A sad and sorry end to my chick-magnet

—“Since the late ‘70s I’ve had seven Irish-Setters,” I said to the veterinarian at Emergency Veterinarian Services near Rochester.
I was there to put my beloved Killian down. He had bone-cancer, among other ailments. The cancer had already metastasized into his chest.
“Two Irish-Setters were standouts, and Killian was one of them.
What I’ll miss most is that long nose, plus all the long walks we took — often over three miles.”
Wildest, craziest, spunkiest Irish-Setter I ever had. My previous Irish, Scarlett, was spunky, but Killian spunkier still.”
I always say Scarlett was the one who got me through the worst thing that could happen, the death of my beloved wife; BEST friend I ever had.
Scarlett, like Killian, was also rescue, but from a failed backyard breeder. Killian came from divorce.
My wife and I got Scarlett years ago. “Do I really wanna take on a dog this spunky at my age?” I was in my 60s then.
My wife died eight years ago — we both were 68.
Scarlett lasted five more years, and hung with me despite how messed-up and outta touch I was after my wife’s passing.
Scarlett and I were extremely attached. I was “the Boss,” and Scarlett my side-kick.
I had just turned 74 when I got Killian, and he was even spunkier.
Thanks to Scarlett I learned how to walk a spunky dog.
Let ‘im pull! That way he’s not charging out to the end of his leash to yank me to the ground.
Trainers go nuts seeing my dog pulling. “You gotta show that dog who’s boss.”
Baloney! Let ‘em pull! That way they don’t throw me down.
Scarlett threw me down a few times, but Killian only once.
More than anything they’re an Irish-Setter.
Let ‘em lead; they love it. Yank-a-pull; lunged left-and-right. As long as they’re ahead I can offset a yank.
What I say about Killian was he was a chick-magnet; the one who reversed my childhood.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU” versus “OH WHAT A PRETTY DOG” followed by “here I am talking to yet another pretty girl.”
“If I’d known you were out here, I wouldna come out here.”
Then “oh what a pretty dog! Can I pet him?”
Young and gorgeous — my parents, et al, convinced me I was unworthy. Not too long ago I woulda been scared.
Killian was very much a people dog = looking for human attention.
He dragged me into meeting pretty girls, and I got used to talking to pretty girls.
Go ahead! Say something; let the pretty lady pet the dog.
“What’s his name?” “Killian, as in Killian Irish-red.”
(Say that, and I won’t hafta repeat the dog’s name.)
The ladies love it, especially since I’m not a Harvey Weinstein.
“Oh look at that pretty dog!” followed by “Do I dare come over there?”
“Sure;” and off-we-go to meet three pretty ladies.
Years ago I wouldna said anything, but with Killian I got the hang of it.
Gorgeous and cute and attractive; not the frumps my parents, et al, approved. Most cutie-pies are happy to talk to anyone other than some lecherous geezer.
Ladies make great friends — hardly the trophies Trump and his legions prefer.
Seventy years late I learn this. Contrary to my parents, et al, I’m not disgusting.
And Killian is the one who triggered it. He wasn’t afraid of pretty ladies, so I shouldn’t be either.
The vet probably wondered why I was so distant as Killian was put down. I’m told Killian knew I was there, but he was so drugged he was off in the ozone.
I'm even more alone now = no more second beating heart in my house. No more eyes-on-fire and sonorous barking as we set out for Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
I’d see a deer, and point it out to Killian. “Lemme at ‘im; I’ll get ‘im!”
On the way home from Canandaigua, I’d pass a herd of black-Angus cows. I’d point them out to Killian, and he would send them packing: “get outta that pasture!
I get up from my supper table, and glance into my living-room towards Killian's sofa. No Killian.
I’m alone, and I sure miss that silly dog.

• Seven Irish-Setters, five of whom were rescue, five lost to cancer. (Four out of five rescues; one rescue ran away during a thunderstorm.)