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FLUFFY (poem)

Fluffy was 11.

That was all we knew as

we stared at the photo of the

non-fluffy dog, a bull-thing on the

wall at the vet. Fluffy’s smile was

as big as Lake Huron, with a mouth that

could vacuum up Detroit.

Enter our doc too perky and

pleasant to be bringing bad news and

she technically wasn’t. It was no news after

test after test. And more tests after tests down

the line. She provided non-answers yet a

small shard of hope – to the tune of some $5, 000.

 

I wondered what had

been wrong with

Fluffy – and how

much it had taken

to keep him alive.

-ryn gargulinski.07.18.14.

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