For more than five months, everything went well—until early December, when she fainted again without warning. The same scenario, and just as quickly, she recovered. We visited Ann again, and this time she drew blood. The test revealed a dangerously low white blood cell count. Ann explained that the causes could range from an infection (possibly parasitic) to, in the worst case, cancer. Over the next few days, she fainted again a few times. A follow-up blood test showed her condition was rapidly deteriorating. Immediate action was vital.

We were referred to veterinarian dr. Tom Hendrickx in Hasselt for further investigation.

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veterinarian Tom:
Spike, a very sweet Jack Russell Terrier, had been known for about two years to have a leaky heart valve. Maybe that was causing these fainting episodes? She was nearly 10½ years old by then. However, after several cardiac diagnostics (chest X-ray, ECG, ultrasound), there was no detectable heart failure to account for her symptoms.

So where did the fainting originate? Previous blood tests showed a strange, steadily declining trend in white blood cells, but little else. Sadly, veterinary medicine lacks the tumor markers in blood tests that human medicine has. A common misconception among pet owners is that veterinarians can detect cancer in blood tests. We cannot—that’s sadly a serious shortcoming, especially given the number of cancer patients we see.

We decided to perform an abdominal ultrasound. There were faint spots on the spleen and liver. Biopsies of both organs (which Spike tolerated without sedation) gave little additional information. But by echo-detected irregularities on the spleen often indicate that splenectomy must be considered. This was a very difficult decision for Spike’s owners and  more questions than answers still remained.

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A quick decision was necessary—Spike was far sicker than we had initially believed. She began to deteriorate rapidly in the days that followed.

What ensued was a time filled with joy and sorrow, hope and fear, a profound love for our animal, a time of discovering more about ourselves, of making decisions we never wanted to face, sleepless nights filled with self-doubt, and endless tears.

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As a veterinarian, I felt immense gratitude toward Elly and Dante for trusting us enough to proceed with surgery, despite the many valid concerns (age, heart condition, poor blood values, and so on). That surgery became the cornerstone of all subsequent steps in Spike’s treatment and was thus absolutely crucial.

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The surgery was scheduled for December 23. Because her white cell count was dangerously low, she had to be admitted the evening before. She received an IV with medications and a blood transfusion to boost her strength before the procedure. We left her there with heavy hearts. We asked if we needed to stay—no, they said, she was under constant supervision and in good hands. Still, leaving her there alone was unbearable. She had never spent a night away from home since we got her. Now, when she was so sick and needed us, we were leaving her alone. Would she make it until morning? She was so weak, looking at us with sad eyes. With lump in our throats, we each said goodbye quietly. The drive back to Lommel was silent; we couldn’t stop the tears. We felt helpless and bewildered.

After a sleepless night, we received the liberating call from the clinic. Spike had slept soundly through the night and was strong enough to undergo the surgery. We headed to Hasselt immediately, wanting to stay nearby in case anything went awry during the operation. We had just lit a candle at the Heilig Paterke of Hasselt when the clinic called back to say the surgery was successful and Spike was recovering. We could visit in about an hour. We saw her briefly—she was still sleeping, but peaceful. Tom provided an update, and we drove home feeling relieved and hopeful.

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During the surgery, the entire spleen was removed, and a liver biopsy was taken. Externally, both organs looked normal. Spike’s recovery was smooth—she was a tough little dog.

To plan further therapy, we needed to know exactly what was wrong with her spleen. Histological examination is invaluable for any suspicious mass or organ. Samples were sent to Dr. Hilde De Cock at the AML in Antwerp.

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The next day—Christmas Eve—we were able to bring her home. She was still very weak, the surgery had taken so much from her. We canceled our planned Christmas gathering with the children and the family. Everyone agreed: Spike’s recovery had to come first. I still remember Tom’s words: “Take her home quickly—this is not a little dog to leave here alone. She will recover faster in her familiar setting.”

That was our first Christmas without family. Everything revolved around her. We celebrated profoundly with our girl. It turned out to be Spike’s last Christmas. In the days that followed, she visibly brightened. Within a few days, she was hopping on and off the couch, eating well, full of energy again. Even her blood counts normalized within days. Happiness was smiling at us. Our little girl was energetic again.

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Remarkably, after the first post-op blood test, her dangerously low white cell count had already returned to normal. The spleen is an organ involved in processing and clearing blood cells—a kind of recycling depot for blood cells. Bodies—whether human or animal—can function well without it.

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About a week later, we received the spleen histology report: Spike was suffering from lymphoma. Our little world collapsed. How much time did she have left? Would she suffer a lot? What could we do? Was this it? It couldn't be—the way she was so lively and playful! We couldn't accept it. We had a long talk with Tom, who explained the options and the road ahead. He was immediately very  clear about the situation: Spike would lose the fight against cancer eventually. He gave us no false hope.

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Lymphoma is cancer originating in lymphocytes—our white blood cells, which normally defend the body. When they become tumorous, lymphoma arises. The most common form shows as enlarged lymph nodes in the throat, shoulder, groin, behind the knees… The liver and spleen can also be involved. Lymphoma is considered a systemic cancer, meaning it affects the whole body from day one—this is not a case of metastasis. There are also forms affecting only the skin or gastrointestinal tract. There may be many more DNA-level variants we do not yet understand.

Spike had an atypical form of lymphoma—her lymph nodes weren’t enlarged; tumor cells were scattered in tiny islands in her liver and spleen. Additionally, it was a T-cell lymphoma, more aggressive than B-cell lymphoma.

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What could we do now? Doing nothing was not an option—she would only have a few more weeks. Our Spike was far too precious. She was more than just our dog, she was an integral family member. With our children grown and gone, she had become our “little girl.” She was everywhere in the house, literally our sunshine—and suddenly, it could all be gone. We refused to watch that happen.

Then we asked ourselves, “What would we have done if we had been told this about one of our children?” As parents, you'd seize every tiny chance—no matter how small—to save your child. So we followed our hearts and decided to go for it. Some might say you can’t compare a child to a pet—but that’s not the point. We only mean that when you love someone deeply—and that person gives you back so much affection—it’s unbearable to accept that they may not be there tomorrow. You don’t do it for yourself but purely out of love, hoping to save that precious life.

So the question became: what now? Do nothing? Offer palliative care? Or try chemotherapy? Medically, the odds weren’t good—but after thoughtful reflection, we chose chemotherapy.

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That decision involved far more than medical facts—emotions, family, personal values all weighed heavily. I’ll never forget the words of another dog owner whose 14.5-year-old dog also had lymphoma: “I couldn’t just say ‘let’s do nothing anymore, go ahead and die…’” His dog lived to nearly 15½ years!

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Euthanasia might have been the easiest option—but not for us then. Spike had improved so much after surgery that even the veterinarians suggested holding off. Otherwise, we would have been haunted by “what-ifs” and guilt that we didn’t do everything we could. Searching online, we came across the success story of Ben—a Rottweiler treated by Tom for lymphoma. Ben responded well to chemotherapy and gained three extra years. After another in-depth conversation with Tom, our decision was made: we would pursue chemotherapy.

Clear agreements were made. Spike’s quality of life was paramount. She must not suffer. Tom reassured us that, unlike humans, dogs usually handle chemotherapy very well—without vomiting, hair loss, or major side effects. We agreed that if the first chemo didn’t work or made her ill, we would stop immediately and switch to comfort therapy.

The first chemotherapy session was scheduled. With anxious hearts, we began.

 

The plan was six sessions, then reassess. As expected, dogs tolerate chemo much better than humans. Spike was no exception. Remarkably, after the first treatment, she felt well—better than in the months before. Remember: even though her spleen was removed, her liver was still riddled with tumor cells. I firmly believe that the first chemo sessions drastically reduced those cells, and her quality of life improved almost immediately. Even her fainting stopped for a time.

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The treatment went far more smoothly than we expected—each session lasted no more than ten minutes. Spike responded perfectly, as if nothing had happened. The chemo was highly effective. She was alive again, eating well, eager for walks, playing with her ball, running happily through the woods—our Spike was clearly back. Interim blood tests were positive—white cell count normal, no fever, all good. Even the precautionary measures in the days following chemotherapy were manageable.

We knew she couldn’t be cured, but we hoped her quality of life would continue. How much more time would we have—six months? A year? Two? We had no crystal ball, just hope. We told each other, “Every extra month is a blessing,” and since one human year equals seven dog years, we counted in dog years now.

From that point, we cherished her more than ever. She was pampered, given chicken fillets or pasta with chicken broth to regain strength. She reveled in every treat and even gained half a kilo. She was as active as ever, excited for walks, thriving—we were so happy to see her doing well again. We even began planning life after her sixth and final chemotherapy.

Unfortunately, after the fourth round of chemotherapy, Spike began to decline. She tired more quickly on walks and spent more time curled up in her bed. Deep down, you hope she’ll bounce back—you think, “She’s just in a slump.” But shortly before her fifth treatment was due, she began fainting again. The cancer had returned. Her blood values had dropped drastically once more. She was too weak to receive the fifth chemo.

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As a veterinarian treating cancer, I often view these therapies as erecting barriers to slow down a disease determined to spread. The aggressiveness of the cancer dictates how quickly it overcomes these barriers—and thus, how successful the treatment ultimately is.

From that point on, the approach became purely palliative—comfort therapy focused on pain relief and medications to help her feel as good as possible.

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From then on, our little girl began to fade rather quickly. Her appetite diminished, walks became increasingly difficult, and she slept much more. The cortisone did its job—she had some good moments—but in her eyes, we could see the spark was gone. Quietly, gently, she began to let go.

On Monday, April 4, we took one last walk through the Kattenbos—her forest, the place she knew so well, where she had always loved to be. That morning, she was as excited as ever when she heard the familiar jingle of her leash. She eagerly headed for the door and stepped confidently into the car, full of anticipation—because that meant a walk in the woods.

We stopped by Ann’s first, just to check if it was still okay. “Let her enjoy it,” Ann said. “She’ll let you know if it’s too much.” And so, with her familiar little burst of energy, she ran into the woods, sniffed around a bit, had her usual little pee—off we went. At first everything seemed fine, but it soon became clear she couldn't manage anymore. We picked her up and continued the walk with her in our arms, along the paths where she used to run so freely.

We took a few pictures—her little head nestled close against us. We looked at each other and knew: this was the last walk. This was where it ended. Our tears came freely.

On Wednesday, April 6, we visited Tom one final time. Since Monday, she had mostly slept, barely leaving her basket. Tom gently said: "Don’t wait too long. It could go very quickly now—maybe a week at most. Cherish these last days with her. Make the decision in time, so she doesn’t have to suffer.”

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These are the moments when, as a veterinarian, you must accept the limits of (veterinary) medicine. Yet it always feels like a defeat, without question. You know, in your heart, that this is likely the last time you’ll ever see Spike again.

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The next day, Spike showed a bit more zest for life—a final flicker, as it turned out. Everyone came to say their goodbyes. Our little grandson Vince even brought a cookie and a cuddle toy. Her friend Tessa came by straight from school with a farewell note she had made in class for her playmate.

That same evening, Spike became very restless. She refused her medication and wouldn’t eat. During the night, she grew ill. The moment had come to let her go—she was in pain now, and that’s something you never want for her. We took her between us, and gradually she calmed down.

Around 7:30 a.m., we called Ann. She couldn’t come herself—she was attending a course in Ghent. The conversation was quite emotional, partly because Ann had a soft spot for Spike. Her partner Wim Vrancken, also a veterinarian, was going to arrive at 9:00 a.m. He had known Spike for some time. Ann wished us a lot of strength.

Our sons both stopped by around 8 a.m. Spike still responded fairly well. She sat up, wagged her tail as usual, waiting for a pet. Then she lay back down. One stroke over her head, a look toward Dad, a quiet “see you later, Mom”—no words needed. Without saying more, they left. They were struggling too.

We then sat down on the couch with Spike. She nestled close to us, laid her little head in my hands, and with a deep sigh, quietly passed away. It was Friday, April 8, at 8:20 a.m. Veterinarian Wim arrived at 9 as planned and could only confirm that she had gone peacefully. In a way, he was relieved she passed naturally. Even though you know euthanasia is the right choice, it’s still incredibly hard emotionally to go through it.

Her passing made us realize just how important she had been in our lives. The loss is profound. The small things that felt so natural for 10.5 years were suddenly gone. The house feels cold and quiet now. The grief over her death was so great, and my feelings hard to express. I read several books about losing a pet and grieving to find answers to what I felt but couldn’t put into words. In those touching stories from others who had lost their pets, I found comfort. Tears flowed, but also the realization that you are not alone in your sorrow. It offers a certain support.

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Spike’s story was special in many ways. It was a story of searching, of hope, of joy, of sorrow, and of respect for life and death. I am truly grateful that, as a veterinarian, I was part of this story. Spike is one of those animals who leaves a mark on your soul as a vet.

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On April 8, 2012—exactly one year after she passed—we walked in her forest again, along the paths she ran so many times. It wasn’t easy, but gradually the memories of those beautiful moments surfaced, and the tears gave way to a smile.

To thank her for her love and loyalty, for all the wonderful moments and the joy of life she gave us, we wanted to give something back. That’s why we undertook a pilgrimage walk to Assisi. This journey also helped us give her passing a meaningful place.

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Spike’s story inspired the founding of the Belgian Cancer Fund for Animals. In this way, her memory lives on in a special initiative.

 

We hope many people, pet owners, may find some comfort or reflection in this story.