It's an odd feeling waiting for a pet to die. Four weeks ago, the vet told us our dog wouldn't last 24 hours. She's still here. But I can tell she's wearing out. She used to follow me around, all over the house. Last night, she couldn't even make it up to the first floor, let alone the second floor bedrooms. That's got to be hard for her. She's always wanted to be where the people are.
Four weeks ago, we all said goodbye to her. The boys cried. They slept downstairs with her when she couldn't climb the steps. Then, she seemed to get better. Slowly, they've forgotten that she was going to die. For a week, they gave her hugs and petted her every night before bed, in case she didn't see the morning. Now, they tell her to move if she's in their way.
But I can tell she's winding down. Like a clock ticking slower and slower until its pendulum stops swinging altogether, one night she will exhale and that will be that. Part of me has started to believe that she just doesn't want to leave us, that sheer loyalty to her family is keeping her here. But mostly I just try to show her all the love I can, so she leaves us knowing she was needed and wanted. And I don't think any of us will realize how much until she's gone.