I found out that my dog had cancer on the day that we returned home from my uncle’s funeral. He was young, Uncle Joe. He had problems with painkillers. I think he killed himself, but no one will tell me for sure. I don’t want to ask my parents. My mom definitely isn’t over it yet, and I hate seeing my dad upset.

And then we come home, and what we thought might just be a sprained leg or something turns out to be invasive cancer in Jack’s hip. Amputation isn’t an option; the cancer is in his joint and spreading. Chemotherapy isn’t a real option. It’s expensive, and would really only give him a few extra months.

I never understood why people cried over their pets dying when I was younger. Our cats, Ernie and Bert, weren’t exactly cuddly around me. When they died I barely even noticed.

But I’ve already cried more over Jack than I did over Uncle Joe, and he isn’t even dead yet.