

We count moments.

Good walks. Favourite people. Special places. Friends.

I was very lucky to have all of those.

When I wasn't exploring, I spent lots of time working with Dad.

Officially, I'm not sure I had a job.

Unofficially...

I was Head of Customer Relations.

I greeted customers. Inspected lunches. Investigated suspicious sandwiches. Learned where the treat drawers were.

And, if I was especially lucky...

Discovered who was hiding bananas.

You'd be amazed how many humans have emergency banana supplies.

Life was good.

Really good.

As far as I was concerned...

It couldn't get much better.

At first...

Nothing really changed.

I still wanted walks.

I still wanted ball.

I still wanted to know whether every visitor had remembered snacks.

There were just...

Little moments.

Sometimes I slipped on hard floors.

Every now and then I misjudged a step.

Once or twice I tumbled down the stairs.

Nothing dramatic.

Everybody thought I was simply being a bit clumsy.

Then Dad started watching me when we walked.

I wasn't really limping.

It was stranger than that.

Sometimes I didn't quite walk in a straight line.

Without noticing, I'd slowly drift towards the hedge.

Almost as though somebody had quietly moved the path.

If you'd watched me for five minutes...

You might not have noticed anything.

Watch for an hour...

And something just didn't seem quite right.

Dogs don't spend much time worrying about tomorrow.

Humans do.

Dad started watching more closely.

So did Mum.

Sometimes they looked at each other when they thought I wasn't watching.

Humans do that.

They think we don't notice.

We always notice.

Hello again.

By now I'd realised something.

Humans had started having lots of conversations about me.

Usually when they thought I was asleep.

Or when they thought I wasn't listening.

They were wrong.

I'm a Labrador.

Listening for food wrappers is one of my greatest strengths.

Dad started taking me to see people who seemed extremely interested in how I walked.

They watched me. Bent my legs. Moved my paws. Felt my shoulders.

Everybody was looking.

Nobody was quite sure what they were looking for.

To me...

It all seemed a little unnecessary.

I was perfectly happy.

I still wanted walks.

I still wanted ball.

I still wanted to know whether the consulting room contained biscuits.

The humans kept asking questions.

Then one of those questions found an answer nobody had expected.

The initial outlook was devastating.

At that moment, we were talking about keeping Miah comfortable and stable for however long we had.

A neurologist could speak to us.

The vet would sit down with us properly when he returned from holiday.

But there was no great plan.

No confident promise that somebody could fix this.

Just a massive tumour and a Labrador downstairs sunbathing.

I couldn't face going down to her.

Not immediately.

I asked my apprentice to check on her.

Then...

I finished the ceiling.

Looking back, I think I was delaying the moment when the diagnosis and Miah would occupy the same space.

Until I saw her, she was still simply Miah downstairs in the sunshine.

I needed enough time to collect myself.

Enough to pick her up.

Take her home.

And hold everything together for long enough to drive.

I couldn't stay at home alone.

My mam had already started heading towards me.

I called and asked her to turn around.

I would go to her.

So I packed.

Miah and I went to Wakefield.

Not because I had a plan.

Because I knew I needed people around me.

People Miah loved.

A place Miah loved.

As soon as she got out of the car, something was clearly wrong.

She was wobbling badly.

Losing her balance.

She couldn't turn around on the spot without falling.

It was horrible.

Over the next few hours it eased slightly.

The following day we collected steroids.

They helped.

Not a cure.

Not an answer.

But a little stability.

And right then...

A little stability felt enormous.

The neurologist called as promised.

The conversation wasn't reassuring.

It was honest.

The mass was enormous.

Surgery might be possible.

It would also carry enormous risk.

But if Miah's outlook was going to remain as it had been that weekend — falling, uncomfortable and deteriorating quickly — then doing nothing carried its own terrible consequences.

For the first time, we weren't choosing between good and bad.

We were choosing between difficult options.

And asking which one might give Miah the best quality of life.

Then came the suggestion:

Wakefield.

Could we get to the specialist team there?

The irony was not lost on us.

We were already in Wakefield.

Two days later, Samantha was back home and we met a specialist who, bizarrely, lived only minutes from us — eighty miles away.

He gave us options.

Surgery was possible.

But his recommendation was to explore radiotherapy first, keeping surgery available if it became necessary later.

No promises.

No guarantees.

Just, finally...

A path.

The next move was a telephone consultation with Edinburgh.

That conversation would set the direction for everything that followed.

We never believed there was certainty.

There still isn't.

We didn't know whether radiotherapy would work.

If it did, we didn't know how well.

We knew one thing.

There was a chance.

And while specialists still believed the chance was fair to Miah...

We would keep going.

Our rule was simple:

We keep asking.

We keep trying.

Until somebody smarter than us tells us:

You're not helping Miah anymore. You're only prolonging her suffering.

That was always the line.

Her quality of life.

Never our reluctance to let go.

We needed somewhere to live in Scotland.

We tried caravan sites.

Nothing worked.

Eventually, getting desperate, we rang friends for advice.

The answer was wonderfully simple.

“Use our drive.”

So we did.

Caravan in tow, we pointed north.

Because Miah struggled more in the car by then, we took two vehicles.

She travelled best in my van.

Samantha drove separately.

We had two-way radios between us.

We talked rubbish.

Made jokes.

Commented on traffic.

Anything to make the miles feel ordinary.

Sometimes carrying on means pretending life is normal for another five minutes.

Scotland wasn't new to Miah.

It was where she began.

She was born on the Isle of Bute and had spent the first couple of years of her life around Livingston.

We had somehow brought her back to where her story started.

Before treatment began, we took her around some of our old walks.

Places she had known when she was young.

Whether she remembered them...

Who knows?

We did.

And it was beautiful.

At the caravan, she got out and explored.

Then promptly let herself into Gill's house.

Introduced herself.

Got everyone firmly on side.

And made herself at home.

Literally, in a way.

She explored the little piece of land beside the caravan and settled.

Quiet.

Calm.

With us.

During the weeks when she felt most poorly, she also became noticeably more affectionate.

She wanted to be close.

More cuddles.

More contact.

Now that she's feeling better...

She couldn't care less about us again.

Which, frankly, is rather reassuring.

The first day brought one of those questions nobody wants to discuss.

Resuscitation.

The dreaded DNR conversation.

Miah was going under anaesthetic for a full-body CT before radiotherapy planning.

The purpose was important: make sure there wasn't another serious problem that would mean radiotherapy was no longer fair to her.

Our answer was simple.

If her heart stopped and the team had already discovered another life-limiting condition...

If radiotherapy was no longer a reasonable route back towards good quality of life...

Then we would let her go.

Not because we wanted to.

Because, by then, her decline was already obvious.

We would never ask her to endure treatment simply because we weren't ready to lose her.

The scans were clear.

Nothing else changed the plan.

She could continue.

She went off with the team.

When she woke, she initially looked surprisingly lively.

Then she spotted us.

Walked over.

And collapsed into sleep.

That only happened once.

In the days that followed, Dick Vet stopped being somewhere Miah endured.

It became somewhere she wanted to be.

The day before had been difficult.

Miah had been sick after the planning scan.

Samantha and I questioned everything.

Is this really the right thing for her?

The team talked it through with us.

Their view was that the sickness was more likely related to the fasting, steroid dose and long day.

Medication was adjusted.

Her stomach would be protected more carefully.

And we made the same decision we would make every day afterwards:

Keep reassessing.

If this stopped being right for Miah...

We would change course.

The first radiotherapy treatment itself was astonishingly quick.

Short anaesthetic.

Treatment.

Done.

She came back sleepy.

After a nap at the caravan...

She was much more herself again.

We knew there could be difficult days ahead.

But we had started.

I had a sleep.

Everyone looked extremely serious about it.

Personally...

I thought lunch was considerably more important.

Day Two was refreshingly uneventful.

Miah seemed to need a little less sedation.

She disappeared for treatment and was back in roughly the time it took me to find a brew.

And then something extraordinary happened.

Ordinary life started creeping back.

She wandered the fields.

Ran around.

Stole socks straight from our feet.

Jumped over the little bridge as though nothing had happened.

We knew the steroids were doing much of the heavy lifting at that point.

They were also making life interesting.

She was ravenous.

Constantly thirsty.

And because she needed to fast before anaesthesia, explaining to a steroid-fuelled Labrador why breakfast had been cancelled felt borderline abusive.

Nights were difficult.

She drank constantly and needed to go outside repeatedly.

Miah doesn't bark or whine to wake us.

She simply sits politely beside the door.

So Samantha and I took turns sleeping lightly enough to notice.

Very little sleep.

Lots of medication.

Work rearranged around treatment.

Life compressed into getting through one day at a time.

Then there were the three tiny black marks on the top of her head.

They had been there since the beginning, used to line her up accurately for treatment.

But that day, for some reason I still can't quite explain, they started to feel comforting.

Maybe because they meant we were moving forward.

One treatment at a time.

They stopped looking like marks on her head.

They started looking like progress.

Day Three became a marathon.

The patient before Miah had a complication, which delayed the whole schedule.

That happens in hospitals.

Biology doesn't keep appointments.

Miah was also a little wobblier that morning.

The team had warned us neurological signs could fluctuate, and they were watching her closely.

Miah herself?

Entirely unconcerned.

Still hungry.

Still demanding walks.

Still convinced we were deliberately starving her before treatment.

By this point, we were beginning to suspect we weren't paying for radiotherapy at all.

We had simply funded Miah's gap year at Edinburgh University.

She disappeared each morning.

Came back slightly sleepy.

Had three mysterious dots on her head.

It all seemed suspicious.

For the avoidance of doubt...

The dots were radiotherapy alignment marks.

Not evidence she had embraced the Scottish student lifestyle.

By Day Four, something changed.

Miah launched herself out of the van with such excitement she almost took my finger with her.

That enthusiasm was normally reserved for parks.

Rivers.

Food.

Apparently Dick Vet had made the list.

When it was time to come home, we were told she'd had to be coaxed away from the radiologist because she didn't want to leave.

That mattered enormously.

The place we had worried she might learn to dread...

She loved.

Treatment was quick.

Recovery faster.

Her back legs were still occasionally uncertain about where they belonged.

But by evening she was full of herself.

Sassy.

Cheeky.

A complete monkey.

Still grafting for treats like she had never been fed.

We were exhausted.

She was delighted.

That felt like a fair trade.

By the fifth treatment, Miah appeared to believe we had enrolled her at Edinburgh.

She launched herself out of the van despite repeated instructions that Labradors should not launch themselves out of vans.

Before we even got inside, one of her favourite people came out, sat on the floor and cuddled her.

Apparently this had become routine.

No wonder she didn't want to leave.

She had also been invited behind reception while I went to the toilet.

By then, she had wormed her way into almost every corner of the department.

There was also a Collie.

A beautiful one.

He sat quietly in the waiting room and stared at her whenever they were both there.

Love at first sight?

Or two dogs comparing strategies for convincing their humans they had never been fed?

We'll never know.

Then came a harder day.

Miah had been up much of the night with an upset stomach.

By morning she was bringing up mucus with a little blood.

Dick Vet came straight outside to assess her.

Anti-sickness medication.

A wait for it to work.

Then the question:

Take her for a walk?

Or leave her with them?

I asked what they thought.

They explained that with most dogs, leaving the hospital for a while would reduce stress.

Then came the sentence:

“But Miah isn't most dogs.”

Apparently she wasn't even waiting in a kennel anymore.

She simply hung out in the staff office.

Like she worked there.

Somehow...

Miah had taken over another office.

The day was long.

Eventually the team became worried that she still wasn't interested in food.

Not even chicken.

Then, halfway through that conversation, someone popped their head through the door.

Miah had just eaten a bowl of salmon.

And wanted more.

The vet's face changed immediately.

So did ours.

Sometimes an entire day can turn around because a Labrador eats some fish.

After Friday's treatment, things deteriorated.

Just after midnight, Samantha and I looked at each other.

No debate required.

She wasn't right.

The biggest warning sign?

She didn't want food.

For a Labrador, that is not subtle.

We called the emergency team.

They asked us to bring her in.

Tests found two problems.

A small patch of aspiration pneumonia, most likely from inhaling vomit while she'd been ill.

And significant dehydration.

She had lost around two kilograms in a week.

Then came the phrase:

“She's in ICU.”

My heart nearly stopped.

The vet immediately clarified.

Miah did not require intensive care.

That simply happened to be where the vet was working overnight, and they wanted her nearby.

By this point she had collected another entire group of people who adored her.

Seven hours of intravenous fluids later, she had already gained around half a kilogram.

The next call was better.

She was brighter.

We could bring her home.

Or visit and leave her another night.

We left her.

Sometimes the best place for your dog is not beside you.

It is beside the people who know exactly what she needs.

When we visited...

She was bright.

Happy.

Wandering around.

And not particularly bothered that we had arrived.

Apparently we were now losing a popularity contest to an oncology department.

Treatment would wait.

Miah came first.

That was always the rule.

The next update was late because, quite simply, we were broken.

But Miah was recovering brilliantly.

Her inflammatory markers had fallen dramatically.

One lung was clear.

The other improving.

And Miah?

Bonkers.

Four walks a day.

Running.

Ball constantly at my feet.

Behaving more like the dog she had been six months earlier.

That mattered more than any number on a test result.

The team changed her treatment timing to reduce fasting.

Fluids would be given during anaesthesia.

The plan adapted around Miah.

Not the other way around.

There were still no guarantees.

There never had been.

But there she was.

Running through a field.

Ball in mouth.

Demanding another throw.

For those few minutes...

The tumour disappeared.

Not from her brain.

From ours.

Before treatment could continue, bloods and lungs needed checking.

Naturally, the blood analyser chose that exact moment to stop working.

Miah went across to another clinic for her tests.

Then something happened that perfectly explains what Dick Vet had become to her.

After the blood test...

She didn't return to me.

She walked herself back to Oncology.

Went inside.

Parked herself under somebody's desk.

And stayed.

The vet eventually came out and asked:

“Would you mind if Miah just stayed with us while we wait for the results?”

Would I mind?

She had walked herself back in, found her people and settled under a desk.

I think the decision had already been made.

The results were good.

Treatment continued.

Fluids during anaesthesia made an enormous difference to her recovery.

Then came the final insult.

Someone brought her outside to me through a side entrance.

She looked at me.

Turned around.

And headed straight back towards the hospital.

We fed her.

Walked her.

Gave her our bed.

Bought toys.

Threw the ball approximately fourteen million times.

And we were losing a popularity contest to Oncology.

I completely understood why.

The next day was...

Uneventful.

And after the previous week, that was wonderful.

Blood tests good.

Lungs improving.

Miah stiff from playing too much ball.

By lunchtime?

Fine.

More fusses in reception.

Happy to trot off with her oncology friends.

The team continued making small changes around her.

Fluids.

Timing.

Medication.

Monitoring.

One thing stayed with me.

They kept apologising.

For delays.

For changing plans.

For her getting poorly.

They didn't owe us an apology.

Medicine isn't straightforward.

Biology certainly isn't.

What they were doing was exactly what we had hoped for from the beginning.

They weren't treating a tumour.

They were treating Miah.

Changing the plan wasn't failure.

Sometimes...

Changing the plan was the plan.

Her lungs continued improving.

The blood results stayed good.

And the love affair with the tennis ball became ridiculous.

Then she did something she'd stopped doing before treatment.

She jumped.

She launched herself after the ball, landed on a downhill part of the field and promptly rolled onto her back.

My heart stopped briefly.

Miah?

Grabbed the ball.

Trotted back.

Dropped it at my feet.

Looked at me.

Throw it again.

That was the dog we had been fighting to get back.

Cheeky.

Determined.

Oblivious.

Ball.

Ball.

Ball.

I expected the final day to be easy.

It wasn't.

For weeks we had simply kept moving.

Diagnosis.

Plans.

Anaesthetics.

Pneumonia.

Medication.

Treatment.

Sleep badly.

Get up.

Do it again.

Then suddenly...

The last treatment was done.

And I couldn't stop crying.

Relief?

Gratitude?

Exhaustion?

Probably all of it.

Miah's lungs were now clear.

There was medication to continue.

We were warned that she might have ups and downs while the radiotherapy continued doing its work.

The first follow-up scan might show only a small response.

The team told us not to expect instant answers.

From here...

We waited.

Most importantly, Miah was doing brilliantly.

A few weeks earlier she had struggled to walk in a straight line.

Now she was wearing us out with games of fetch.

We said goodbye to a team who had somehow made a dog receiving brain radiotherapy believe she had simply spent a few weeks visiting her friends.

For Samantha and me, I don't think they could have given us anything more valuable.

So many people had asked how they could help.

We were fortunate enough to be able to keep giving Miah every opportunity.

But we wanted to give something back to the people who had carried all of us through those weeks.

So we shared the University of Edinburgh's Dick Vet charitable fund.

No obligation.

No pressure.

Simply an opportunity for anyone touched by Miah's story to pass a little of that kindness onwards.

Then...

The appointments stopped.

The daily routine ended.

We packed.

And eventually...

We went home.

Not with certainty.

Not with guarantees.

With hope.

Three days after treatment...

Nothing happened.

And it was wonderful.

No emergency.

No difficult conversation.

No new crisis.

Just...

Walks.

Sniffing absolutely everything.

Tennis balls.

And Miah making sure nobody sat down for too long.

There wasn't much to report.

After everything we'd been through...

That was exactly the update we wanted.

She was getting back into her groove.

Every day she looked a little more like the cheeky Labrador we knew.

There could still be difficult days.

Radiotherapy was still doing whatever it was going to do.

We still had no guarantees.

We still don't.

But that day?

That day was simply good.

And sometimes...

A good day is everything.

I'm not entirely sure why the humans have written all this.

From my perspective, things have been relatively straightforward.

There were lots of car journeys.

Several very nice people.

Some excellent offices.

A questionable shortage of breakfast.

A pleasing amount of attention.

One memorable bowl of salmon.

And quite a lot of ball.

I'm told something called radiotherapy happened somewhere in the middle.

I can't say I noticed.

Anyway...

There's a tennis ball on the floor.

Dad appears to be wasting valuable time reading this.

Throw it again.