Old Yeller Didn't Live Inside

I was the recipient of some very sad news this evening. My sister's beloved dog (read "son") Tiny is losing his battle with lymphoma.
It was a few months ago that I received a text message from my sister describing a lump she found on her dog's neck. Her and her (now) husband had it checked out, and the test results were sobering. Tiny had stage four cancer, and my sister was told he had about six weeks to live.
Tiny has survived at least three months, now, blowing past the vet's deadline for his life. But my mother called me this evening to tell me he was losing weight quickly and hadn't eaten in days. It is clear Tiny does not have very long to live.
My sister and I have this one thing in common: we are both animal lovers, most specifically pet lovers. I began to cry. For Tiny, for my sister, for myself. I hate the thought of pets suffering and dying and I hate losing them even more.
Beardface was the good husband: he comforted and consoled me, but he did not understand. I knew he hadn't had a dog growing up, and stated this fact as proof that he could not possibly understand the love one can have for a loving dog. He cited his grandmother's dog, a fat, furry collie mix that roamed outdoors on his grandparents' farm, where he grew up. Naturally, I had to call shenanigans. Real dogs, I defined, do not live outside. To which Beardface replied:
Old Yeller never lived inside.
I married a smart allec.