Cash's Journey : Episode 3 - Eye Contact

Long Days at the Clinic

I spent countless hours at the clinic with Cash over the next few days. My son, Aleks, joined me so he could see his buddy and cheer him up. Cash was still up on the emergency table, hooked up to IV fluids, anti-inflammatory medications, and painkillers. We brought him a blanket from home—something familiar, something that smelled like us—so he knew we were there. All we could do was sit with him, pet him, massage him, and talk to him, hoping to ease his fear and remind him he wasn’t alone.

Through the Glass

Finally, the vet appeared, her expression unreadable, and motioned for me to follow. We stopped in front of a large window that looked into the emergency area.

And there he was. My sweet boy.

Cashie lay on the closest bed, still and quiet. His small body was curled up, IV lines running from his leg, his eyes closed as if lost in some distant place. He looked so fragile, so unlike the wild and rambunctious pup I had known.

I swallowed hard and asked the question that had been haunting me: How is he doing?

The vet gave me the same answer as yesterday: “He is resting.”

Resting. That word again. Not improving. Not declining. Just… resting.

She walked me through the test results. No broken bones. No obvious spinal fractures. Just a massive hematoma pressing against his spine, the cause of all this stillness. It could take weeks, maybe even months, to heal. Only then would we know what kind of life Cashie would have.

I nodded along, pretending to absorb the information, but inside, I felt like I was drowning. I was supposed to be asking the big questions—Will he walk again? Will he recover? Should we be considering euthanasia?

But the words wouldn’t come. I was too afraid of the answers.

The Laugh That Changed Everything

I don’t do well with silence. When I’m nervous, I talk. And when I’m really nervous, I joke.

So, standing there in the middle of the clinic, with the weight of the world pressing down on me, I cracked a joke. I don’t even remember what I said—probably something silly, something to lighten the mood.

The vet laughed. And I laughed.

And if you know me, you know I have a big laugh—the kind that fills a room, that turns heads, that comes straight from the belly.

And then… something happened.

Through the glass, through the noise of the clinic, through the haze of painkillers and exhaustion, Cashie heard me.

One eye opened.

(Only one, because his concussion was so bad that the other was still looking in a completely different direction.)

And in that moment, through all the fear and doubt, he found me.

His one good eye locked onto mine. He didn’t blink. He didn’t look away. He just knew.

My boy was still in there.

A Decision Made With the Heart

I turned to the vet, my voice trembling. “Can I go see him?”

She nodded.

I walked through the doors, my legs shaky, my breath caught in my chest. And as I moved toward Cashie, his eye followed me. Every step. He knew. He recognized me. Even in his pain, even in his weakness, he knew I was there.

And in that moment, I forgot about the prognosis. I forgot about what I was supposed to ask, what I was supposed to prepare for.

I didn’t need answers anymore. I had my answer.

Cashie was coming home.

We would figure it out. We would fight this together. However long it took, whatever it took, I would not give up on him.

The Look I Will Never Forget

To this day, I will never forget that look. That single, unwavering, unblinking eye telling me, I’m still here, Mom.

I don’t know if it was a moment of divine intervention, or just the power of love, but something inside me shifted that day.

I no longer felt afraid.

Because I knew, with every fiber of my being, that my boy wasn’t done fighting.

And neither was I.