It was time. For the last four months or so, Cyrus was very incontinent. The vet said it was normal for a dog his age. So it sucked, but I lived with it. Then he started having more and more trouble with his hips, to the point that he didn't want to walk or play much. Just wanted to eat, go to the bathroom, then crawl back on his bed and sleep. Then he got to the point that he was pooping and vomiting in the house almost daily. Then, daily. On his bed, on my bed, on the couch. Wherever. He usually didn't even know he was doing it. He couldn't hold down a meal for the last 10 days of his life. He got so weak that he could barely get off his bed. And he lost all control of his bowels; he'd poop on his bed while he was asleep and never even know he'd done it. So I took him to the vet and he said that there were drugs to palliate the pain and discomfort, but that, at this point, it was all downhill. So I decided to put Cyrus down. I took him to the park for one last little play time and, of course, he suddenly started acting like a puppy again. Clearly a little more frail, but moving around, seeming curious about things, having fun. And that made it harder, and more miserable. But still I knew it was time. It was miserable for me, but he was so calm and happy the whole time, and that just made it worse. I'm sure he had no idea what was going on, and I couldn't help feeling like I was betraying him. He was even licking the vet's hand as the vet administered the drugs. For a moment I thought that was about the saddest thing I'd ever seen, but it wasn't nearly as sad as holding his head on my lap and petting him and crying after it was over. I'm trying to forget all that and just remember all the fun times we had, but it's hard. In time, I guess. Meanwhile, rest in peace, old buddy, and thanks for the good times. You are missed, very much.
Last picture of Cyrus, just a few days before the end.