Picasso the foster dog is getting worse.  We have conquered all his various ailments except the main one: his back pain. He's on two different painkillers, but after a few months of that the pain is began to break through.   The  little Chihuahua stumbles a lot,  is if he was just 86'd  from a bar at closing time. If he walks more than about 30 feet, his back will pay for it later. It was time to have The Conversation.

 “His quality of life has gone downhill,” I told Amy, Animal Shelter Relief's co-founder.  Hopefully, she would make the decision. But Amy's answer, as I feared, was  to trust my judgment. I would know when it's time to schedule the appointment for euthanasia.

Would I? My obituary would never read that I died after a "brave battle" with any disease. I'd pull the plug before anything that even mildly resembled discomfort set in. A bad case of the flu, perhaps, or chronic IBS both have Kevorkian potential. This preemptive attitude is  projected on to what I think Picasso would want.

On the other hand, I have fallen deeply in love with the irascible little monster. He's not terribly entertaining; he eats, sleeps and growls at the hotel guests. Period. But, love rarely makes sense. Watching someone slowly deteriorate, it's easy to ignore–deny–when that day is here.

As if he overheard my phone call with Amy this morning, Picasso ran, ran down the hall and then actually showed mild interest in a toy. And he wagged his tail, which he has never done outside the presence of a food bowl. 

That day is  certainly not today.