Pigs' Ears

My dog is dying. Maybe.

He's had two tumors--bone cancer--in his paw, and a toe amputation. And now he's on painkillers, and the vet says he has to stay on painkillers the rest of his life. Which means, I think we can assume that the vet believes my dog will be in pain the rest of his life.

Massive moral dilemma. Serious self-examinations.

Surely it's best to send Rowan gently into the good night, painfree evermore. Except. . . I take painkillers. When I don't, I hurt. Yet I like my life. I enjoy it. I would fight really really hard to keep it. If any higher life form were to decide that I'd be so much better off dead, I would resent it, to put it mildly. So if Rowan needs drugs to get him through the day, is that so bad? He's done his doggy duty; all he asks is to sprawl on the rug next to us, take the occasional quick walk, and chomp down a regular supply of treats.

And then. . . what if there's a part of me that wants the dog to die---no, no, I am not that bad, but what if there's a part of me that just can't cope with what it means for the dog to keep on living? The part of me that's sick of mopping up the regular piles of vomit. That retches at the sight of his mangled paw. That clenches at the sight of the blood splotches winding their way throughout the house. That crumbles when he looks at me, trusting, in pain, sure I'll fix it.

I dunno. How do you judge when life is no longer living? Especially when it's not your life, but a life entrusted to you?

Rowan still likes pigs' ears. Is that enough? Is that a life worth living? How do we decide? Must we decide? I dunno. Maybe a nice crunchy pig's ear is all one can really expect, all one should really want, from life. I look at my poor mangled dog, and I just don't know. But he's still crunching. Damn. More than I can say for myself on many a day.