In early June, I woke up in the middle of night drenched in bloody mucus and quickly discovered it was coming from Kokomo—my dog, my best friend, and the last living link to my dad. He was barely breathing. And the tumor that nearly took him out back in March had returned.

I had woken up to a nightmare.

How Kokomo Came Into Our Lives

Kokomo was originally rescued by my father in Long Island at a time when he was very much alone. His sister (my aunt Janice) had just passed from lung cancer. His mom (my grandmother) had passed away a year prior. I was away at college. And my brother was busy starting his career in the city. My dad had no one, so he decided to get a dog, even though he was unsure whether he had enough left in him to care for one.

This proved to be one of the best decisions of his life.

My dad went to a shelter primarily for pitbulls and found himself taken by the smallest one of the bunch: a dog they had named “Baby.” My dad instantly loved this pup, but he opted for a different name, knowing that he would never call him “Baby.” After much consideration, some inspiration from a small town in Indiana that he would often visit with his fellow Vietnam Veterans, and a song by The Beach Boys, he landed on the name Kokomo.

My dad and Kokomo became an inseparable pair that I often squeezed into. I lived with my dad in our two-bedroom Long Island basement when I wasn’t away in Albany, trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and first met Kokomo in the summer of 2016. I was immediately obsessed. All it took was quick sniff for Kokomo to realize I was family and start jumping up my legs with glee. We were best friends already.

Kokomo and I loved to play. Whenever I was home, I would chase him around the living room table, pick him up by the strength of his teeth while playing tug of war, and lay on top of him—tickling his belly—with every chance I got. At night, he’d sleep in my bed with me, knowing dad would still be there when I leave again.

When Everything Changed

Then, in 2024, my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 skin cancer. My dad was the type of person who seemed to always have a cold and always get over it. He had “9 lives,” my mom would remind me. And I lived in that denial, which he knew all too well. One day, he called me on the phone and told me, “I don’t think you understand how serious it is.” When I said, I do, he immediately followed with “but you don’t want to think about it.” And he was right. He knew me well.

A few months later he called me out of the blue, told me he was in the hospital, but not to worry, that he was “fine.” Foolishly, I believed him, and then a few weeks later he was dead. Kokomo was barely a thought in my mind. My dad’s upstairs neighbors were lovely people with a dog of their own and had been taking care of Kokomo while my dad was in the hospital. Naively, I assumed Kokomo was perfectly fine. The reality was, Kokomo was often sitting by our door, crying, wondering if his dad would ever return.

I felt horrible. How could I let Kokomo suffer like that? I didn’t even check on him. I just lived with this delusion that he was okay. How could he be okay? His dad had fallen, been taken away, and never returned. I rushed to the nearest pet store, bought as many necessities that I could think of, grabbed Kokomo, and brought him to Brooklyn with me.

Adjusting to Our New Reality

The first month I had him, I was in a panic. Some part of me thought I couldn’t handle it. I was a spontaneous person and didn’t think I could spontaneously do anything if I had a dog—which I later realized was ridiculous. And our apartment was so tiny compared to what he was used to. There wasn’t enough room to chase him around our living room table. We had no backyard for him to play in. The sidewalks were completely bare of the grass he had learned was safe to relieve himself on.

So, I put him up on a few adoption services, trying to find him a better home. Fortunately, people were not too keen to adopt a 9-year-old pitbull, despite how sweet and handsome he is. Eventually, my panic (which I realized was mainly grief-based) subsided, and I removed the postings. Kokomo was already home. I always knew this was his home. I specifically looked for a dog-friendly apartment in case this exact situation came up. How could I even consider giving him away? What was I, crazy?

The next few months were an adjustment, but more so for Kokomo than me. I took care of Kokomo back in Long Island for long stretches of time. And this wasn’t too much different. And, as my friends reminded me, I worked from home—I was with him all day! I could still do all the activities Kokomo wasn’t allowed to come to without worrying that I was neglecting him. And whenever that grief came back to haunt me, he would be there to comfort me. While he was the biggest reminder that my dad was gone, he was also the biggest thing keeping me on my feet—literally, as he needed to see all of Brooklyn, and I had to take him.

The First Sign of Trouble

Then, in late March 2025, Kokomo started bleeding profusely from his nose and was rushed to the emergency room at The Schwarzman Animal Medical Center (AMC). He was in such bad shape that he didn't even seem to register that I was in the room with him. When they took Kokomo away, behind the curtain, I was worried I may never see him again. This couldn’t be happening, I thought. It hasn’t even been a year since my dad passed, now Kokomo? If it weren't for the kindness of the other pet parents I met, I’m not sure how I would have made it through the night.

Kokomo did recover, thankfully—but his biopsy results only raised more questions. The tumor was diagnosed as a hamartoma, a type of mass—rarely found in dogs—that even top specialists at AMC, BluePearl, PennVet, and Cornell agreed was highly unusual. Because the biopsy sample was so small, no one could say for sure whether the tumor was cancerous. It might be; it might not. But what mattered most was that it was already doing serious damage, and radiation was deemed the best option to stop—or at least slow—its growth.

Surgery wasn’t viable due to the narrow, sensitive area where the tumor was located. And yet, Kokomo improved. The doctors suspected that the “debulking” done during the biopsy phase may have removed just enough to hold the tumor at bay. There was even hope it might not return. With that possibility in mind—and because his first emergency visit had nearly exhausted his annual insurance coverage—we made the decision to wait until August, when his policy would reset, to reassess.

For all of May, Kokomo seemed good as new. No reverse sneezing, no bleeding, full of energy. We even went on a little road trip to DC. He was so excited, he nearly ripped my arm straight off, dragging me all over the city. He was healthy, he was happy. He was, we hoped, healed?

Then came the bloody mucus moment and a barely conscious Kokomo. His left eye was completely swollen shut. Frightened, I immediately drove him back to the emergency room at AMC. Internal medicine was so certain the tumor had returned that they even suggested “humane” euthanasia. But Kokomo had only been in pain for one day—how could we give up on him so quickly? We agreed to start supportive care to relieve his symptoms while I reconnected with oncology and, soon after, all the other hospitals we had consulted, determined to find a real plan forward.

Fortunately, the steroids provided to Kokomo have proved extremely effective at minimizing the pain. Within 24 hours, the swelling completely vanished, and he hasn't bled since. But, as the doctors reminded me, the steroids are not treating the tumor—just the pain it causes. And if the tumor keeps growing, the steroids may no longer be able to help at all. So, we’re going to give radiation a try—at AMC, where this journey began, after many consultations and a lot of careful thought—despite the cost, despite the uncertainty. Because it's the best chance we have at keeping Kokomo going, and Kokomo deserves nothing but the best.

Thank you for listening to our story and for providing a helping hand in this tough time for us.

How You Can Help

Radiation isn’t just about buying time—it’s about giving Kokomo a real shot at life. Pitbulls often live up to 15 years, and Kokomo, despite everything, is in amazing shape. People still mistake him for a puppy. If the radiation works, he could have five more good years ahead of him. Without it, we may only have a few months.

That’s the difference your help can make.

The Cost So Far and Beyond:

Kokomo’s care from March onward has cost $$11,839.14. These expenses include multiple overnight stays, a full slate of diagnostics, a CT scan, and dozens of other line items I’m not medically inclined enough to explain. Lemonade (our insurer) has paid $8,242.31 so far, while I’ve paid $3,596.83 out of pocket. We have $1,757.69 left in insurance coverage (the amount Lemonade may still cover) until the policy renews on August 15th, when it resets to $10,000.

New diagnostics—required before treatment—are expected to cost around $5,000. Estimates for radiation range from $9,000 to $15,000. For transparency, a full financial breakdown can be found here: Kokomo Medical Expenses.

Whether it’s $5, $50, or just a share with someone who cares, it all makes a difference. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you so much.

Any funds received above our goal will be donated to the Best Friends Animal Society, a charity dedicated to ensuring more wonderful dogs like Kokomo are given a loving home, and none are killed.