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.