Not long now for the old girl.

She’s been with us more than fifteen years, but I wonder if we’ll get more than a few days. Her back legs are failing. I have to carry her up and down the stairs.

She still loves her food, which is something. But it comes laced with pain killers and anti inflammatories. Mostly she sleeps, reminding me of Shakespeare’s sonnet on age.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

It will a hard goodbye.