Milo had worn a collar every day since the shelter.
It was navy blue with a silver buckle — nothing fancy, just sturdy, reliable. Like him.
He wasn’t the kind of dog who played fetch or chased squirrels. He was quiet. Loyal. Always there. His collar had his name, his tags, and a small scratch where he once got it caught in the fence trying to chase a butterfly he couldn’t catch.
We never took it off. Not even at night. I guess it became part of who he was.
The vet said the mass was benign. But it was growing. Right where the collar rubbed.
She gave me a look. One I’d seen before — the “prepare yourself” look.
And I wasn’t ready. Not at all.
So I went home, sat with Milo on the floor, and for the first time in five years, I unbuckled that collar and took it off.
He looked at me, confused at first. Then — strangely — relaxed.
He shook his fur out like a wolf, laid down beside me, and rested his head on my lap.
I ran my fingers through the spot where the collar used to be.
It felt like a goodbye. But it wasn’t.
We switched to a soft, padded harness the next day. One that wrapped around his chest instead of his neck. Easier on the lump. Easier on me, too.
He strutted around like he was in a new suit. Head high. Tail up.
He chased a leaf for the first time in ages. And I laughed so hard I scared a squirrel off the fence.
It’s been four months. The lump’s still there. He’s slower now, naps more.
But every morning, I clip that same harness on him and we walk. Just the two of us.
We don’t go far, but we go.
And the collar?
It’s hanging by the front door.
A reminder of who he was… and how far we’ve come.