rainy sundays

She's had a streak of good days lately but that doesn't prevent the inevitable nor does it diminish the fact that she's simply not ok. She's whiter than she used to be; she's got what I call "Old Dog Nose" (it's really a fungus that attacks, well, old dogs on their noses); and in almost every picture from the last two years her cataracts show up better than almost everything else in the picture.

Still, when I go outside with her, she runs like she's 5. In fact, one day last week, she spotted a roaming cat and chased it into the neighbor's driveway. I'm sure she would have chased it further if she could have seen it. The next day, that same cat lay in wait behind a tree, then did some kind of bizarre faux attack before taking off across the yard as if the dog was in hot pursuit, which she wasn't. She was so surprised she just stood there as if to say, "What do you think you're doing, you stupid cat? Can't you see I have absolutely no interest in you? And yet you choose to blindside me. Chicken! Coward! Moron! Now, go away or I shall taunt you a second time." OK, the last bit is my voice, clearly. I love that old dog.

I can only think of one other thing that could possibly be more gut wrenching than putting her down and I can't even entertain the thought so, I won't. One horrible decision is bad enough.

Dog is God spelled backward