We had her put down yesterday, as her better days were long behind her. She'd lost 25 pounds this year, 10 of them in the last two months. She was disoriented, arthritic, deaf and incontinent, she couldn't tolerate the heat, and whatever treatment our vet offered would only have delayed the inevitable.
One of Molly's favorite things to do in all the world was to ride in the car. This past week we've tried to get her excited about going for a ride, jangling car keys and such, and she never responded at all. She used to hop around like a puppy.
We know we did the best thing for her. It was a heartbreaking experience for my husband and me, though. She was two years old when we adopted her, and she came to West Virginia the same day I did, 13 years ago next month. Fifteen is old for a big dog.
We have another dog, Hershey, who will be seven this summer and is beginning to get a little grey beard in her chocolate-colored fur. But I don't want to think about that right now.