Just like that

Rocky's surgery is scheduled for Thursday.

We have grappled with this decision for too long now; the past month or so saw his health deteriorate unbearably.

We'd consulted two different vets before, and their advice had been the same: he's too old, he probably isn't going to survive the surgery; just let him live out his remaining years.

***

In the past year, we've seen Rocky's movements slow down just that little bit. His eyes'd dimmed too, and he'd begun to sleep longer hours. All the while, the lump to the left of his chest kept growing -- and at an alarming rate. Six months ago, it was the size of a fishball; today it's about one and a half times the size of his head. Just looking at him makes me cry sometimes.

I don't remember when it was that he stopped climbing stairs. His walks were getting shorter and shorter; at some point, he'd voluntarily turn back and head for home. When he was younger, we could walk for half an hour and we would still have to drag him home; this past year the duration of his walks became 15 minutes, 10 minutes... These days, it seldom lasts beyond five.

The trouble is not even that we have to carry him everywhere now; it's that the lump is so huge that there are few ways in which we can carry him without causing him pain. He's also been scratching at and licking the lump quite a bit.

Almost every day now, he struggles with things like getting up from a lying position, getting cramps in his legs (from long periods of lying down). He wakes up a lot at night, scratching, licking, whining. Some nights, I have to wake up every hour to pat him back down to sleep.

With him losing control of his limbs, he sometimes flops down on his left side (with the lump) and is unable to get up afterwards. I have no choice but to forcibly flip him -- and I always squeeze my eyes shut when I do this, as if it would help shut out the chilling yelp of pain.

Every day, my heart breaks a little bit more, seeing him struggle to maintain an upright sitting position. He can no longer walk in a straight line -- much to his frustration. When he wants to sit down, he has to find a wall to support him; he leans against the wall and slowly slides himself down. Without something to lean on, his legs give way from underneath him, and he falls down really hard.

We knew that the growing lump meant that his gait would change, but I don't think any of us had any idea exactly how big it would get, or the multitude of problems that would come with it.

He can jump onto my bed (which is considerably lower than most others) with reasonably ease, but getting down from it puts too much pressure on his front limbs (especially the one that is handicapped by the lump). The other day, as I observed him quietly from outside the room, I saw him drop his butt off the edge of the bed and fall awkwardly to the ground; that's how he gets off the bed now. This was when I knew -- that if this "fall" causes him less pain -- it was time.

***

We brought him in tonight -- a third vet. She was surprisingly confident about his chances. She told us about a new general anaesthesia that they use for older dogs now, and how she'd just successfully operated on a 19-year-old dog.

After assessing his condition, however, she warned us that -- if, during the course of the surgery, they find that the lump has infiltrated his joints -- they may have to take his leg off.

I felt as if someone had reached in and wringed my heart. I couldn't speak; I was trying to stop the tears from flowing.

I know that dogs cope very well on three legs; I'd semi-rescued a three-legged dog before (another story for another time). But there are no words to describe the feeling you get when you imagine a part of someone you love being severed.

If that is what has to be done, I nodded, half in a daze.

Recovery, she said, would take foreseeably longer for older dogs, but other than that, she saw no major problems.

"I'll see you on Thursday, then."

"Thursday," I echoed in confirmation -- still nodding, still half-dazed.