I have spent my morning with intermittent streams of tears running down my face, considering the ethics of euthanasia. There is no owners manual for a geriatric dog whose larynx is slowly paralyzing.
Her eyes showed weakness today for the first time, like she was telling me she can’t suffer through a fit too many more times. “Help me, best friend.”
Nobody warns you what life is like when you hoard syringes full of sedatives in case her tongue turns blue and she won’t calm down.
Or the thoughts of finding her flattened on the hardwood floor with white foamy vomit seeping from her mouth.