Cancer always wins

—What follows is what I’d say to *****, my cute little 19-year-old contact at the kennel where I daycared Killian.
I haven’t seen ***** in a while, so I worry.
She probably knows Killian is gone; her coworkers probably told her.
***** seemed to love Killian.
I took Killian to my local pet-supply before I put him down.
Killian always loved going to that pet-supply. He’d bounce out of my car, then drag me toward the entrance.
The door opened automatically, then “pets, please keep your parents leashed.”
And in we’d go, thrilled to greet his many friends. Everyone at that pet-supply loved Killian.
“Such a ham,” followed by, “pet me!”
I’d try to shop, and Killian dragged me back to his friends.
Nuzzle-nuzzle! = “Why’dga stop?”
But this time was different.
There’s a small rug near the entrance; I’d keep him on the rug so he didn’t fall on the slippery floor. He was only on three legs.
I got him inside, but he wanted to return the car.
The fire was gone; no longer a spunky dog.
This would depress my 19-year-old friend, who may be 20 by now.
She was thrilled a week ago to bring out my Spunk-Meister. Smiling broadly, and I melt when she does.
But now the fire was gone = no more Spunk-Meister.
“I just wanna go home, back to my sofa.”
Cancer always wins! I lost my wife to cancer, and now five dogs (outta seven).
How I ever made friends with a 19-year-old I have no idea. But I think Killian helped.
No Killian if I meet her again. And if I do I’m sure I'll just cry.
We lost a really good one. Cancer always wins!