He’d been sick for a couple of months, and I could see the decline in his health. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I’d tried to tell myself that he was looking better, winning the battle against the disease that was eating away at him.

He’d gone from 20 pounds in February to 14 by the end of November. Since then, he’d been holding steady, eating like a horse, mooching a bite of whatever I was having, giving me Bambi eyes to con a treat. About two weeks ago, he started having trouble keeping his dry food down, so I switched him over to moist. That stopped the vomiting and I thought we were back on track.

Then seemingly overnight, he looked as though he had shrunk.

By the time we went to vet on Saturday morning, he was down to 8 pounds. Nearly half of what he weighed 2 months ago. I knew what the vet was going to tell me before I left the house: I could keep him around a little longer, but I needed to consider any pain he might be in and the quality of life he would have during his final days.

I sat in that tiny room with the cold stainless steel table and the uncomfortable resin chair for half an hour, cradling Truman in my arms, scratching behind his ears and looking into his eyes, wishing he could tell me what to do. The selfish part of me wanted to take him back home and let him live out whatever time he had with Josie and myself, removing any choice to be made on my part. The responsible part of me knew he was suffering and that prolonging it was for me, not him.

So now I sit here, nearly a week later, wondering if he hated me for the decision I made for him.

If he knew what was happening as I stroked his head while the vet administered the shot.

And if he knew just how much I loved him.

Truman

May 30, 1993 – January 27, 2007