This morning I held Rosy the Dog while the vet gave her the euthanasia shot.

Afterward, my mom and I wiped away the tears and did the math. At 14 and a half , Rosy was just about 100 years old in dog years. (I think.) She was not a small dog, though she was a lot smaller this morning than she had been in her prime. So by any standard, it was a long life. And a good one, I think.

Was it really time? Who knows. Ray thought it should have happened a year ago. The vet refused to offer an opinion. Yesterday the groomer came to the house and when she was done trimming Rosy, she sat at the kitchen table and sighed.

“You know….” she began.

“I know,” I said. “Do you think it’s time?”

She didn’t say no. It was a gift. I know it was, but still, a hard one to accept.

After the groomer left, I called and made the appointment. Then I tried to take Rosy’s picture. As an all-black dog (a little white in her later years) she was always difficult to photograph, but this time Rosy made it impossible — she wouldn’t look at the camera. Maybe she knew why I was taking her picture. Maybe she didn’t want anyone to see her looking old.

And so in tribute, instead here’s the painting my mom did of her for Annabelle’s nursery, when the baby was born and the dog went from being a baby to just being a dog.

But still, what a dog.

What do I do?! Rosy, as you know from past posts, is long past 14. Old old old, particularly for a big dog. She’s arthritic, covered in lumps and bumps (benign, but still) and I’m pretty sure deafer by the day. She tends to poop wherever she is, which hasn’t been as big a hassle since we introduced the “intestinal distress” diet. She gets pain meds twice a day.

She’s ok. I guess. I can’t ask her.

“You’ll know when it’s time,” people keep telling me.

I’m not so sure. I don’t want Rosy to suffer, I want her to die while she’s still happy, but since it’s looking more and more like I’m in the role of Grim Reaper, how can I kill a happy dog?