Why Do We Do This To Ourselves?
Seems only yesterday she was a puppy, acquired six weeks after the dog we had died. We were still mourning his death. He'd been with us just eleven years. She'll be twelve this Christmas. That's eighty-four in human terms. No wonder she doesn't want to eat the way she did when she was ten. We are hand-feeding her boiled chicken. Now she's not even interested in a walk around the little park half a block from our house, though she will wander the backyard. Sometimes she looks around as if she has no idea where she is. Other times she wags her tail and gives us a doggy smile. She still likes having her ears rubbed. At some point we'll have to make a decision. But not today, no, no, not yet.