Underblog Rides Again

The End of the Line

Mookie's limp is not getting better. The anti-inflammatory meds she is on have not done a thing. She now ingests them, along with her glucosamine, anti-incontinence pills, and insulin at each meal. She has almost finished the prescription with no visible result. I am sure that it did not help matters that we tried to take her camping this past weekend. One last hurrah turned into one long hike in in the rain and one even longer hike back on Sunday, when she was carried a third of the way.

This morning, she fell down the last couple of stairs to the landing, and then fell down the next two stairs before she regained her footing on the wood stairs. She collapsed in the dirt as she peed. I fed her her food as she lay down on the floor in the kitchen, encouraging her and moving the bowl under her nose as it moved away from under her. I could hear the effort of her breathing as she ate. Perhaps it always sounded like this; I had never been so close to her as she ate. After eating, she did eventually make it back up the stairs for what my mom calls her "post-prandial nap."

NPR hosted a segment a few years ago, wherein the narrator described the giving of a lethal injection to his dog. His dog was to him, like Mookie is to me, the most faithful and adoring companion. Life, however, had become too painful for the dog to get around under its own power. He described cradling the dog in his arms as he administered the injection, as the sun set over the dog's favorite beach. He said that whenever the decision gets made to end a pet's suffering, it is almost always made too late, a statement I find haunting me as I contemplate what may be the last few months -- weeks? -- of Mookie's life.